Give us our Garmonbozia!!!!!!!!


I could give a flying fuck-all who the goddamn Carver is, where he she or it is, what he she it is carving, and whether he she it is observing proper sanitary procedures.

But I do care about the Extended Edition of Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me.  Read about it here, and sign the petition to get it released here.


The Onion wrote a story about me.

Might as well be about me, anyway. 

Dope Just Galumphing Where Life Takes Him

December 14, 2005 | Issue 41•5

Another day in the life of directionless oaf Jeff Koegle.

SPIRIT LAKE, IA—On an ordinary day, amiable dim-bulb Jeff Koegle wanders into many places: his den, the bowling alley, maybe the local Spee-D-Kustard, which is only a three-block dawdle from his house. For as long as anyone in Spirit Lake can remember, this burly goof has schlepped along the road of life with neither purpose nor reason.

"I like to whistle sometimes when I'm going along," Koegle said. "Or maybe hum a tune that was on the radio last place I was."

Koegle added: "Once, I heard a meow outside by the dumpster by Hardy's. It was a box of kitties. They let me keep one. I named him Yellow."

In his 34 years, Koegle has plodded his way through high school, two homes, an eight-year marriage, a series of mindless jobs, and the occasional boat show. The easily distracted boob has left no lasting legacy, save for an occasional knocked-over cup or upset magazine rack.

"I accidentally slapped a guy's soda out of his hand in line at the movies once," Koegle said. "Now he's a good friend."

Koegle's aimless blunderings occasionally trigger major developments in his life, which isn't saying much, because if it weren't for sheer happenstance, he would have no experiences at all.

"Once, when I was getting off the bus, I saw some little TVs in the window of a store," said Koegle, his doughy mitts hanging limply at his sides. "I went into the store, and I had a nice chat with a salesgal, and she asked me out on a date. Now that gal's my wife."

Longtime friends and associates say Koegle's oafish good cheer is as constant as his characteristic outfit: a sweatshirt, jeans, and a Salem windbreaker.

"Sometimes Jeff will come by, hang out for a bit," said friend Dan Werner, who graduated from high school with Koegle in 1989. "We'll maybe watch hockey or go get a bite to eat if one of us is hungry. After a while, he'll say, 'Well, guess I ought to get going,' and he'll take off."

Local merchant Evan Rasmussen Jr., proprietor of Rasmussen Dime & Drug, sold Koegle gum throughout the '90s.

"[The lummox] wouldn't come in with any regularity, but once in a while he'd amble through," Rasmussen said. "When he'd grab the gum from the display, he'd muss up all the other packets of gum on the rack. I would always have to straighten them out after he left."

Eventually, Rasmussen asked Koegle to straighten the gum himself. Koegle has been working at Rasmussen Dime & Drug ever since.

Koegle's wife Jeannette, 30, shared a more intimate view of the shambling clod.

"Yesterday during breakfast, I told Jeff to try taking charge of his life more, because I know he has it in him to make it happen," Jeannette said. "I could tell he was considering what I said, but then he seemed to forget all about it when the potato pancakes were served."

At home on his recliner, Koegle said he is "just fine with" his directionless life. He added that he "pretty much fell into it."

"I guess I wouldn't mind working a few more hours at Rasmussen's here and there, but Jeannette and me are doing fine," Koegle said. "My cousin Jerry [Morris] wants us to move out to Wisconsin and work with him at the window-blind factory that's always hiring, and I think that might be nice, but to be honest, I don't give it a lot of serious thought."

Minutes after this confession, Koegle was fast asleep.

At the close of another day, the stumblebum once again failed to conceive of a single quest, great or small. Yellow in his lap, he remained on the recliner through the night, his unconscious mind doubtlessly dancing with images of found sawbucks and crab apples.

© Copyright 2005, Onion, Inc. All rights reserved.

The Onion is not intended for readers under 18 years of age.


The Greatest



What they meant by "Kill Your Idols"

These are not my idols. I once admired them, but then I found out that my parent's generational idols and ideals need not be my own. These people must be stopped, for their and our own good:

Billy Joel.

John Mellencamp.

Eric Clapton.

James Taylor.

Mike Love.

Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, Charlie Watt, and whatsisname.

The list is endless.

These people will not go away, and frankly I bet they wish they could. I've seen Eric Clapton on TV commercials lately, but I'd be hard pressed to hum a few bars of his latest "tune." In fact, I'd be hard pressed to point out one truly significant, transcendent, or magnificent moment from this man's entire career since the dissolution of Cream. "Tears In Heaven," I guess. Yeah, it is transcendent, in fact, but christ, the man's kid fell out of a twenty-story window.

I just saw Billy Joel on Conan O'Brien, and it was one of the truly sad moments I've ever witnessed. Here's one of the most successful recording artists in history, pushing a "career-spanning box set" that, poor guy, has to compete with a three-volume greatest hits set that already exists. At one point he would have commanded the entire show, but tonight he got second billing to, umm, I don't remember who, although who was on only ten minutes ago...but anyway here's Billy Joel, more known these days for crashing ridiculously expensive and fetishisticly rare collector cars whilst hopped up on sleeping pills than he is for crooning "bottle of reds, bottle of whites." And he couldn't look more bored or aware of his own pathetic irrelevance.

A contrasting list.

Jimi Hendrix.

Janis Joplin.

Jim Morrison.

Richard Manuel and Rick Danko.

Brian Jones.

John Lennon.

Who knows how it would have turned out for them. But we're painfully aware of the decaying and declining arc that is the careers of their contemporaries. Really, people, just let it come to an end. Somebody has to fire the first shot. Retire. Quit. Get thrown in jail. Or....or worse things that I'd better not list here. This is the generation that wasn't ever gonna die, and by god, they sure as hell ain't dyin'. Although they are joining the American Association of Retired Persons. So there you go, retirement isn't just for old people anymore, O ye eternal youth. Go away, sip cocaine-laced mimosas in Santa Barbara. Allow us to miss you.

pps: Honorable Mention is served to Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, Brian Wilson, and Levon Helm. Hell, even Neil Diamond. But Robbie Robertson can just go to hell.