They’re not quite ‘rolls,’ per se. I find ‘stuffed squares’ to be a more apt (and quite literal) description. I remember these as a kid in the early 90s and thought them extinct until having them thrust into my consciousness again recently. A summation: if a won-ton and a pizza had a baby, then swaddled it up in a thick, warm blanket of trans fat, you’d get these guys. Awesomeness.

Self-indulgent snoozefest that runs about an hour too long. I think the term ‘documentary’ is a bit of a stretch; it basically is an EPK for their official ‘debut’ album they are trying to shop to various labels. The ‘gay Christian pop artists’ tag certainly is a firebrand; unfortunately the guys themselves are about as edgy as a Pat Boone special. Their music is the epitome of CCM at its worst: banal, insipid fluff, though to their credit, the guys can sing, particularly Jason, although his occasional vocal theatrics bring to mind a queer version of ‘Jesus Christ Superstar.’ But, hey, a documentary about that would be a hell of a lot more interesting than this one!!

This woman used to get on my nerves, and I just could not understand her appeal. Her behind the scenes celebrity tell-alls could come off rather catty if she herself wasn’t so likeably unpretentious. I mean, Kim Kardashian may tweet a picture of her psoriasis spots, but I doubt she’d ever confess to the thinning of her vaginal walls.

Griffin has pretty much assumed Margaret Cho’s longtime role as resident female comic-cum-gay mouthpiece (vulgar pun not intentional, as it is in fact a preposition. I swear!) and after seeing Cho’s latest special, I think it’s time for her to step her game up, gurrl, cause Kathy is lookin fishy, know what I’m sayin’, hunty? snap

Speaking of vulgarity, this is the raunchiest I’ve ever seen her. Like Cho, she seems to get more brazen with age.

Best bit was her all-vegan lunch with the Gloria Steinem.

Griffin’s sentiments on her difficulty finding love being a ‘big-balled’ (“they’re like baseketballs!”) self-identified feminist touched me on a personal level and this was the most relatable I have found her in a special thus far.

So as long as we have a woman on national television, openly identifying as a feminist, without shrouding it in PC amalgamisms and speaking out for gay rights, the Michelle Bachmann’s of the world seem somehow almost.. benign.

My god, I just can’t stomach this woman’s narcissism. She’s certainly matured a lot in the 20 years since this film.

I’ve been on a mish to start getting through the big stack of canned beans and legumes I’ve accumulated lately (vegetarian emergency stockpile), and was very inspired by the various recipes that kept coming up on foodgawker (awesome site!) for roasted chickpeas after I searched ‘chickpeas.’ This is so foolproof and easy that even I could do it! It came out perfect.

You can try any seasoning and flavor varation you like, just dry the chickpeas thoroughly after rinsing and generally stay around 375-400 F, at least 15 minutes, and make sure you taste one first to make sure the consistency is to your liking. I wanted them crispier, so I did them on 400 for about 30 minutes, and I coated them in a tablespoon of olive oil, with salt, pepper and Lee & Perrins Worcestershire! Sooo good!!

These are so addictive – super flavorful and filling. BBQ and Cheddar Cheese are my favorites. The latter is like a guiltless Cheetos. However, make sure you get the ones that say ‘Quakes’ on the bag, NOT the ‘Rice Cakes.’ Quakes are made from brown rice and corn, while the big honkin rice cakes are nothing but pure starch- white rice.

I was pretty disappointed. I had heard a good deal of buzz about this film and the whole story of this seemingly simple joke with mysterious origins that had become almost mythologized, intrigued me. I felt like some of them (particularly Bob Saget, who in recent years, seems so incredibly desperate to shed his much-maligned Danny Tanner-squeaky clean image, he at times borders on psychosis.. no, wait, it’s because of all the Charlie White he snorted off the ass of that hooker!! That one time, at the Chateau Marmont, back in ’92!!) took the horse farther and farther away from the farm, deep into the land of necrophilia, incest and dookie, then proceeded to flog it incessantly. Leaving poor Phyllis Diller to clean up the carcass afterward.

Oh, man. This one really gets you, because you spend a little over an hour with this man, just sitting on a stool in a darkened empty room, just you and him and his innumerable tattoos. He’s not some dirty fuckin scummy thief lying drug addict; he’s just Douglas Colvin, a regular guy from Queens who loves his guitar, cooking breakfast for you in his little kitchen with his cat, who’s working hard every day to stay off the dope that has plagued him for the last 25 years.

And, then, one day, he’s just gone. Overdose.

The film came about when the director filmed Dee Dee in the early 90s about his tumultuous relationship with Johnny Thunders, following his passing in 1991. He then compiled the extensive interview material into a film on Ramone, released posthumously. Dee Dee sure dodged a bullet that year, being the lone survivor of a lost weekend in Paris with Thunders and Stiv Bators, who both passed later that year under most grim circumstances.

This is arguably the most effective documentary I have come across in portraying its subject. It’s barebones, stark, gritty, and completely unforgettable. Ramone’s plainspoken, stream of consciousness oral history of punk’s salad days in 70s NYC is a greater history lesson than any punk rock tome I’ve ever read. Bottom line, he lived it.

I never was much for The Ramones, but I leave this hour spent with the utmost respect for the man. Such a kind heart, a true friend, a musician who loved what he did, a real New Yorker, full of joie de vivre.

Truly a marvel of modern science. Haha. I have to give a piece to everyone I know, just so they too can be blown away by the authentic flavor.

Once the best music publication in America. They truly know their audience- highly discerning music fanatics- and stick with it, unlike Rolling Stone, who shamelessly, and increasingly desperately, court both the pubescent Lady Gaga set and Vietnam Vets.

Sadly, they went by way of all wickedly good music rags in the last 5 years- gradually phasing out print to go completely online. They still owe me an an (now theoretically existing) issue or 2 – my subscription wasn’t finished at the time of the last issue, in October of 09. What a shame. RIP.

Updated: Magnet Magazine, much to my shock/delight/awe, resumed publication of its print magazine in October 2011. They will now publish a (albeit a fraction of the size of their semiannual issues) monthly issue henceforth. Welcome back!