Outright Lies & Half-Truths

My Childhood Drug Overdose

2007-08-17T10:37:00.000-04:00

I'm back. Loyal readers (both of you) will be delighted to see I’m taking the blog in a different direction. Topics are not limited to music but as you both know my musical obsession will surface anyway. My hateful nature remains undiminished but I feel that slinging insults on the current crop of musical artists is too easy. It's like pushing your boyfriend down a flight of stairs- Sure it's fun, but there’s no challenge.

This morning I read another blog where the author shared a sweet childhood anecdote complete with both a hearty moral lesson and the mention of a tiny kitten. I’m not wild about reading mundane details of people’s boring lives or learning any sort of moral lesson, but if that asshole can do it then certainly this asshole can too. So, here goes.

I was a bit of a challenging child; my genius was often overlooked due to a surly nature and generally bad attitude. It was hard to play well with others when I knew I was smarter than everyone else. The fundamental problem of a child genius is we are not easily entertained and most of our little escapades stem from sheer boredom. Boredom was a key factor in the following incident, but I will always contend that if my teachers had done a better job of keeping me mentally stimulated the event in question would have never occurred. And there was also the television factor, but we’ll get to that later.

My preschool class was composed of 4-year-old idiots. I was cognizant of this even though I, too, was also 4. My classroom was composed of children who found amusement spinning in circles until either a fall and/or regurgitation resulted. I could read by the age of 2: self-imposed dizziness didn’t do it for me.

I believe my teacher was named Mrs. Earl. Interestingly, M had been in her class four years prior so it's safe to assume that woman was already damaged goods. M also bears the same burden of genius.

The following event is entirely true and for any non-believers I will be glad to supply my mother's email address so she can verify the validity of the story. I will warn you, however, that having me as her child has left her a broken and bitter woman and denying events of my childhood is her particular coping mechanism of choice to survive the trauma she endured raising me.

Act 1

Scene 1

(A typical preschool classroom. A darling, flaxen-haired child (FHC) with stunning green eyes approaches her unfortunate teacher, Mrs. Earl.)

FHC: Mrs. Earl, I just swallowed an entire bottle of Tylenol that I found at home. I also gave some to other kids.

(Mrs. Earl gets panic-stricken look on face.)

Mrs. Earl: You did what? How many did you swallow? Who did you give them to? Let me see the bottle.

(FHC produces an empty bottle from her red corduroy pants, which should be noted, were cinched with a very festive multi-colored Rainbow Brite belt with a sporty, magnetic buckle. Apparently, FHC's mother suffered under the delusion that morning that she was dressing her child for a day at clown school. FHC fails to mention that the bottle was found already empty in the trashcan earlier that morning. FHC fails to mention her penchant for rummaging through household refuse receptacles. FHC fails to mention this fact to a number of people for many, many years. Mrs. Earl fails to notice smirk discreetly creeping across FHC's face.)

Mrs. Earl: Oh my goodness! You're going to the principal’s office. We're calling your mother and poison control. March!

Scene 2

(Principal’s office. FHC is perched on a child-sized plastic chair and refuses to answer questions during the ensuing interrogation. It becomes obvious the principal is not a mother, herself as there was no use of sodium amytal or application of the techniques of sleep deprivation or water boarding.)

She tried to call my bluff.

Principal: I'm calling your mother.

FHC: *silence*

Principal: I mean it. I'm calling her right now.

She lifted the phone and her fingers hovered menacingly over the keypad in case I didn’t understand how the phone worked.

It was a nice touch. She must have had some doubts about my story or she would have already called 911. She had the misguided idea that I might break.

Principal: I’m dialing the number right now.

FHC: *silence*

We'll skip ahead in the story and assume the reader can piece together how the office exchange continued. Both Poison Control and my mother received a call. A weaker person would have cracked and admitted the truth, especially after maternal forces were summoned, but she underestimated my inherent assyness.

I'm assuming the good people at Poison Control said something to the effect that if I had, in fact, swallowed an entire 250 count bottle of Tylenol I would probably be dead by now or at the very least foaming at the mouth and rolling around on the floor in a pool of my bodily fluids.

(Enter FHC's harried, frantic mother.)

Mother: Are you ok? What happened? What possessed you to do something like that?

I was her first-born child so my mother was still pretty new to the whole mother-bit and lived in perpetual fear for my safety. My sister came along a few years later and by that time she was an old hand and had learned it best to let her genius child and semi-genius child bear the consequences of their own dumbass actions. She frequently tested how much we learned and there were many Christmases we received books of matches as gifts in our stockings. She reasoned if we were dumb enough to light ourselves on fire than we deserved it- She had taught us better.

(FHC’s mother is losing her patience.)

Mother: Answer me!

FHC: *silence*

She may or may not have started shaking me at this point, that detail remains a rather heated source of debate to this day. (I told you she was a bitter woman.) I assure you that if I had known the term, "shaking baby syndrome," I wouldn't have hesitated to summon the proper authorities and have her carted off to a Home for Horrible Parents.

Mother: Wh-what? You gave it to the other children?

She had just been informed by Principal Yapper her child was not only a user, but also a preschool drug pusher. I slipped for a brief second and she saw my look of amusement. She had developed a well-trained eye for watching for that sort of thing with me.

Mother: That's it. We're going to the hospital.

She was good.

All I had wanted was to create a little amusing drama and sitting in a hospital ER for hours would have put a real damper on the day. It also meant I wouldn't be home in time to watch My Favorite Martian. You see my other motivation was the television. I went to preschool 3 days a week and for 3 days my television habits were horribly disrupted. I thought if she saw me sick and/or near death from the Tylenol she would take me home and I could retire to the living room sofa for an afternoon of TV watching to my heart's content. The fly in the ointment was for some reason it hadn’t dawned on me that my impending death might lead to a visit to a medical facility. (Even a child prodigy has her off days.) The hospital was worse than preschool.

I acquiesced.

FHC: Ok. I made it up. I didn't swallow Tylenol.

The principal nearly lost it, although though you would have thought the woman would have been relieved to learn she wasn't going to have a roomful of dead preschoolers on her hands. Now, she looked like she wanted to shake me.

