Ever tell a lie that you didn't think anyone was going to pay attention to, then you got wrapped up in it and kept digging yourself deeper and deeper until you sort of started to believe it yourself, and next thing you know you're living this entire elaborate facade and you can't really even remember why you told the lie in the first place. Well, you think, this is my life now, I guess, so no point in trying to stop it.

Here's a new cover of "Gucci Gucci" from London's Gypsy -(that's racist) electro-pop , good-booty-shorts-wearing-person Neon Hitch. Fuck it, she probably thought, I've already got these stupid eyelashes and nose ring, might as well cover that one damn song everyone knows. And then she did. And here we are. 

Video after the jump.

I finally saw this bit from "Louis" last night for the first time, the one where he goes on Fox News to serve as the Masturbation Expert.  "We're like porn for God? He watches us, and then he probably masturbates." Har har, we all said, but that Christian lady (am I right, by the way?) is way too over the top and entirely unbelievable. Wrong again, assholes. God is watching, because my man Nate just sent me this link to one of the most awe-inspiring literary efforts I've read in some time called "The Madness, The Misery of Masturbation by: Larry J. Brown Jr. aka J-Elijah" from something called the Passion For Christ Movement, or P4CM, which is how you know they're hip. Also all the slam poetry videos. 

I find this entire page offensive, not only as a next-level masturbator and someone who doesn't believe in magic, but as a person who has actually ever read a single poem in my life.   

Here's a quick taste: 

I was just checking out some new bloggable buzzband trax and I started trying to come up with a list of things I'd rather see happen than a meat and potatoes lo-fi garage punk band perform.  I conveniently came across this record from Wavepool Abortion. They're Russian though, so I think that probably means something else in their country. Can anyone here translate?

Speaking of Russia, what the fuck is going on over there in Russia? This Russian Nightclub for Kids photo set is kind of freaking me out. Izissmile via Buzzfeed.

"Can you believe that there is a club for kids in Chelyabinsk, Russia called the 'Underground Garage,' where children were partying all night long? Check out these disturbing photos."

What's the drinking age in Russia, by the way, zero and a half? Seems about right.

Everyone was all excited about this new sea-monster that washed up on shore in New York during the hurricane, and perhaps rightfully so. What is that dude doing? I don't like that dude. 

But I'm more interested in the bird to be honest. Look at that thing. Just standing there at attention. Biding his time. Considering his angle of attack. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. That bird is standing over all of our shoulders right now.

Big news for Kreayshawn fans and perverts who don't understand how the internet works (essentially an old timey steam engine fueled by never-ending shovel-fulls of tits), but some n00ds of our epic home girl Kreay-Kreay turned up earlier today. I'm not gonna post the actual pictures up in here, because my mother taught me better than that. Son, she said, when a mildly talented but still somehow irresistibly compelling performance artist who satirizes the genre of hip hop and serves as the epitome of trashy, low brow #SWAG culture that will one day ultimately swallow future generations of barely-literate, solipsistic youths in its swirling,  flourescently-voracious, vortex-like mouth has her cell phone hacked while she's at the VMAs losing to Tyler, the Creator, don't post the pictures, because it would be ungentlemanly. Just crop the nipples out, that way you can still generate the traffic numbers without the guilt. 

What are nipples? I asked. Also, who's my real father? Still not really clear on either of those.

By now most of us have probably been harassed by the TSA while waiting to board a plane. Just the other week the entire security area of Logan Airport ground to a halt while they examined the contents of my old lady's bag for about 20 minutes. No explanation about what they thought it was they saw, nor did they ask us any questions, they just shut the entire operation down while a series of alternately indifferent and overly-agitated official-looking mustachioed gentlemen came to stare at an x-ray blob on a screen that may or may not have been something worth wasting everyone's time over. Kind of like when my mother went in for the her first look at me on a sonogram. 

I had been working on this piece for a few days last week for a Respectable News Website, but then it got squashed at the last minute. Apparently they didn't like the idea of arguing for MORE BABY DIX ALL THE TIME. Sigh. By the time I got started sending it around elsewhere it was kind of old news. Now it's even older news, in internet time, since anything that happened more than a day ago slides off the side of the earth into the sun, but I still think it's an interesting issue. I touched on some of this last time in Barstool Sports, child pornography, and the case of Tom Brady's penis, but here's another look at it, with 50% more baby dix. Also, not for nothing, but you would not believe how much traffic the search terms "Tom Brady's kid's penis" is bringing to PTSOTL. You weirdos.

