Mean Jeans Week continues with more quotes and awesome shit. This installment focuses on Christian's shitty party rap act from his days in Washington DC. "It's cher boy C-Rex." Jeans drummer Andrew also provided some production.

"We made a FRESH rap album together, but that does not need to be on the books.

We were kind of big deal. That's the only time I've ever done cocaine off of a woman's breast before."

— Christian (AKA Billy Jeans)

Get a load of this motherfucker: C-Rex's "Honey Dipped Blunt," self proclaimed as "the most ignorant rap video ever." Peep the tattoo: "dude or die."

I am stupid psyched about the new Mean Jeans record. It's so refreshing to have a party band back in the house—we all need to take a break from the feelings, self-aggrandizing, and the other, oft-abused tenets of indie rock and just go crazy. So I'm calling it Mean Jeans Week, and in anticipation of their record release show and corresponding print story this week, I'm posting songs, videos and radical quotes from the Jeans that didn't make the story.

I think Joey Ramone is the ultimate punk because he's a goddamn freak. I mean, what woman would ever have sex with him? So he did the only thing that he could do and he was the best at it ever...

We jerk-off to Joey Ramone more than porn.

- Christian AKA Billy Jeans

"Born on a Saturday Night" - the opening track from Are You Serious?:

This weekend my better-half insisted I finally clean out our attic since my lifetime collection of random items has exited the stage of "quaint collector" and entered the territory of "crazy agoraphobic shut-in." In addition to discovering an angry letter I wrote when I was 12 (yet thankfully never mailed) to Beckett Football regarding Barry Sanders, and my absolutely worthless—yet totally complete (for some strange reason I own all 33 issues)—collection of Sleepwalker comics, I unearthed a scrap of paper that contained the pager number of Mark Hoppus from Blink-182.

A couple of things:
• I think it's from 1993, back when people still had pagers. For all you kids, a pager was like a cell phone that did not make calls. Wearing a pager was like wearing a broken cell and showing the world that you were either the husband of a wife on the cusp of birthing your child, or you sold used waterbeds down by the airport. Possibly both.
• The band was just known as "Blink" back in those days.
• Evidently I used really girly note pads to write down phone numbers. Are those flowers?
• I have no clue why I kept this number. Honestly, I'm afraid to call it.

Dear Lord, please tell me that there is a band named Martell Jebster Number "8".

The above photo is from a show flyer posted on a telephone pole on Alberta, but all searches for Martell Jebster Number "8" have lead nowhere. Does this mystery band really exist? Or did the "W" get cut off when they made the flyer? If that is the case, why would you put Martell Webster's name (and jersey number) on a poster? Is Magic Johnson worried that there is another NBA-named local band lurking out there? So many questions...

Oh hey Canada. I know it's Canada Day today—or Fête du Canada, for all you provinces that want to secede—and I totally didn't get you anything. I've just been real busy and all, and it's hard to put my affection for you into words. But here goes:

I love you Canada. I apologize for making fun of the way you say about. I apologize for all the curling jokes. I apologize for not liking Trailer Park Boys. I do not apologize for being denied entry to your country while on tour in 2000—that was fucked up and totally not cool—but I still forgive you. Even this weekend, as I spend another Fourth of July drunkenly blowing off my fingers in an orgy of fireworks and patriotism, I'll be thinking of you, Canada.

As a reminder of how incredible you are, here are a few of my favorite songs from your great land. Thank you, Canada.

Neil Young - "Cowgirl In The Sand" (Live At Massey Hall)

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The Weakerthans - "Plea From A Cat Named Virtue"

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Snow - "Informer"

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Constantines - "Soon Enough"

Recession? What recession?

Any budding Quincy Jones types out there reading End Hits? How about Saudi Princes? Becuase if you've got the dough, boy do I have an opportunity you're gonna want to get in on: this genius. The entire Craigslist pitch:

My music has been played on major market on-line radio every week since Oct. 2008. I've had 1,500 listens on myspace.com. without doing any promotion. I've written hundreds of recordable songs and have some great songwriting demos, but I need the power-backed help in order to give the music the promotion it deserves. Please send me as much info as posible about who you are and your intentions and then I may get back to you with more about me with links, etc.

No actual audio sample. 1,500 Myspace plays. "Recordable songs."

Simply send "as much info as posible" and if you're lucky, dude "may" get back to you with a link to his music.

What this suggests, I suppose, is that big record labels are still necessary purveyors of music. The whole blog, sharing, word of mouth, fan sourcing thing is just a flash in the pan. KUFO breaks bands. Ho ho ho!

I've also got a line on some pills that will seriously make you "larger" down there. Stock tips too!

Contrary to popular belief, I don't have anything against our crosstown rivals over at the Willamette Week. The homely Hatfields to our attractive McCoy's, the paper does a great job with MFNW and I especially enjoy reading their music blog, Local Cut.

But I don't enjoy commenting on Local Cut, because evidently I've been banned from the site for some reason.

Say I wanted to comment on Casey Jarman's post from yesterday—and link to a similar post I made in April—regarding the major label nonsense of staggered release dates for the new Gossip record...

