2006 Wish List and 2005 Reflections

I just submitted my annual office wish list to the Commandant of Insurance Stalag-17 for my requested office equipment. No, I did not get the midget secretary I asked for nor did I get my Taser or the electric trip-wire I wanted to string across the opening to my cubicle. I did get approved for this really spiffy new office chair, which rolls so smoothly that with some practice I should be able to wheel over the toes of anyone entering my sacred cubicle confines. So, with that in mind, I decided to delight my readers with my own very special personal musical wish list for 2006 and throw in a few random reflections as well.

I wish Gwen Stefani would wake up tomorrow and find herself being throttled in the head by soy sauce wielding Harajuku girls, while they spell aloud the word, “B-A-N-A-N-A-S”. I was tempted to have them kill her outright, but then we’d probably have to have some kind of goddamned tribute and Institute might perform and I’m not willing to chance the possibility of an Institute performance. Plus, she’s “with child” and shit and I might come off as an even more horrible if something happened to the little bastard of joy. So, I can wait until after she’s spawned and then I want to see the girls emblazon the word, “Kikkoman” across her bloody forehead. Uh-huh, that’s my shit, Gwenie-poo.

I wish Madonna would quit kidding herself and just go back to being a straight-up whore. What happened to the days of making out with a black Jesus or inappropriately humping a sacred religious artifact? Now she spends her time composing poorly- written children's books about fucking roses and pretending to be some sort of Rabbi. I mean for fuck's sake, the woman dated Dennis Rodman.

I wish that everyone who buys a Nickelback album would be stricken with a giant “N” on his or her forehead, sort of like in the Scarlet Letter. We could easily identify the offenders and it would be much easier to explain to the cops.

Cop: “Madam, why did you beat this man with a Led Zeppelin box set?”

Me: “He bought a Nickelback cd.”

Cop: “I’m sorry to have bothered you, please continue with the thrashing.”

I wish that whoever was continuously playing Limp Bizkit’s entire catalog on the jukebox at the bowling alley Saturday night would die a horrible and prolonged death and the last words they heard before they departed this world were Fred Durst screaming, “I did it all for the nookie!” Stick that up your ass, you little 14-year-old bastard.

I wish that there was a mandatory music class that was taught starting in middle school. It would explain to children certain indelible musical truths: Scott Stapp is a douche bag, Good Fucking Charlotte is not a punk band and white people look like complete assholes when they try to dress and speak like they are African-American.

I wish that my favorite bands would stop licensing out classic songs to commercials. Thanks to the assholes at Cingular I now associate “Hey Ho” with a cell phone plan. I hope Joey Ramone is reincarnated as a venereal wart and firmly resides on whoever said, “You know what would be great? A Ramones song! Whee!”

I wish that some record label would actually release Kevin Federline’s cd and that it sells 2 million copies. And then it’s discovered that Britney, herself, bought 1,999,988 of those copies and the other 12 were bought by his other baby’s mama to ensure he made his monthly child support payments.

I wish with all my heart and soul that Morrissey and Johnny Marr would put their differences aside and reunite all the original members of The Smith’s for a very special birthday tribute to me this October. It would bring me endless joy and would also have the added bonus of annoying the shit out of MM.

I wish people would realize that country music is complete shit and is only suitable for people whose intelligence is measured to the left of the bell curve and marry their family members. If you have no idea what the first part of that statement meant or you see nothing wrong with the latter, then by all means go buy that new Kenny Chesney cd. I hear it’s just bitchin’.

I wish that Fiona Apple would find Jesus or the Buddha or even Mary Kay and start singing happy, cheerful little ditties about unicorns, her first kiss and pink nail polish just to piss off all her fans, most of whom are probably already on suicide watch at the nut house.

I wish that the FCC would appoint me head of the “Musical Taste Police.” I would keep an ongoing list of artists that I deemed as shitty and if any of their songs were played then the FCC would fine the radio stations (I.E. Clear Channel) about $10k per song and said station would have to submit the disc jockey responsible for such atrocity before a tribunal over which I presided. I assure you, loyal fans, I am neither forgiving nor overly just and the offenders would be dealt with severely and creatively.

I wish I could meet Paul McCartney just so I could tell him to his face how irritating I find him.

I wish Jeff Buckley wasn't taken from us so suddenly.

I wish Courtney Love didn't think we were fucking stupid enough to believe that her only decent album, Live Through This, was written without the aid of Kurt's unpublished material. If Courtney wrote "Doll Parts" then I claim to have written the theme song to Bosom Buddies.

I wish Radiohead would quit fucking around in the studio and put out their new album. And more importantly, I really wish that it won't break the cycle of suck-free albums.

I wish somebody had the balls to enroll Moby in the Meat of the Month Club.

I wish U2 would come back to the states one more time this year. I wish I could've seen more than 2 shows on the Vertigo Tour. I wish I could put into words the way I felt when I heard the opening notes of "City of Blinding Lights" and why I inexplicably found myself standing there with tears streaming down my face, something I've never done at any of the countless concerts I've attended. I wish my sister could have been there the 2nd night to hear "Bad" even though I held my phone up so she could hear it. You just had to be there.