There are probably more tactful ways for a sports blog to earn mainstream attention, but posting pictures of an NFL quarterback's penis seems to do the trick. It certainly helped raise the profile of Deadspin last summer, when they broke the story of Brett Favre's misguided, cell-phone come-ons. You know how the Internet works, though: It's a never-ending race to the nadir of decency. A quarterback's penis is old news—been there, seen that, can never un-see it. To gain some elbow room in a crowded market, an enterprising site has to give us something fresh, like the penis of an NFL quarterback's two-year-old son, for example.

Jake Zavracky has been doing a lot of thinking about the one of the biggest issues we've had to deal with as a species for the past few decades: Billy Joel's lyrical crimes against humanity. He tackles the issue below. 

Go listen to Jake's music here. It's good. He's no Billy Joel or anything, but still...

Here we will discuss the greatest hits of Billy Joel, in an effort to prove the fraudulent nature of his entire catalog.

Billy Joel has sold millions of records, and has millions of adoring fans around the world. But take a closer look at the celebrated songwriter's work and all of the lyrics on his Greatest Hits Vol 1 unravel into an incoherent mess. Let's dissect some of the selections...

Back when I used to be the type of person who thought really long and hard about choosing which author it would be who I broadcast to the world as my favorite, I used to talk non stop about Jorge Luis Borges. I must have given out his book Labyrinths as a gift a dozen or more times. Partly because it's amazing, but mostly because I wanted you to know that I had good taste. I suppose I still do.

You may have noticed this image on the Google front page today. It's a sketch of Borges contemplating gardens of forking paths, infinite libraries,  mazes, inverted worlds, reflections, miniatures, and simulacrums, all ideas Borges returned to again and again in his deeply imaginative, hugely influential stories. 

It's the old boy's 112 birthday today. Or it would be, if he were still alive. Wait, maybe he still is? *feels face in mirror.* Here's one of his shorter pieces posted below, which I think gives a pretty good introduction to his style. .

over at Street Carnage has stumbled upon a whole new way for us to laugh at the misplaced ambition of confused souls in his series called Model Mayhem and the Parade of Delusion. A second installment went up yesterday, in which he searched the lulzy amateur modeling site for aspiring talent from his hometown of Roanoke, VA. (Nice home town, dick). You can search for dupes in your own backyard too! You won't feel clean afterward, but you're probably already an asshole anyway so what's just this one more shameful thing gonna do?

A commenter on the site, marko galbreath's subway rotary phone, which is a joke you'll soon appreciate, summed up the appeal succinctly:

total mindfuck. sure, you can read someone’s shitty poetry or listen to their music, but that can take up to 10 to 15 seconds for your brain to adequately process and dismiss the shit whole before you. Yet, your brain can process each of these in less than a second, making them easily the most immediate portal into the delusions of rubes everywhere. This is some next level shit.

Here's how Swift explains the premise: 

Hey get me, I'm like one of those blogs that posts other things from other blogs.

There's a theme that I could extrapolate here out of the general idea behind this gag vis a vis all these Tumblrs that just stack pictures and gifs on top of one another without adding anything original to them and how that's emblematic of something something youth culture and creativity and hard work and the information-stealing post-sampling creativity suck that is the 210kz. I'm not going to, but I could if I wanted to.

NPR's All Songs Considered posted a first look at The Decemberists' video homage to David Foster Wallace's magnum opus "Infinite Jest" directed by the co-creator of "Parks and Recreation" today, which is literally the twee-est nerd sentence I've ever written. The only way this thing could get any closer to the Platonic ideal of smug intellectualist posturing is if they managed to work in a Mcsweeney's reference, which, for all I know, they may well have.  In keeping with the thematic tone of the occasion I stopped watching the video about a third of the way through and pretended like I finished it in front of all my friends in the MFA program.

 

Everyone knows that you don't touch the third rail. What isn't quite as obvious is that "the third rail" is what they call a human being in distress who falls onto the subway tracks in New York City.

"In the disturbing videos below, a disoriented man rolls around on the L train tracks after falling off the platform at the DeKalb Avenue station in Bushwick," Gothamist writes.  