That's pretty much the gist of the story. They don't usually suspend preschoolers so I returned later that week. The principal didn’t forget the incident and I feel certain it was she who sent a letter to my future elementary school warning of my arrival.

Later, my mother swatted at my hindquarters with her weapon of choice, the plastic egg turner, and sentenced me to my room for 3 days of solitary confinement. I didn’t mind this because this meant I was left to myself and I could use the time productively to refine my plan for world domination. The real bitch was after all that I ended up missing My Favorite Martian anyway. So I believe the life lesson we can glean from this moving story is that you should really consider the consequences of stirring up trouble to entertain yourself- it might make you miss your favorite TV show.

OLHT Dating Tips: Screening Your Potential Date

2006-06-26T22:21:00.000-04:00

...I agreed that what really matters is what you like, not what you are like... Books, records, films -- these things matter. Call me shallow but it's the damn truth…” – Rob, High Fidelity

The older I get the more I realize that a person’s pop culture preferences, especially musical ones, are defining characteristics of who you are as a person and are a direct indicator of whether I might ever view you as worthy of dating me. Now, God knows I’m no Dr. Phil on the matter, but I'd like to think that I have learned a thing or two along the way.

The tips below don't apply to everyone. I am told that there are people in this world who value more than a person’s record collection; they find people’s musical predilections utterly irrelevant in relation to who they are as person. I am not one of those people. This guide is mainly for shallow people like myself who consider themselves vastly superior because of their exceptionally good musical taste and berate others for having exceptionally inferior musical taste. These hints will also free you from the burden of feigning remorse for breaking up with someone because they have shitty taste in music. It's ok to break up with someone because of his or her music collection; bad music is generally a sign of much deeper problems.

If you listen to shitty music you are probably a shitty person.

I know this sounds a bit harsh, but it almost always holds true. How many people who wear Hoobastank t-shirts do you consider friends? If you even know more than one person who would wear a Hoobastank t-shirt then it’s time to find a new circle of friends.

Don’t date people who tell you their favorite musical genre is, “Progressive Rock” and sever all contact immediately if they use the words, “Prog Rock.”

Trust me, these people are not to be trusted. They will make you listen to shitty bands like Rush, Jethro Tull or Yes. They are smug bastards who think they are smarter than everyone else because they listen to Genesis back when Peter Gabriel was the lead singer. They will give long-winded, boring explanations of 23-minute epic songs that make Grateful Dead jams seem brief in comparison. Most of them look like they bought their clothes from the 1978 JC Penney catalog and I guarantee you at some point they will try to coerce you into watching The Lord of The Rings. Then they will want to talk about The Lord of The Rings. The only thing worse than watching that movie is hearing people talk about it. Avoid these people like the plague.

Don’t date people who listen to country music.

I’m willing to let this one slide a bit because I live 100 miles from the country music Mecca. We might be able to be friends if you listen to country, but I cannot date you. Ignore this item completely if you listen to county music yourself, it’s apparent that you, too, have shitty taste and you might as well stay with your own kind. People who listen to country music will have an unnatural attachment to their pickup truck, Mother and/or a favorite firearm. There’s a good chance that they have dated a family member at some point and most likely they will be fans of NASCAR.

Men Who Listen To Estrogen Music: There’s a fine fucking line.

I would encourage women to date men who listen to Tori Amos or PJ Harvey. These men are secure enough in their own manhood to not be threatened by a strong female. They’re probably not going to pull all that macho bullshit either because they are unconcerned about constantly displaying themselves as over-testosterone alpha males. Men who listen to Kelly Clarkson, Jewel and Mariah Carey are either gay or giant Manginas, one of the two. I will give credit where credit is due: Except for an Avril Lavigne cd that I found in MM’s cd case and hurled out the window somewhere on I-75 on our way back from Florida last month, MM walks the line quite well.

Do date people who know little about music, but seem willing to learn.

This is your chance to instill important values and universal truths into another human being, i.e. Scott Stapp = raging douchebag and Thom Yorke = genius. It’s damn near impossible to correct years of ingrained bad taste, but if you can get to them early then you might be able to ward off any bad habits they might develop, like listening to the Foo Fighters.

Don't date people who only listen to music from one decade.

Typically, these people are rigid, inflexible and completely resistant to change. They tend to be completely devoid of any sense of originality. It's ok to like the classics, but not ok if that's all that you listen to. These are the same people who are still telling high school stories from 15 years ago. Trust me- the story wasn't particularly interesting then and it won't improve with age.

Require your prospective date to produce a Personal Top-10 List for your inspection prior to the date.

Here's the thing- They don't have to be any of the ones on my Top-10 List, they just have to be good choices in music. You can pick bands I don't particularly care for as long as you can produce a respectable list and don't try to make me listen to them. Immediately disqualify anyone who has any of the following bands anywhere on the list: Kid Rock, Eminem, Nickelback or Linkin Park. These people may have serious mental issues or at least minor retardation.

And for the rest of it- Just go with your instincts, if you think they might be a douchebag then they probably are, in fact, a douchebag.

The Outright Lies & Half-Truths First Ever Mangina Award

2006-06-17T18:20:00.000-04:00

Mangina: The figurative term for genitals on a non-masculine man. If a man is acting girlie, it could be because he has a mangina. Manginas breed drama.

I don’t know if anyone has noticed, but I’ve been blogging like the motherfucking wind lately and honestly, gang, maintaining the level of profundity and devastating wit you’ve grown accustomed to is beyond tiresome. I know, I know- it looks effortless when I do it, but being as smart as I think I am is no easy task I assure you. It is a terrible burden that I must bear and in turn inflict upon others. I took a short sabbatical from writing while at work and commenced my normal morning activities, namely stealing toilet paper from the office bathroom (I’m out at my apartment) and talking on my cell phone. When this became too taxing I took a self-appointed break and logged onto my Myspace account.

Ah, Myspace. Myspace embraces everything I love and hate about the internet and people in general. On one hand, I do enjoy the site and without it I probably wouldn’t have caught up with some friends. On the other hand, it makes every fucktard believe they have something important to share with the world.

