Zanzibar Snails next recording will be out soon on New York’s Tape Drift Records.

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It's a beautiful day in the NeighborHOOF if you're Ryan Thomas Becker

Though he’s not technically a Fort Worthian, RTB2 –– the nom de rock of Dentonite singer-songwriter Ryan Thomas Becker –– plays the 817 enough and has worked with enough 817 artists (Eaton Lake Tonics, The Missile Men) to earn the much sought-after distinction of Honorary Cowtowner and Occasional Subject of Steely, Poetic Fort Worth Weekly Critics’ Pens. RTB2 has a new album coming out –– via perhaps Dallas’ most experimental, progressive manufacturers and distributors of fine indie rock, Gutterth –– and based on a couple of tracks streamed here, Neighborhoof stands to go down as an incontestable contemporary of such regional gems as Dove Hunter’s The Southern Unknown, Centro-matic’s Fort Recovery, and Telegraph Canyon’s The Tide and The Current. Though the fickle mainstream consciousness has yet to render a verdict on Telegraph’s latest –– the album just came out –– Dove Hunter’s and Centro’s burned bright for a few minutes before vanishing in poofs of unintelligible metaphors, obscure references, and four-and-a-half stars. (Has there been any quantitative assessment of commercial response to the positive review of The Theater Fire’s most recent album in Pitchfork, that tastemaking media outlet to best all other tastemakers? Just curious.)

An equally ominous fate is hot on Neighborhoof’s, uh, heels –– there just might not be enough of a critical mass of Dentonites and other art history majors in North Texas to propel the LP out of the region, into the ears of national power brokers, and onto the iPods of hipsters in Brooklyn, Berkeley, and Seattle. Let’s hope I’m dead wrong. The blocky, fuzzed-out but jangly, Nirvana-esque riff that intros “Seek Fire, Anime Kids” tumbles out of an amp whose head no doubt has been punctured by a screwdriver or some other stabby implement. All angry riffage, splashy/stomping drums, treble, and Becker’s bullet-mic’d voice, “Seek Fire” is a ditty but a grungy, catchy one. Don’t ask me what it’s about. The creepily titled “Where Your Father Didn’t Go” is a swaying, “Earth Angel”-ic, 1950s-style let’s-not-dance-too-close-in-the-gym ballad erected upon plink-plink-plinking piano, rim shots, and moaning violin that alternates between accompanying the 88s in unison and responding to Becker’s plaintive calls. I don’t want to know what the song is about. Then there’s the trés Beck-ian “Praying Matas”: lots of squealing and wheezing synths, dainty Casio beats, and a chorus of oooh-OOOH-oooh. Sample some RTB2 on Sunday at Hailey’s (122 Mulberry St, Denton, 940-323-1160), when he with some backing musos shares a bill with Generationals and the F-Dub’s Burning Hotels.

Other immediate gigs of note:

Browningham, Red Pyramid, LaME, Murder FM, Waking Alice, Menkena, Wild Wonderful, Caterpillars, Michael Miller tonight (Friday) at The Prophet Bar (2548 Elm St, Dallas, 214-939-4321).

Rivercrest Yacht Club, Sally Majestic, and Goodwin on Saturday at Lola’s Saloon-Sixth (2736 W 6th St, in the W 7th Street corridor, 817-877-0666).

Brad Hines and Walt Wilkins and the Mystiqueros tonight (Friday) at Love Shack So7 (813 Matisse St, W 7th corridor, 817-348-9655).

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The movie is about the demise of Doors frontman Jim Morrison.

Ticket price: $10. For more info, call 323-868-5639.

Huckabee created the movie in the late 1970s while attending film school at the University of Texas at Austin. The movie’s violence and drugs stirred up a ruckus at its original Austin screening way back when, as noted in this Fort Worth Weekly cover story on Huckabee.

Today’s most gruesome story comes out of the Guardian, a British paper, which reported on the arrests of several members of a gang in Peru who were busted for killing possibly scores of people for their body fat. It probably doesn’t appear to be something most people in the Fort need to know about, much less concern themselves with (except for me, who spends a considerable amount of time in the Peruvian jungle annually) but it might. Seems the fat was sold on the black market in Europe where it goes into high end anti-wrinkle cream and other cosmetics. Those arrested claim they get 36,000 Euros per gallon.

Peruvians, particularly in the jungle, are very small people, very muscular, and rarely have much body fat due to a diet that consists primarily of boiled fish and plantains or yucca. Oil us used sparingly.

I on the other hand, am carrying around a pretty good amount of fat these days. At least 72,000 Euros worth.

Time to diet. Don’t want anybody looking at me and imagining a new car or two.

The full story is here:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2009/nov/20/peru-gang-killing-human-fat

Just think about all those critics who used to get ridiculed at Fort Worth city hall for complaining about the toxic pollution being spewed from drilling sites into neighborhoods. Fort Worth wasn’t interested in doing studies on the emissions. City officials just wanted to drill as hard and fast as they could. People who complained got shushed or ignored.