The videos, helpfully titled White Boy Wasted on L Train 1-3 have been taken down, which is good news for people who didn't need another excuse to spend the day seething with virulent, yet ultimately futile if we're being honest, disdain for humanity.

I'll recap them for you though. Dude falls. People laugh. MTA worker goes to get help. Someone tells him not to touch the rail, and to wake up, which is helpful advice, right, but no one offers any real-world-based assistance, which is one of the top five kinds of assistance. No one cares. "Nah, I'm not jumping in those tracks girl, chill," the guy taking the video says. Video ends. "How about all the hipsters on the L train and in Bushwick these days, amirite!?" ten thousand unfunny old people write on observational humor blogs everywhere. Earth slides off the back of the giant space turtle shell it rests on  directly into the mouth of a galaxy-sized dragon. No one cares. From deep within the hellish void of nothingness, internet commentors continue firing off well-observed commentaries about how this entire exchange says one thing or another about race relations in America. No one cares. 

I'm as sensitive to transgender issues as the next guy who feels like he has to say that, but not sure the judge here needed to apologize for taking so long on this ruling on account of there being a lot of other things he had to worry about. Like a murder trial, the corruption trial of the former state Speaker of the House, and literally everything other thing a judge could possibly ever have to worry about in the conceivable judge universe. 
  
Man who tried to use his foot as brake like Fred Flintstone arrested, police say |Detroit Free Press

"Yabba Dabba Don't. Roseville police arrested a 24-year-old man Wednesday who tried to use his foot to stop his moving pickup and failed, hitting four cars." Just like Fred Flintstone. Ol' mayhem and destruction-causing Flintstone, they used to call him. Ol' endangering the public with his should-be-snapped-in-half-ass-ankles Flintstone. 

South Carolina Preacher Charged With Kidnapping, Rape | Fox News

"The Rev. Dean Mandrell, who has been preaching at some of the church's three weekly services, says that the congregation has drawn closer..." Mostly to get away from Richardson, he probably meant and  "...that nobody is condemning Richardson."  Eccept, of course, the vengeful deity who judges the relative pros and cons of our life's rape-work  from the sky.

 

My review comes out in the Boston Globe tomorrow, in which I note, among other things, that at this side stage up here in the wooded area,  where Le Castle Vania was playing,  "the wood chip dance floor, tree cover, and mosquitos (pretty rare at a night club), not to mention the strikingly youthful crowd all decked out in neon, effected a scene out of DJ summer camp." I went to Boy Scout summer camp, I should point out. DJs hadn't been invented yet I don't think.

The neon get ups like that one pictured above proved to be a popular choice, by the way. "Shirtlessness and fluorescent underwear-clad pole-dancer-in-training costumes abounded. It would have made for some great b-roll for a parental scare-bating special about how the 'kids these days; are out of control; this was literally the most bacchanalian event I've seen here." For realsies. Who lets their kids out in neon pink panties and torn leggings these days? WHERE ARE THEIR PARENTS!? Feel old sometimes. Like when Cobrasnake walked by me, considered it, then didn't take my picture. :/

Whatever, here are some pictures. I was all psyched to take a thousand pictures of how dumb everyone looked, but then I started to feel like a creep, so I dunno, job well done, American youth? Like 50 more images of fucked up teenagers in those silly fluorescent hats and American flags after the jump.

Yeah, but, all I could think about the whole time was that the gruff, sunglasses-indoors, back-room baby-sniper bro here should have stubbed out that cigarette a lot earlier. Smoking filter there, buddy. Wait, is that another metaphor for something I'm not getting here?

 

Don't be a pedophile, or you will get dubstepped to death by a demon from playground hell. I think that's the lesson we're supposed to learn here in this new video for Skrillex's "Equinox (First of the Month)." I like the part where people who are into dubstep will hate this because Skrillex is popular among broz and slutz, and people who aren't will hate this because jesus christ, this is what music has come to now?

I like the part where he won't let the beautiful woman talk, and then the other part whwere he almost elbows the dog in the head. Then he kisses the dog. How much do you want to bet this whole set smells really nice? I bet it smells nice. 

Is this the best ad for a roommate ever? I couldn't possibly care less, but I got nothing else to tell you people today, so here it is anyway.

