I went to a midnight screening of The Dark Knight last night because I am a dork. I arrived at the theater a little before 10 PM, and there was already an intense line outside the theater. Many people were in costume (including several fans in "Elect Harvey Dent" garb), but the dude who took the cake was wearing an exact recreation of the Joker's make-up in the movie. I ended up sitting right next to this guy in the theater, and initially I thought it was charming (I dressed up for a movie once, though it's too embarrassing to reveal here). However, as the movie unfolded, the make-up dude became more and more disturbing. This is a testament to Heath Ledger's performance, as he frightened and disturbed me so much that I completely forgot about the fact that it was Ledger's last role. Something horrible would happen on screen, and I was constantly looking to my left to make sure the guy in the make-up wasn't trying to recreate it.

So, to the dude in the Joker make-up sitting next to me last night: if your goal was to freak out the squares (like me), then mission accomplished.

The Fourth of July is usually associated with fireworks, hot dogs... you know, American-type things. However, this past Friday I received a thorough ass-whooping from punk hero/Sonic Youth guitarist Thurston Moore, in what has to be the most memorable beatdown I have ever received. I headed downtown to New York's Battery Park to photograph the band's free July 4th show and everything was going normally during the band's first song. As the group ramped up the noise, Moore seemed to become more and more enraptured with the fuzzed out sound he was producing with a drum stick and his guitar.

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I had a very nice Fourth of July long weekend, thanks for asking. After a few days of basking in the glory of independence and not having to be at work, I wanted to kick back on Sunday afternoon and enjoy some television. I had no interest in Wimbledon nor the hours of Christmas movies running on the Lifetime Movie Network, so I turned to an old failsafe at MTV with the knowledge they normally reserve their Sunday afternoons for reruns of America's Next Top Model. Imagine my surprise when Hulk Hogan was calling somebody "Brother" on the set of American Gladiators. This caused a short circuit in my brain so profound that I'd like MTV to explain themselves.

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When Chris Martin announced that Coldplay was about to do something they’d “never done before” at last night’s free Madison Square Garden gig, the last thing I expected was for my nosebleeds to turn into the best seats in the house. After rocking a solid chunk of Viva La Vida and playing some obligatory hits ("Clocks," "In My Place"), the RS cover stars appeared in the middle of a second tier aisle for a hot acoustic minute. Here’s a blip I caught from their first song in the crowd with the people, “Yellow.”

I was super-excited to see the Breeders play live last week at Webster Hall in New York City — but clearly not as excited as the guy behind me. I'm pretty sure he was the President of the Breeders Fan Club (of which I'm only a member), based on the unbridled exuberance and near-orgasmic joy with which he greeted every song. Ordinarily, I'd applaud his enthusiasm. But here's the rub: dude was singing along — loudly — to every song. And not just the lyrics — our Breeders-loving hero sang along to the guitar parts too. As if he hadn't already proven his loyalty by knowing the words to songs by Kim Deal's side project, the Amps.

We all know the concert-going stereotypes: jaded hipsters who won't move a muscle versus overenthusiastic fan boys who spill their adoration and beer all over you. Lame-ass scenesters who talk through the whole show, how do you sleep at night?

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Yesterday RS.com photo editor John Gara and I learned a valuable lesson: being Frank Black for more than 20 minutes results in a sore throat. Because I've written a book on the Pixies and John is the owner of a vintage Pixies shirt, we felt most qualified to demo the new Doolittle songs that will be added to Rock Band later this month. For an hour of pure bliss, we learned which lyrics might be embarassing to yell in front of a co-worker ("Whores in my bed!"), and that we could indeed pant in harmony ("Tame"). Keep reading for our breakdown of the game's (pretty damn cool) new additions.

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Just a disclaimer: The following story will probably damage my cred, both specifically as a rock critic and generally as a human being, but many people insist I tell this tale. So enjoy this knowing that I'm risking my psychological health and whatever is left of my dignity.

Much has been made in the past few weeks of the end of the marriage between country crossover sensation Shania Twain and '80s hair metal producer Robert John "Mutt" Lange. Most of the public sympathy seems to have landed on the side of Shania, as Lange appears to have cheated on his wife with a mutual friend of theirs. I'm not the sort of guy to condone cheating, but if Lange's personal experience with Shania was anything like mine, then I'm surprised he lasted that long. Of course, I was never involved in a relationship with Shania (if I was, you can bet I wouldn't be giving my story away for free on this fine blog), but rather as an unofficial employee. For in the summer of 1998, I was a member of Shania Twain's touring band.

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Visiting the Rolling Stone offices on Friday June 6: Team Slipstream-Chipotle! No, that's not some British DJ duo — it's the classy American racing outfit that's making serious waves in the professional bike racing scene. Now you might think that the Capri Lounge is no place for a post about a pro bike racing team. Well, I think it's no place for an affectionate post about the New Kids on the Block, and we've sure had plenty of those recently. So put that in your Joey McIntyre doll and smoke it, fanboy.

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Click here for Peter Travers' video review of Sex and the City

Dear Diary,

Don't hate me. Tonight I did something that most women would never speak to me again for doing, and/or give away organs to do themselves. Practical, intelligent women; and I'm not talking kidneys.

Yes, tonight, I attended the Sex and the City movie premiere at Radio City Music Hall in New York City (with my bestie Ally Lewis.) Shoutoutz!

When we arrived at the pink carpet, the situation was about as glamorous as those Season One episodes where Carrie would turn to the camera and say what was on her mind. (Props to whoever put an end to this.) The rain was coming down, the make-up was running, and the line to get in resembled one of those extreme hamster cages with the psycho tubing.

A mousey girl with a heinous beret climbed onto the nearest barricade and began pouting. "Who's in charge here?" she asked no one in particular. "I've been waiting since 5:30!"

"I've been waiting four years!" I wanted to say back. But no. There was no reason to unleash my inner anger at Minnie Mouse when it was clearly Kim Catrall I wanted words with.

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American Idol is the type of show you either hate, or fist-fight your roommate over when they suggest watching House during commercial breaks.

For the latter, the only thing possibly sweeter than having six-day-champ David Cook show up at your office for lunch is runner-up David Archuleta joining him, and the two spending the afternoon calling each other "Cookie" and "Archie" as they attempt to figure out which of them is being addressed.

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