Nope. My comment never appears. And it's not just that thread, my previous attempts to comment—as myself, not some anonymous hater troll—just disappear into the deep internet abyss. Ouch.

Come on, Local Cutters, let me in your clubhouse. (Unless you have a rule about only allowing one Ezra in, similar to the "No Homers Club.") I promise I will behave.

"But you let in Homer Glumplich!"

I have learned a hard, journalistic lesson this week: Don't cheekily quote boozy conversations in print, especially when someone's chest size is in question.

This may seem obvious, but I am apparently a dumbass. After hearing about the Bob Log III legend from a friend, in which I learned about the "Boob Scotch" tradition, I wrote this blurb:

The other day, a female friend asked me to consider attending the upcoming Bob Log III show, in order to take part in a time-honored ritual surrounding the one-man-band's beloved song "Boob Scotch." Naturally intrigued, I explored the matter further and discovered that the song is only one of the several in which Mr. Log requires a girl from the audience to sit on his lap, and in this particular instance, graciously allow her boob to mix with Mr. Log's scotch. It is the bane of said friend's existence that she does not have a rack sizable enough to participate in this hallowed event, so someone else is going to have to take this one for the team. You've got to hand it to a guy who can not only pull this off, but also win fans for it. Ladies? Anyone? Gentlemen, I know you won't miss this. MB

It would seem that the spirit of the conversation was lost in translation to sobriety/print. To which I say: I AM SORRY!!! Obviously you have great tits, and are beautiful, and I would never dream of doing you wrong. Please forgive me. See you at the show.

Bob Log III with Willem Maker & Pure Country Gold; Doug Fir Lounge, 830 E Burnside, Tuesday May 5, 9 pm, $12

Just heard "Today" as the soundtrack to a Visa commercial, though even in a recession it's hard to believe Billy Corgan is broke.

"Homerpalooza"

Homer: I'll miss you, Pumpkins, but I just can't share your bleak
world view. I've got too much to live for.

Corgan: We envy you, Homer. All we have is our music, our legions
of fans, our million of dollars and our youth.

[pause]

Woo-Hoo!

Iha: Let's all go out and buy fur coats!

Chamberlin: I want a walk-in humidor.

How did Limahl's theme song for The NeverEnding Story end up in my head? Not even a luck dragon knows the answer to that question. But what I do know is that not only does the movie totally hold up (that very well could be the beer talking), Limahl's Giorgio Moroder-produced theme song should have been the reason he got famous—not the uber-boring "Too Shy" from Kajagoogoo.

I was thinking. I was thinking that there is a unique status that belongs to bands that you don't hate, that don't make your blood boil with murderous rage (for me, for example, this would be Limp Bizkit...GRRR), but that you would be OK to never hear speak of again. I have solemnly concluded that one of these bands I feel this way about is Aerosmith, as implicated by their activity from around the Clinton years on.

I can't deny that the band did have a golden era, uniquely styling that early '70's feel with powerful jams like "Dream On" (later bastardized by Enimem...another one of my blood boilers). In the ensuing years they made some good videos (see above), and Steven Tyler made a real good-lookin' daughter.

But dammit, the world really did not need their cover of "Come Together", and that song from Armageddon continues to suck souls daily on soft-rock radio. Also, I am offended by the gratuitous amount of scarves that can be seen draped around Stephen Tyler's mic stand during live shows. Ultimately, I think it is the band's seemingly self-determined descent into standard, generic rock (new descriptor: generiROCK? Does that work?) that turned them into ghosts of themselves and makes me turn away in indifference.

Yeah, I could do without, forever. Sorry Aerosmith. What about y'all? Any bands you feel this way about?

Yes, yes, the Will Ferrell/Christopher Walken "More Cowbell" sketch has been totally played out, but here's a handy little app that will overdub cowbell onto any mp3 you can shove in there. Somehow it knows the tempo and drops in cowbell accordingly, along with samples from the SNL clip in question. I found it to be a diverting waste of time for approximately 81 seconds. Let's listen!

How would cowbell sound atop this number, for instance? Press play!

What about something with a slow, quiet opening? Will the handy robot know where the beats fall?

How about:

Go here to waste more time and drive yourself crazy.

People in Portland are generous, and people in Portland drink a lot of beer. Here's an opportunity for you to help out a local band that combines both these pastimes! Our good friend Aaron Beam is a member of the talented and popular metal rock outfit, Red Fang, and they're shooting a music video which apparently needs cans -- A LOT OF CANS. Here's the email I received:

I know you may not drink beer, and even if you do, you may not drink it in cans. But you live in Portland, so I have a feeling that you know someone who does. And I need every single empty beer can I can get my hands on. So please, do NOT recycle your cans this week! Or next week! I will come collect them from you, and you can rest assured that they will be recycled after we are finished using them. I am not trying to stockpile aluminum. We need them for a music video which will involve LOTS and LOTS and LOTS of cans. PLEASE forward this email to people you know who have cans and have them contact me!

Sure, the guy with the shopping cart who raids my bin every week might be a bit peeved, but I'm going to help Aaron and Red Fang out. GOT ANY CANS? EMAIL AARON HERE!