$1000 Best. Roommate. Ever. Konichiwa bitches. Are you looking for the most kick-ass fucking roommate that ever lived? If so, look no further. You fucking found him. I'm a 25-year-old professional marketing agent with experience at bad-ass companies in New York Fucking City. That's right! What you know about experience? I graduated from Auburn University in Alabama, and moved to NYC at the ripe, tender age of 22. After deciding that New York was a stinky shit-hole, I moved back to Alabama to cultivate more professional experience. Why? So I can make millions of dollars and not have to post shit like this on Craigslist. 

Aside from all being really awkward to talk to out at a show, my colleagues and I at the Boston Phoenix have one other big thing in common -- we're all huge Brit Pop nerds. So for no other reason than that, we cooked up an entire Brit Pop issue this week. Check out our list of the Top 100 Britpop Anthems of the '90s with all the videos, nearly all of which are really weird looking in retrospect. 

Being "irregular" is my favorite medical euphemism, because it implies that the regular state of existence is to be taking shits all the time.

Well, not Tom Brady's actual penis, per se, although he did literally make it with his own, so I guess that counts. 

Sorry to blast everyone in the face with two spurts of Massachusetts in a row here since PTSOTL is a blog citizen of the blog world, and just like love, and wind, and that one group of doctors, it has no borders, but I've been away for a few days, and a lot has been happening. Like this story about famous baby dicks that broke over the weekend. 

If a DJ DJs without turntables, is he still a DJ? *exhales* Deep shit, man. *coughs for three minutes, makes everyone nervous*

Sounds like a dorm room bullshit session, or the type of thing you'd see two boners jawing about in the corner at a sick afterhours with this DJ I know, you guys haven't heard of him yet, but he does this one party at a loft in Southie on Saturdays, I'll send you the Facebook invite where you can RSVP to get a text message for the address an hour before it happens later if you want to email me your number. 

In this case it's neither of those things, actually. Instead it's a matter of grave state law consequence. 

Oh hi guys, here's my latest piece in the Wall Street Journal. It's pretty funny. No really.  Even though it's about apps. Since the cross-over in readership between PTSOTL and the WSJ is probably pretty slim I'm guessing (you're all poor) I stole my own intellectual property and posted it here. Actually I don't even know if it's my intellectual property anymore, is it? Someone who cares should probably look into that.

It used to be there were so many different bars to choose from that we had to turn to technology to help us narrow things down. Now there are so many different apps trying to help us find the best places to drink, we need an app to sort through the nightlife apps. Don't steal that idea.

Remember when I was complaining about birthdays on Facebook the other day here. And also here that other time come to think of it? CNN called me to interview me about why I'm such a prick (basically). Here's the article by a nice young reporter named Meagan Choi.  . I can't really talk about it too much now since I'm in Aruba, and I don't know how to internet in Dutch, but here's what I said after the jump. 

Not sure why she said I'm 34 by the way, since I'm a ripe young 27 at best. Except where it counts, right fellas? 

PS: go check out the comments on that story. Sheeeessshhhhhhh. The internet, huh? How about it?

This new book 1950s Radio in Color: The Lost Photographs of Deejay Tommy Edwards by Chris Kennedy [] looks like a fascinating historical document that captures  the burgeoning rock and roll movement, a time when the country was about to change, and all that other old timey bullshit, but I like to think of it as a good opportunity to remember that our grandparents were probably pretty hip and mad fer it at some point. Also that Elvis was so smoking hot it's really not surprising that there are literally millions of people in the world today who would rather dig up his dusty old coke skeleton and cuddle with it for eternity rather than spend another night with their husbands. What? People take different lessons from things.

Kennedy emailed me to see if I'd mention the book, and he said my blog was funny, so I really had no choice but to comply. That's how journalism works. I asked him a few questions about the experience of putting it together and the photos included.

Two lessons here. When your Gmail gets up toward 95% full you have to get in there and start culling the herd, but then you get all the way back to the hinterlands of messages 11,501-11,456 and you start seeing old emails that catch your eye, and instead of efficiently deleting the shit out of entire pages in a sort of email holocaust, you start picking and choosing and losing your trigger-finger confidence. It's like moving apartments and not being able to throw out boxes of old shit you don't even remember you have in the basement and haven't looked at in years, just in case. 

Lesson number two is that when you write for newspapers, the end product of an interview always ends up being like 10% of your conversation with the subject, no matter how interesting it was, and then you're stuck with these giant chunks of leftovers that you can never do anything with. 