Since this is supposedly a music blog I should tie this into a rather highbrow commentary regarding the influence of Myspace on contemporary music and its ramifications on both the music industry and modern culture.

I was going to, really I was. Then I saw it, a little section below the Login info entitled, “Cool New People.”

None of the three people looked particularly cool, certainly not worth having their picture plastered on the Home Page. I ached to mock them. Then I thought about all the lame people who post details of their horribly pathetic, shitty lives on Myspace. Inspiration struck- each week I would seek out the lamest male I could find and bestow a special award upon him, The Outright Lies & Half-Truths Mangina (Male Vagina) Award, hereby referred to as the OLHT Mangina Award.

But, how could I find the lamest people on the site? It couldn’t really be that hard. I started to go through my friend list and working through their friends and friends of those friends and look for people who looked overtly stupid, but inevitably, somebody would recognize Cousin Jo Jo or Uncle Biff and I don’t have any desire to explain why I just wrote 800 words mocking their relative. I may be passive-aggressive and downright mean at times, but nobody has ever accused me of being stupid. When OLHT Awards take off there’s no telling how many lives are going to be touched, and by touched I mean devastated if all goes as planned. So I used the function enabling you to search for people using a common factor. (I’ll tell you the factor I used later.)

Then the strangest thing happened while I was deep in the throes of ridicule. I had this odd, completely foreign feeling in the pit of my stomach. This gnawing feeling that perhaps I was doing something mean and hurtful. I knew what it was: a pang of feeling they call, “guilt.” Was I feeling guilty for singling out a seemingly harmless random dumbass and verbally belittling him? Then I realized it wasn’t guilt, just my stomach growling because it had been several hours since lunch. If these people were stupid enough to voluntarily post information in a public forum then they should consider themselves fair game. Maybe I’m doing it out of a sense of altruistic duty to identify the douchebags of the world or maybe I’m just even more angry and bitter since I quit smoking like Karen said. Either way- Let the games begin.

Just to preface things; I’m going to change their first name, but anything in bold is taken directly from their own website and is their own words. And, using my masterful Microsoft Paint skills I have managed to stealthily disguise these douchebags to protect what is left of their dignity.

Our first ever OLHT Mangina Award Recipient:

John
24 years old
Elk River, MN

Now, I don’t know where this Elk River place is, but if this is the kind of people they produce I’m certainly not going there.

He lists some of his interests:

I love aniamals, i have two cats, and 2 dogs. they bring me joy when im not in a good mood.

Apparently, though, what he doesn’t love is the Spell Check. But, he does talk about the joy his pets bring him. I bet they’re named something super-cute, too, like Fluffball or Princess Tinkerbell or something.

I love to write poems.

Are you holding your breaths for the punch line? You’d better sit down for this one it’s a real doozy.

One day i would love to turn my poems into rap rock songs like papa roach, or limp bizkit.

That’s right girls, not only is he a Tinkerbell-loving Mama’s boy who writes shitty poetry- He wants to set it to rap rock songs. He lists Papa Roach and Limp Bizkit as the musicians to which he aspires. That’s like saying you’d love to have Gary Coleman’s political career.

Actually, he posts a sample of one, entitled, “Good 4 UR Heart.”

if you're always looking for reasoning,
not to be with someone
you always find them,
i guess at some point
you got to let go,
and give your heart,
what it deservers,

Wow. Just wow. Apparently, Prince is writing the titles for his poems, too. There’s some really dramatic spacing and indentation he added that I regretfully had to omit due to space limitations, so maybe it loses some of the emotional resonance without it. And what the fuck does the word, "deververs" mean? Now I’m not entirely convinced that he’s not retarded.

He rambles on some more about smiling and meeting new people and other stupid shit. And then he says:

i would like to teach high school Social Studies first, then i would like to teach college level pol/sci. then i would like to be a us senator, and maybe president one day.

Oh, yeah, dude. I’m definitely voting for you someday, but after winning the OLHT Mangina Awards your life is all downhill from here.

I hate liers, and i try my best to not lie. When you lie you just make things worst.

Will somebody buy him a goddamn dictionary for Christmas for fuck’s sake? Again, and I'm being completely serious here, is he retarded? I might finally get to experience that feeling people call guilt it I find out I’m making fun of a actual retard.

Im a 23 year old college student. Who is majoring in pol/sci.

I bet he’s minoring in English with a sub-concentration in Spelling, too.

Everybody is beautiful in some different way, that is what makes us human.

No, John, everybody is not beautiful in some way. That’s just what parents say to ugly children.

i drink once in awhile, but most times im the sober cab.

That’s your first mistake, dipshit. Everybody knows that if you’re the first to get drunk you automatically disqualify yourself from being the Designated Driver for the night. And maybe if you drank more you’d be more interesting. Goddamn, I’m so fucking interesting when I've been drinking people can barely stand to be around me.

So I am single

Everybody pick yourself up off of the floor after this news flash.

because females are currently crazy and confusing

If by confusing you mean smart enough not to date you, then, yes we are.

The best way to change your self is to be postive and be happy with yourself, and if not happy do your best to change it. for example if u think yourself as being fat, work out at lifetime fitness you will see me their.

Doesn’t it always make you feel better to be, “postive?” I know I’m postive every time I’m on my way to Lifetime Fitness. I’m postive that John will help me to change my life, and for the postive, too. Glad you're always their. And PS- John, if u think of yourself as being fat then you probably are, in fact, fat.

Ok, I was gonna end it there, but this was too good not to post. It’s a comment left by some girl named Amelia.

hey....yeah so your friend really pissed me off on monday, thats why i'm pissed off. i don't really wanna talk about it, especially with you, you just let him treat me like a dog, and my friends and sister too. so w.e.

Whatever is right, Amelia! I guess John’s nothing but a damn dirty “lier.”

Ok, I’m done now. Seriously.

This Is A Test

2006-06-14T13:27:00.000-04:00

This Is A Test

Boys and girls, let’s play a little game that I like to call, “You’re not as smart as me, but go ahead and give it your best shot, anyway.” This particular musical romp of fun will gauge how well you have been paying attention and how many pearls of wisdom you’ve been able to glean from the sacred text otherwise known as my blog. For this challenge, I’m going to give you current musical headlines that I have unashamedly and unapologetically plagiarized from several unnamed sources and see if you have acquired the skills necessary for an appropriate response to the information. Prizes will be given to those whom I deem worthy.