When other folks around the state began studying the emissions, they – surprise! – found toxic pollution.

Now TCEQ is asking for more emissions controls.

And, as Fort Worth Weekly has noted before (most recently in this week’s Turkeys edition) Fort Worth officials led by Mayor Mike “The Gasfather” Moncrief are reportedly expressing shock about this toxic crap. (How can someone be surprised about something that’s been obvious and continually discussed for the past several years?)

Moncrief says he and his gang of waterboys have a new “top priority” — identifying the impacts of gas drilling “on the health and safety of our citizens,” he said.

Uh, aren’t y’all the ones who hooked up the hose, closed the garage door, and started up the car in the first place?

The new-ish song I’m luvin is ”The Moon is Made of Gold”. Jones’ signature vocal combination of whispers, mumbles, and wails comes together beautifully in this buoyant tune written by her late father Richard, a hard-drinking itinerant musician whose dreams of success didn’t include his family. His lyrics for “Moon” are cotton-candy, space-case greatness, though.

Jones has been singing “The Moon is Made of Gold” off and on in her live shows for many years now. Here’s an arguably superior live version from back in the early ‘90s.

Of course, you don’t really need video evidence, because Henry admitted to the deed shortly after the game, saying that it was the referee’s job to catch it. That’s correct, but nothing was stopping Henry from going to the ref immediately afterward with a confession and requesting the goal be taken off the scoreboard, like Daniele de Rossi did in an Italian league game a few years back. If Henry had done that, he would have been a hero for his fair play. (Plus, the French still might have won the game on penalty kicks.) Henry has been one of the best goal-scorers of this decade, he’s personally campaigned against racism in European soccer, and he’s generally behaved himself well as a superstar. All that’s gone now. Now he’s just a cheat. Un tricheur, as the French would say.

This is bad, not only because these big soccer tournaments tend to be more fun when the Irish are involved. The French are more talented, but they’ve underachieved for the last four years thanks to mismanagement by their coach. Now they get in at the expense of a hard-working squad whose Italian coach rescued them when they were demoralized. This Ireland team would have been a great feel-good story, and now they’ve been well and truly screwed. Most sports teams, even if they’re cheated out of a championship, can come back the next year and try again. The Irish have to wait until 2014. File this one under Proof That There’s No Justice in the World. Usually the Germans play the role of the team that everybody loves to hate at international soccer tournaments. For World Cup 2010, the French richly deserve to take their spot.

The fallout has been swift. The Irish team are appealing for a replay, backed by the country’s government. The French press and former French players are expressing shame. Even though they’ve got no dog in this hunt, the Swedes are blasting their own officials. This one’s going to linger.

He’s buff, has orange skin, and wears tight-fitting or little clothing. (“Sun’s out, guns out, bro!”) He pouts for the cameras, has spiked hair, and likes to pump his fist to techno music at clubs. (“Totally killing it!”) He is a de facto member of perhaps the most loathed subculture in the United States. But is there more to the average Guido than utter ridiculousness? MTV will try to provide some answers. On Thu., Dec 3, at 9 p.m., the pop-culture lifestyle channel will premiere Jersey Shore, a docu-soap about eight young adults, all Guidos and Guidettes, living in a summer share in Seaside Heights, N.J., a popular hot spot. MTV follows them as they “juggle work, love, nightlife, friendship, and the drama that ensues.” In the end, MTV says, “viewers see that there is more to these tan and buff individuals than hair gel.”

One thing about Guidos that everyone seems to love making fun of is their unconscious homoeroticism. I’m sure that I’m not the only person who notices the suggestive hand gesture at :15 in the trailer below.

COOL NEW(-ISH) SONGS

“Olympic Airways,” Foals: twee indie-rock from Oxford, England.

“A-Punk,” Vampire Weekend: twee indie-rock from Brooklyn, New York.

“Mountain Man,” Crash Kings: painistic, slightly douchebaggy rock from L.A.

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Here’s the video for Eyes, Wings, and Many Other Things’ “Sled Dogs’ Annual Revenge” off the Fort Worth band’s 2008 album Tonsils, Toes, and Everyone Knows on Indian Casino.

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I might be one of them.

The U.S. Diet Guidelines seem severe to me.

According to this table, a guy my height (5 feet 10 inches) and age (over-35) ought to weigh 146 to 188 pounds. Since I’m not what you’d call a big-boned person, I’m supposed to weigh closer to 146 than 188.

If I weighed 146 pounds I could enter rooms like this.

But according to the federal guidelines, my current weight of 220 means I’m supposed to feel like this about myself.

I say stick that survey where the sun don’t shine…and pardon me while I go scarf some Taco Bell.