Case in point. (Case in points?) I just uncovered this interview I did with Louis CK a couple years back. He was definitely well known as being one of the funniest stand ups in the biz at the time, but not quite the big timer he is now. If you had asked me five minutes ago if I had even spoken with him I would have said no. I have a really shitty memory. Now that I think of it though, making him laugh will probably be the highlight of my maudlin career as a mediocre humorist. That's like the comedy equivalent of regaling people with the time you scored 5 touchdowns in one high school football game. I'm the Al Bundy of blog humor. Less funny though.

 

Chances are you didn't catch comedian Louis CK's short lived, off-kilter HBO comedy series Lucky Louis. But you probably know his work all the same, whether it's from his blisteringly offensive and hilarious special "Louis C.K.: Shameless" or from appearances on Opie and Anthony, or his Emmy nominated writing for Late Night with Conan O'Brien. CK returns to his old stomping ground for two nights this weekend to tape another performance.


So you've been caught up with radio interviews all morning? 

I've been doing radio interviews for twenty years now and I'm still not totally used to it. It always depends on the people on the show. Sometimes they're a good flow of energy and you jump in with them, and other times it's just these weirdos who do these fake radio voices you can't really talk to them.

What rubbernecking is to car crashes, obsessive Internet searching is to chaotic current events. After being stuck on a half-mile stretch of highway for an hour, you NEED to know what the fucking hold up is all about. Similarly, you might follow all of the recent foreign shitstorms — Arab Spring, the Vancouver Stanley Cup Fail and now the riots across England — through live blogs, online articles and Twitter. -ARVIND DILAWAR 

Both rubbernecking and that kind of compulsive Googling play into the same universal sense of morbid curiosity that differs only in degrees. It’s the same compulsion that keeps TIME doing photo essays on urban decay in Detroit and keeps Rotten.com open for 15 years. It all boils down to the thrill of voyeurism, the rush that comes with looking at something you probably shouldn’t be seeing or at least shouldn’t be so excited about.

Goddammit Blogger, you picked a bad week to have a bug in the embedding videos code, especially with gold I could be posting, arriving to lay waste to the crowded biggest-piece-of-shit-song-of-the-month field. And you thought the hot new trend in awful music was for the swag to get younger and younger? Guess again. Dad Rap is here.

"There is a lot of competition these days to make the worst high budget song ever," my man Aaron P said, who I have to thank/blame for sharing this. I like the part where he brags about the quality health care he has at his disposal in between rented stripper booty shots and car porn. "You got to be fucking kidding me, this dude has proper flow," Evan K said.  "Whoa, live show! He is all about unity, socially concious. Dude is the next Q-tip but with an AARP card."

Fine, but if you saw me trying to blog in real time you wouldn't like it either. 

I don't really know where *, and there's no way in hell I'm going to read any of those words all over the picture screen box, but one thing I do know is that way more of you are going to be excited about this blog post than that last one below I spent like two hours putting together, and I all had to do here was copy and paste an embed code. Life isn't fair.

Kreayshawn's job isn't freestyling anyway, it isn't even rapping. It is existing for the rest of us. 

 She is the quintessential post-modern human. Vapid but compelling, media savvy but seemingly lacking self awareness, untalented, but incapable of letting that get in the way. Her job is our jobs. We are all Kreayshawn now, each of us wearing our own cute little metaphoric Flintstone jackets of humanity. 

*GODDAMMIT BLOGGER, WHY CAN'T I EMBED VIDEOS LATELY?

As someone who has written more than my own fair share of hacky trend pieces, I feel a little torn about calling out another writer for his own transgressions in this piece 10 Emails That Could Get You Canned. But keep in mind I don't really care about anyone other than myself, so... actually, there's no second part to that sentence. 

I do know how it is to put your head down and slog through a servicey piece of nonsense for the greater good though -- the greater good being not having to get a real job. Work, as I often tell the kids I mentor in the after school journalism/Muay Thai classes I teach, is work. That being said, this has to be the most banal piece of fluff I've read in forever, a period of time which roughly spans all the way back to whenever the last time it was I blunder-clicked my way onto the sort of darkened internet alleyway that waylays confused web travelers to the Huffington Post to get brain-mugged.

So, nothing personal, sir writer, I'm sure, you know, it's all gonna work out. If it makes you feel better you can probably do the same to a piece of my work. For a start I offer you 90% of the things I've ever written. Choose wisely.  

In the meantime, let's have a look at the least essential piece of writing ever, shall we? 