Tickets sales have been sluggish in many markets right now for the Dixie Chicks tour, “Whores and More Whores” because:

A. They are being penalized for being outspoken in their political views.
B. Music from their latest album, Whores In Music, has been virtually ignored by country music radio stations.
C. Nobody really gives a flying fuck about the political ideology of the goddamn, Dixie Chicks. People avoid their live performances because they sound like shrieking cats in heat.

If you answered C, give yourself 5 points. If you answered A or B then puncture your eardrums and pray for immediate deafness, your hearing is obviously not benefiting you or me in any way.

Korn has been forced to cancel its European tour after singer, Jonathan Davis, revealed that he has been diagnosed with the blood disorder immune thrombocytopenic purpura, which he detected when he noticed bruises all over his body.

Now decide the correct response to his subsequent statement, "If I continue to headbang onstage, I could have a brain hemorrhage and drop dead on the spot.”

A. His death would, indeed, be a musical tragedy of monumental proportion.
B. Planets would collide and the Sun would burn out if the universe was deprived the privilege of another Korn album.
C. How much do I need to pay to get to see him do that onstage?

If you answered, “C” give yourself 5 points. If you answered, “A” or “B” lie in the bathtub and open a vein; you are of no viable use to me. 5 extra bonus points if you were smart enough to know the blood disorder story was complete bullshit and was conceived as a cover to explain the bruising when it’s quite evident that Davis the Douchebag merely got his ass kicked again.

Thom Yorke has announced plans to release a solo album in July.

A. Who's Thom Yorke?
B. Who moved my cheese?
C. Fucking-A! Radiohead are genius! I will be attending the Best Buy midnight candle vigil the night before its release.

Give yourself 10 points if you answered, C, and a good thrashing if you answered, A or B.

Some assclown named, Taylor Hicks, won this season of American Idol.

A. Ooooowheeeeee!!!! I just can't wait to hear what he does in the hands of some skilled producers!
B. He doesn’t seem gay to me at all.
C. I’m so glad to know this information, especially since I purposely avoided watching the show for the entire season and now find that I still know what happened, anyway.

If you answered anything but C, quit considering yourself my friend.

Gavin Rossdale’s band, Institute, sucks ______

A. balls
B. ass
C. Big, fat donkey dick
D. All of the above

If you answered, “D” give yourself 2 points, but, really, there’s no wrong answer here.

James Blunt’s song, “Beautiful” is:

A. One of the best pop songs I’ve heard in years.
B. In fact, beautiful, simply beautiful! I cry a little every time I’m lucky enough to hear it.
C. An insult to people with good taste. I die a little each time I hear it.

If you don't know the correct answer then I refuse to speak to you ever again. 5 points.

US punks, Green Day, were responsible for saving the life of a 12-year old girl this weekend, in a bizarre chain of events.

What is the appropriate response from the girl?

A. Man, I am so lucky. Thank God for Green Day.
B. Green Day are, like, so punk.
C. Goddammit! Why did I have to be saved by those asshole douche bags? I had to be rescued by a band with an album entitled, “Dookie.” Aargh.

The correct answer is, C, and is worth 5 points. If you answered, A or B then may you be violently assaulted by a man named Billie Joe next time you pass the trailer park.

Snow Patrol have cancelled their entire US tour after singer Gary Lightbody failed to recover from laryngitis.

A. That really fucking sucks. I was really hoping to hear another whiny-ass British band sing about their feelings and/or vaginas this summer.
B. Well, at least James Blunt is still touring this summer.
C. Who fucking cares?

If you answered anything but C (5 points) then acknowledge that admitting you need help is the first step.

Jewel has a touring partner in Atlantic labelmate Rob Thomas…

This is a two-part question.

First, what should a tour featuring Jewel and Rob Thomas be called?

A. The Raging Vaginas Tour
B. The How Does My Ass Look In These Jeans Tour
C. Music For 14-Year-Old Girls Tour

This is a trick question- All are viable possibilities.

What would be the benefit of combining their super powers and touring together?

A. When Rob and Jewel get on concurrent menstrual cycles (as girls living together are apt to do) they can split the same box of tampons.
B. Their audience of teenage girls should make them feel intellectually superior.
C. Absolutely nothing good can come of this musical crime against humanity. Satan is rejoicing in the bowels of hell for the musical suckage he has released upon us.

If you answered, C, reward yourself with 10 points and a permission from me to call anyone you know who consider themselves fans of either artist and berate them until they weep.

Now, let’s see how you did!

5,876 – 5,984 Points

Congratulations! You are, in fact, as smart as I am! Consider yourself lucky enough to spend the rest of your life feeling mentally superior to everyone around you.

1,500 – 2,000 Points

Not bad. It’s unsurprising to me that you’re nowhere near as smart as I am, but a noble effort, indeed.

200 - 500 Points

Yeah, thanks for wasting both my time and yours.

Under 200 Points

You might as well start considering a career in Law Enforcement or Glue Sniffing if you’re even able to read this.

If you scored more than 5 points and feel you deserve some sort of prize and/or award in addition to the privilege of getting to read my work; then send $5, an essay of no fewer than 1,000 explaining why you deserve any damn thing anything and a certified copy of your test results to the address below.

My Readers Are Actually Dumber Than I Thought, Inc.
123 Does It Really Matter If I Make Up a Street Address
Chattanooga, TN 37fuckyou2

A Big Fuck You To Bonnaroo

2006-06-11T19:16:00.000-04:00

Well, I am pissed. And I don't mean just a little pissed, too, like when MM "forgets" to use a coaster under his PBR can on my coffee table or when my neighbor, Marty, is fighting with his girlfriend and goes on 3-day benders of listening to goddamn Foreigner. I'm on a level of irritation that is usually only reserved for people who awaken me while I'm sleeping, wear Blink-182 t-shirts or mention Kevin Federline's name. I'm just that pissed.

I blame Bonnaroo for personally fucking me out of finally seeing one of my Top-5 favorite bands of all-time, Radiohead. I was at work dutifully renewing insurance policies, and by dutifully renewing insurance policies I mean surfing the internet and playing with a rubber band ball I had been crafting for about a week, when I came across an online article announcing Radiohead's North American tour plans. I was atwitter with excitement, my little scheming mind already plotting who would loan me money and/or how many assets I would need to liquidate for ticket money, and by liquidating my assets I mean how many dvds and cds I would have to sell. Forget the stock and bond market; my money's tied up in Columbia House and BMG. And if this wouldn't generate enough funds I was fully prepared to start hooking on the street corner. I even asked MM the going rate on hand jobs, surmising this method involved the least amount of time and physical contact while still providing decent money. He just gave me a nasty look and said, "How the hell should I know?" Hookin' ain't easy, bitches.

My financial planning turned out to be a moot point anyway, as I realized with horror that the closest they're coming to Chattanooga is Bonnaroo. Realistically, I had no delusions they would be in Nashville, but I had been banking on Atlanta, as almost every band passes through there on a tour. But, no. The closest place besides Bonnafuckingroo is like 800 miles away and I'd have to give more than hand jobs to finance that kind of a trip.

So fuck me, I'm not going to get to see them because I refuse to go to Bonnaroo. I don't go to Bonnaroo because I like taking goddamn showers and I have better things to do than submerge myself in Hippie-stink for three days. I am not paying nearly $200 to sleep on dirt in 90+-degree weather for 3 days. I'm just fucking weird like that.

I have friends that are going who attempt various angles of enticement. First, they tried evoking a sense of nostalgia for my wilder years, using the old illegal substances angle with claims of excellent crops to be sampled. Please. You think the cops are fucking retards? You don't think they have some idea there might be illegal substances floating around? I live in Tennessee; let me tell you how it works in our great state. The local Barney Fifes of Manchester, TN would like nothing better than to bust some asshole with out-of-town tags with enough fines to fund their annual Lasagna Dinner for the next decade and that particular asshole is sure as shit not going to be me. I'm sure they even have contests to see who can bring in the most out-of-towners and the winner receives a year of free doughnuts or an unsupervised trip to the holding cell with Bubba, the toothless WunderCop.

When that didn't work they tried to appeal to my love for the music community. "But, but…It's like about love and music and being one as a community of listeners," my friend told me. First of all, I assure you that sitting in traffic for 16 hours on a trip that should only take about an hour is not going to get me in the mood to love the neighbors in any community. And, if you are willing to share a tent with me after I have been trapped in a car for that length of time then you are even dumber than I think you are, buddy.

So MM can breathe a hearty sigh of relief; I won't have to whore myself out for ticket money and the only hand job I give will be to him and it probably won't even get me a free dinner at the Sizzler, either. Bonnaroo's legion of damn dirty hippies will writhe around in drug-addled ecstasy to the musical genius of Thom Yorke and I will be stuck sulking at my computer and basking in the joys of soap and water. Fuck you, Bonnaroo- I hope you're content with robbing me of the last remaining pleasure in my life.

More Reasons To Hate The Brits

2006-06-07T22:51:00.000-04:00

Do our neighbors across the Pond look for new reasons to make Americans hate them or do they just want to piss me off specifically? A poll released by the British magazine, NME, lists the Top-20 albums of all time as voted on by their readers, namely tone-deaf British douche bags with bad teeth and an unnatural obsession with Robbie Williams. I can't prove it, but I have a feeling that smug bastard Simon Cowell may have had a hand in this.

I swear to God I knew Oasis would grace the top of the list before I even read it. Only British people even remember who Oasis is much less vote for them for things other than Least Relevant Artists of the Millennium. And, THEY MADE THE GODDAMN LIST TWICE. Really, most of it is just the same tired old shit that appears on every list. And, the British are a patriotic bunch if nothing else, there's only two American bands on the entire list.

Here's the list- I refuse to post the link because it will just provide more traffic on their site and might encourage them to engage in future atrocities like this one.

1. 'Definitely Maybe' - Oasis

Most definitely it is not- not a good album that is. I couldn't provide the name of one song on this album if you had me in a half nelson and were flogging me with a Taking Back Sunday cd. The only amusing part of putting them at the top is the fact that they once claimed that they were better than The Beatles. Apparently, your fellow countrymen agree, Liam.

2. 'Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band' - The Beatles

Goddamn. Can we suck the Fab 4's dicks a little more? Christ Almighty. This album should be immediately disqualified solely because of the album cover. Dress four British men in matching, festively colored silk outfits with flowers in their hair and that’s considered groundbreaking. Dress up four stupid American pussies in matching outfits and you have the Backstreet Boys. Where's the justice?

3. 'Revolver' - The Beatles

See above notation.

4. 'OK Computer' - Radiohead

Ok, I'll give you this one, assholes. Radiohead is fucking genius and if you don't appreciate their brilliance then, “Fuck You.”

5. '(What's The Story) Morning Glory?' – Oasis

Double the pleasure, double the fun, huh? Did their record label or maybe Bush’s henchmen in Florida count the ballots?

6. 'Nevermind' - Nirvana

What is this the token American band for the Top-10? I liked this album. I liked this album about the first 600 times I heard it. And then people started acting like Kurt Cobain was a goddamn prophet and I stopped listening.

7. 'The Stone Roses' - The Stone Roses

I would bet MM's right testicle that you couldn't find 10 people in North America who could name one Stone Roses song. And why would you even want to? The Stone Roses epitomize all that is intolerable about the British: pretentious and whiny.

8. 'Dark Side Of The Moon' - Pink Floyd

Oooh! That's a novel idea! Who would've thought to put that album on a list!! Mentioning Dark Side or The Wall are predictably, safe choices- You’re not going to piss too many people off with either of them. You're just going to piss me off because I like Wish You Were Here better.

9. 'The Queen Is Dead' - The Smiths

The Smiths are a love ‘em or hate ‘em kinda band and I happen to love the hell out of them. This wouldn’t qualify as my favorite album of theirs, but it’s widely accepted as their best. The best thing about putting them in the Top-10 is pissing MM off. Sweet!