"Are you hurt, brother? Here, let me take up your burden. Also your iPad."

Well, this is an uncomfortable feeling. For the first time ever I've found myself agreeing with most of the people commenting on a YouTube video, the ones expressing sentiments like "Scum cunts, I hope the cops batter them." and "See the way the guy who takes the thing out his bag walks off? That spells cunt. I hope someone smothers him with a pillow; would make the world a better place. Did I mention he's a cunt?"

Although the guy who said "13 years of wonderful multicultural socialism.And it has created this filth.A selfish generation without a conscience.Only a welfare state could produce these soulless shells." might want to double check on what year it was humans invented crime and violence. 1998 sounds a little off to me on that score.

I'm sensitive to the concept of the abuse of state power, especially since, true story, I got a written warning from the Watertown Police today for turning on a red arrow signal, (allegedly) but every now and again I can understand how the frightened infant mentality that makes up the conservative brain fetus comes to life, especially when their fear eggs are freshly inseminated with hate sperm like this on a regular basis.


Hrmm, video won't embed. PROBABLY THESE CRIMINAL ANIMALS LOOTED THE INTERNET OF STREAMING TUBES.  .   H/T to Brian H on Spacebook for the link.

 

Here's something I'll never have to do again! A friend of PTSOTL, who'll remain nameless just in case boyfriend happens to be a reader, was sharing the joys of being single with me. The grass is always greener, right? True, but so is baby diarrhea, so...

"I was living with my girlfriend until we broke up about three weeks ago. Since then my first foray into dating consisted of having a girl over at 7pm on a Sunday night, drinking a bottle and a half of Two Buck Chuck between us over the course of casual conversation and her literally falling down drunk by 9 pm. I found out immediately after, upon purse inspection, that she'd downed a bottle of bottom shelf vodka on the way over; carried her ass to the bed to sleep it off, went about my business, made dinner, changed guitar strings etc. while periodically checking that she didn't choke on her own vomit. 

Cut to several hours later, I go in the bedroom and her pants are around her knees, she's on the floor in the fetal position surrounded by a big puddle of pee. I slap her awake, alert her to the situation, and suggest she take a shower and try to sober up and get her shit straight. She does so and emerges with her shirt on backwards and inside out. Insists on leaving, crumbles on the living room floor dead passed out. Fine. Leave her there, go to bed. 

I'm up at 7:30 to get ready to work the opening shift, shower etc., and I hear a crash. I go into the living room and there she is, staggering against the wall, pants around her knees, lamp knocked over, pee puddle on floor. 

First date, didn't really know her, haven't talked to her since. A few hours ago she sent me this text: 'Not to bug u but if anyone messages u by name of [dude] asking if we hung out...just ignore it. Its my ex...and certainly dont say anything about the drinking. he can be nosey. thx.'"

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you...being single.  Wait, why was he going through her purse?

No one cares about your dinner experience. Not even you. People should be told that more. 

We've covered the deliriously irrelevant brain fart compendium of shame and entitlement that is Yelp before here and here, and talked about the best ways to be a bad restaurant customer, a set of rules most Yelpers seem to be keenly familiar with, so that's why we're pretty excited about this new Tumblr ,which might as well have been called shit retarded people say when they're hungry. 

They dont even start cooking the dogs until you order. They dont even start cooking the dogs until you order. They dont even start cooking the dogs until you order. They dont even start cooking the dogs until you order. 

She didn't, right? I didn't really pay attention to this new joint from Ark Music you guyz because I was too busy being dead on the inside.

"I don't need nobody." I heard her say that at one point. Except my mom and dad to drive me to the recording studio and pay the nice man with the promise of stardom on his forked tongue, she probably forgot to include. 

Hat tip to Susie G at StyleCaster who writes "Remember back in the 90s when a middle-aged man from Florida that went by the name of Lou Pearlman was a one-man music machine, being the brains behind such popular acts like the Backstreet Boys, *NSYNC and O-Town? Ark Music Records seems to be turning into the Lou Pearlman of the decade, using "tweenage" girls instead of teenage boys in their quest for pop culture domination."  

Yeah, and where's Lou Perlman now? Seriously where is he? *googles Lou Perlman* JAIL. He's in jail? For being a pervert. If by pervert you mean running a ponzi scheme, which in some states is the same thing. Meh, this post sucks. F-