10. 'The Bends' - Radiohead

A less obvious choice, I'll give you that. I would've gone with Kid A, but what do I know. I mean, I, unlike the British assholes who voted in this poll, I actually have taste.

11. 'The Joshua Tree' - U2

Motherfucking #11? They didn't even make the Top-5?

12. 'London Calling' - The Clash

One of the few bands that deserves to be on this list.

13. 'The Beatles (The White Album)' - The Beatles

Arguably, the most overblown and over-rated album of all time. And, they didn't just stop at one; they stretched it out to a double-album because God forbid we not include, Piggies or Rocky Raccoon somewhere on there. Beatles' fans get on my nerves as much as any other group of people because they act like if John Lennon farted into the microphone and then recorded it it was some kind of goddamn breakthrough.

14. 'Abbey Road' - The Beatles

I don't think I have anything else left to say about The Beatles. Thanks for hanging out with the band, Yoko.

15. 'Up The Bracket' - The Libertines

You gotta be fucking kidding me. Only about 5 music dorks such as myself even know who this band is and even I couldn't hum along to any of their songs. Just to bring everybody up to speed: You know that druggie douche bag, Pete Doherty, that was boinking Kate Moss for awhile and has gotten arrested for stupid, drug-related shit approximately 78 times? He was the lead singer for the (now defunct) band.

16. 'Never Mind The Bollocks Here's The Sex Pistols' - Sex Pistols

Let's just extend the list of talent less assholes to include the Sex Pistols. If I wanted to listen to a band scream and play the only 2 notes they know out-of-time then I'd listen to my own band play.

17. 'Four Symbols (Led Zeppelin IV)' - Led Zeppelin

No arguments here, although, I think it's funny that British people call it, "Four Symbols" when everyone in the States just calls it ZOSO.

18. 'The Rise And Fall Of Ziggy Stardust And The Spiders From Mars' - David Bowie

David Bowie was a goddamned genius. Moving on.

19. 'A Night At The Opera' - Queen

RIP Freddie. It's a disgrace those British assholes but bands like, The Libertines, before you guys.

20. 'Is This It' - The Strokes

Token American band, number 2. And of all the US bands to chose from, I'll be damned if they didn't pick a shitty poseur Ramone’s wannabe band.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I hope you UK assholes are proud of yourselves and the shitty list you've made.

Who Will Sa-a-ave Her Teeth?

2006-05-26T14:14:00.000-04:00

Let me tell you, dear readers- It’s been a long fucking week. If there was EVER a time to return to nicotine bliss it would be now. I am on Day 8 of a severe cable drought, or as I call it, "Sometimes when you get something for nothing, you just get fucking nothing." I am down to three channels, two of which are ABC. The food supply is growing meager. Soon I may be forced to exist solely on the numerous Long John Silvers' malt vinegar packets that MM has squirreled away in my kitchen (He believes he’s hidden them without my knowledge). Alcohol consumption has increased dramatically (We’ll attribute that to the lack of cable. Yeah, it’s definitely the lack of cable.) Morale has dwindled to an all-time low (This is when the alcohol re-enters the picture- It works wonders for the troops). Tempers are rising (Well, that’s not exactly unusual) and judgment is blurred (No thanks to the alcohol). My friend, Cable, left me on a Monday morning and by Sunday I grew so desperate that I watched a Formula 1 race on television while napping. A weaker person couldn't survive this cable mind fuck (MM, I’m speaking to you).

Why don’t I just call the cable company and have them repair it? Short answer: I’m deathly afraid they’ll revoke my stolen, free cable if they learn of its existence. It's a little known fact that Comcast, my cable company, is run by the same savage beasts as Rolling Stone's subscription department. It also goes out quite regularly and has always reappeared by now. Most likely it will return just as mysteriously as it left- I just half to ride it out until then. I think I miss the infomercials, especially the Time Life Music Collections, the most.

I'm relaying this little story of despair because the absence of available channels has resulted in me viewing various TV programs that I would not normally be inclined to watch (see aforementioned Formula 1 race). During the week I go home at lunch for an hour filled with a Lean Cuisine delicacy and a gripping episode of The Golden Girls or, perhaps, Magnum, P.I. This week my lunchtime television options are The View (And let me just say for the record that Joy Behar woman is a real turbo bitch) and that Tyra Banks show. The goddamned Price is Right won't even come in. I settled for The View, but only because there was a 17-minute commercial for feminine hygiene products on Tyra.

So, if you'll indulge me for a moment, let's ruminate over the profound beauty of her words. Luckily for you readers I've added some helpful explanatory notes in italics.

"Again And Again"

Listen dear

Not even if you made me.

I need you to hear.

No, YOU need to hear this: You fucking suck.

I cannot disappear

Please, please keep trying. I will pay you handsomely.

I've tried again and again and again.

Nobody likes a quitter.

I know we said
That we'd give up

No, I think we gave up… The hope that now you have money you'd get your teeth fixed.

You said we'd had enough
Again and again and again.

No, that was me saying, "Shut the hell up." Again and again and again.

But you, you're always on my mind.

Ooh! Clever! That’s a lyric I’ve never heard before!

It's like this all the time.

What? The itching? The painful discharge? There's medicine for that sort of thing.

Say it's cause you're mine
All mine...

It says so right here in my little pink unicorn diary. I heart Jewel. She's just dreamy!!!

And if you will, I will
Try to let it go.

Please let it go- The restraining order is still in effect.

Just look me in the eye
This is do or die

Can I vote for die? And please let me have a hand in it.

And I will stay in love
'Till you say enough

But it won't really be enough until you say the "Safe Word."

Walk down the street

Careful you’re not chewing gum at the same time. Walking is hard.

Stare at lots of things

Ooh, shiny things!

Do what I should
Try to stay busy

I would suggest amusing yourself with loaded firearms. If we're lucky one might discharge.

Your face is all I see
Again and again and again.

Well, that's lucky for you. Isn't it? I am damn hot.

There is no giving in
There is no giving up in love

There's only giving up the hope that your music might one day cease to suck.

In the darkness I recall
Feeling the beauty and the pain
And when you call my name
Say you feel the same.
I cannot disappear...
I've tried again and again and again...

Obviously, you're not trying hard enough.

…Bob Fucking Dylan she's not….

American Idol: Proof Of The Musical Apocalypse or Proof That Drinking While Writing Does Not Always Increase Your Productivity

2006-05-07T17:55:00.000-04:00

First off, let me begin by offering a sincere apology to my many, many loyal readers who have had to suspend their lives for months awaiting the newest blog entry. You may now safely resume your normal activities. Recently, I have been engulfed in a seemingly endless period of creative bankruptcy, moral decline and a highly disturbing, newfound work ethic.

I also decided I hadn't inflicted nearly enough emotional distress upon myself and initiated a self-imposed Great American Smoke-Out or as I like to call it "How I Made Each Day More Miserable Than The Last." After suffering through weeks of literal hell on the goddamned patch and surviving 3 near heart attacks (The good people at Nicoderm aren't kidding when they advise you not to smoke while wearing the patch), I am finally feeling more like my old self and have resumed my normal state of sarcasm and disdain for the world.

The idea for a piece regarding American Idol came as the result of its mention in an email from one of my loyal followers, Maddie, who lives on in California despite the fact that we Southerners know for sure that the entire state will someday fall into the ocean. Maddie, I just hope you and Joel can get out in time.

As any good writer would do who's approaching an unfamiliar subject, I have, in fact, done an extensive amount of research into American Idol (which will hereby only be referred to as AI, not to be confused with that shitty Spielberg movie, but solely because I'm way too lazy to retype that many letters 50 fucking times). My research is a culmination of the following elaborate scientific methods, which I will detail for my readers in chronological order. I have entitled it, "The Research Process."

The Research Process

1. I sat on the couch with the TV turned off and devoted at least 9 seconds to wondering what day, time and channel AI was broadcast. Most people might have been tempted to actually suffer through watching an entire episode, but I'm far too smart to have to actually watch or listen to something in order to give my opinion about it. If I wanted to be that bored I'd hang out with MM and his friends and listen to them debate the merits of Linux vs. Windows. (The very fact that I even know what Linux is only shows how he has managed to dorkify me over time, but I digress.) I've got better things to do than watching AI, like making macramé purses or watching paint dry.

2. After deciding that watching AI was unimportant, I arose from the couch and made my way to the kitchen to refresh my drink and realized, with utter horror, I was out of Seagram's 7 and was also running dangerously low on Diet Pepsi.

3. I drove to the liquor store and heard Kelly Clarkson on the radio which reminded me that I was supposed to be at home writing about AI. I felt a momentary pang of guilt for not actually writing which quickly passed when I nearly ran over some stupid teenager in the parking lot. After determining (much to my displeasure) he was unhurt and breaking the news to him that I would not contribute to his delinquency by buying him booze I made my purchase and gleefully waived it in his face as I left. If you're going to drink underage then do what any self-respecting future drunk would do: get one of your older friends to buy it or steal it from your parents' liquor cabinet.

4. I returned from the liquor store and commenced to pour another drink when I realized I was hungry. My hunger reminded me of that fat guy from Alabama that won some season of AI and thanked the world by inflicting that unforgivably horrible "I'm Sorry for 2004" song on us. Just thinking about that song made me lose my appetite.

5. I sat down at the computer to write a serious dissertation regarding AI's cultural impact upon the music industry when I had a startling realization that I had left my neon green twisty straw in the kitchen.

6. I returned from the kitchen, and with my very fetching straw securely ensconced in my glass, I sat down with a sincere resolve to do some serious writing. I was going to write the blog piece to end all blog pieces. I laughed maniacally and thought, "After this hits the web and the producers of AI have gotten wind of it they will feel shame and remorse for what they have done to the musical industry. (I have been secretly convinced for some time that the producers are, in fact, closeted readers and use my material as a reference point for good musical taste. They know that people with taste as good as mine are in the small minority and if they want to appeal to the average moron they should embrace all that I hate musically.)

7. I decided to take a break and go smoke a cigarette. I remembered that I don't fucking smoke anymore. I poured another drink- a really, really strong drink and sulked on the back porch for roughly 15 minutes and thought about how much being an ex-smoker sucked ass.

8. With my glass again nearly empty, I noticed one of the ice cubes kind of resembled that tool, Simon Cowell. I started singing, "Simon Cowbell, Simon Cowbell" which for some reason struck me as particularly funny and sent me into a fit of hysterics.

9. Somewhere around this time I must have passed out because I woke up about 2 hours later under the Dining Room table with a Miller High Life (The Champagne of Beers) bottle cap embedded in my forehead. I decided my writing session was over and went to bed.

At Least Mine Is The Head Dork

2006-04-27T00:31:00.000-04:00

Hope For Tomorrow

2006-02-21T10:23:00.000-05:00

Christ on a cracker! How the time has flown! It seems like just yesterday I was sipping a 40oz on the porch and giving mad props to dead Presidents in 2005 and here it is, President's Day 06. I don't know about you people, but President's Day has always had a special place in my little, black heart, just behind Arbor Day and slightly ahead of Be Kind To Kittens' Day. It's the one day I take time out of my busy schedule of griping and hiding in the bathroom at work to reflect on how much better the world will be when I am crowned, President of the Universe. Unsurprising, to anyone who knows me, I have given this a good deal of thought- this is not something you just go and do half-assed. Since I am a veritable genius at delegation, I will, of course, enlist my dutiful minions to do my bidding and take care of all day-to-day matters. I won't have time to bother myself with tiresome issues such as world peace, environmental causes, animal neutering, etc. I'm going to ensure I don't overextend myself by limiting my time to only important issues, namely, musical policing, drinking, general belligerency, and punishing artists who get on my goddamned nerves.

Don't get too excited, my plans for world domination are still in what we call the "developmental stage." You probably wouldn't believe this, but there is an undercurrent of evil, dark forces that are actively trying to thwart my inevitable rise to power. (MM) So until my strategy of world domination reaches fruition, I'm resigning myself to offering the world a mere taste of the bright future that lies ahead. I would entitle my master plan, my Thousand Points of Light, but that's been done before by some other jackass and without making another beer run to the convenience store, I seriously doubt I have the mental stamina to even come up with more than ten. I'm going to simply call it: The Way: The Future is Brighter Since Rachel Is Righter. Here's just a sample of one of the points on my agenda, which is, of course, subject to revision at any time due to any passing whim or when I finish the last of the PBR, whichever comes first. The entire plan will be furthered detailed in subsequent columns.

Dealing with those pesky Canadians and their loathsome musical exports.

Someone remarked to me recently that Canadian musicians make a strong case for the enaction of a death penalty. I generally try to ignore this person's epiphanies, mainly because I feel he may be leading the campaign to block me from world domination, but, in this particular case I think he's right on the money. I mean, let's be honest- At least 99% of the music and musicians themselves that Canada inflicts on us are absolute shit. If it were not for Labatt Blue and its subtle bouquet on the palate or the sweet goodness that is harvested in British Columbia, there's really no need to recognize Canada as anything more than what they really are- an American peninsula. Three examples of their heinous musical exports, if you will:

Chad Kroeger of Nickelback

Now, here is a man so ugly that the very sight of him on tv this afternoon rendered me unable to finish my gourmet lunch of Ramen noodles. Luckily, they were of the nasty shrimp- flavored variety, so it wasn't a great loss, but that's not the point. Somebody should give him the number of that lady's doctor in France who performed the facial transplant. He's probably made buckets of money from album sales to equally ugly white people and with the right amount of financial persuasion and extensive surgery, I think the doctors might have a half-way decent shot of making him appear almost human. If nothing else, maybe they could "accidentally" sever his vocal chords during the process. He's not talented enough to make me ignore his ugliness and Nickelback's music makes me seriously rethink the need for functioning eardrums.

Alanis Morissette

Alanis is the B-grade Fiona Apple for the higher-functioning teen. She is for the deep and mournful 13-year-old girl who cries in her bedroom every night while writing bad poetry and burning vanilla candles, but still manages to make a nightly appearance at the family dinner table. Her fans don't have the ovaries or emotional problems necessary to be as tragic and forlorn as Apple's listeners. Males who listen to her music are even worse; they're either secretly gay or wish they had a vagina, or both. And somebody please buy her a dictionary for Christmas so she can understand the meaning of irony. It's ironic that she wrote a song entirely about irony and never once correctly used an example of irony in the song.

Avril Lavigne

Oh, Avril- Why do you have to go and make things so complicated? Why can't you do us all a favor and fade into obscurity or die or something helpful? I pray that your 15 minutes are almost up and that you would have a tragic on-stage accident and hang yourself with your own necktie. Oh, wait- I think you've stopped wearing those. (I can't even begin to tell you how much the fact that I know this irritates the shit out of me.) Actually, it might be funnier if a disgruntled fan who was really pissed that she had amassed an entire wardrobe of wife-beaters and neckties before you initiated your wardrobe change, broke into your closet and stole one and strung you up, herself. I would pay this person handsomely and even offer them a high-ranking position in my cabinet, maybe Chief Tie-Assassin in the Anti-Canadian division. If my readers don't know by now why her music is the pinnacle of horseshit, then I don't have the intestinal fortitude required to explain it.

I could go on and on, but I’ll just leave it at that for now.

You’d Think That People Would Have Had Enough Of Shitty Love Songs

2006-02-13T17:08:00.000-05:00

Since Valentine’s Day is upon us and there’s a whole shit-ton of insurance-related work that I am ignoring, I felt this would be an ideal time for a special holiday musical list. First, let me say that Valentine’s Day is a lame-ass, bullshit commercial pseudo-holiday perpetuated by a goddamned greeting card company to make single people feel miserable and people in relationships guilty for not buying stuffed bears that play "Unchained Melody." I am probably the only female on the planet who does not give a flying fuck about Valentine’s, however, that did not stop me from exercising my feminine prerogative by making sure my favorite, surly misanthrope asked off for the evening to be with me. It may be lame as hell, but I'll be goddamned if I spend it alone. Don't feel too bad for him, he'll probably get laid.

We’re abstaining from the obligatory gift-buying, but he did mention he was making me a CD for the blessed occasion. Now, knowing him as I do, I have no doubt that the CD will most likely be comprised of horribly inappropriate and offensive songs that will have nothing to do with love, happiness or anything that references any of my endless finer qualities- I would certainly expect nothing less. If he gives me a Time Life "Blissfully In Love" cd and doesn't deliver it with a hint of irony, I'm breaking up with him right there on the spot. If I wanted a cd containing a bunch of Sarah McLachalan songs about crying and delicate reflections on my uterus, I would start dating women. (No, babe- Don't even ask. This does not mean that I'm going to start dating women sheerly for your enjoyment.) Based on the recent onslaught of jewelry commercials and radio station playlists, it has become blatantly obvious how utterly nauseating love songs can be. So, with that in mind, I have comprised a Top-8 list of the shittiest love songs ever recorded. I would say the recipients of this honor are there solely on the basis of my arbitrary opinion, but since we're all aware that my musical opinion is without flaw, you can just go ahead and take it as the truth.

8. I Would Do Anything For Love, But I Won’t Do That- Meatloaf

I hate Meatloaf songs almost as much as I hate the dinner entree. They're both full of a lot of nasty ingredients and are combined into a mushy ball of crap. I've always wondered about this song, though. I mean, what exactly is it that he won't do? She's into autoeroticism or bestiality? He won't pay junkie-hookers to participate in snuff films for her? These are the questions that keep me up at night.

7. I Just Called To Say I Love You- Stevie Wonder

Don’t give me all that horseshit about how it was written for his daughter blah blah blah. If any man sang this to me on the phone I would hang up on him immediately. How can a man who wrote, "Superstition" have sunk to the depths of this crap? It reinforces my theory that all truly great artists' music turns to shit after they have a family. I like my musicians pain-stricken and miserable so they can continue to make music for my personal enjoyment. I don’t think that's asking for too much.

6. You Are So Beautiful- Joe Cocker

A perennial favorite with the schmucky wedding crowd, although why people wish to use a song by a man whose vocals sound like he’s been gargling with gravel and Drano is beyond me. And how can a man whose last name is "Cocker" be so fucking lame?

5. Everything I Do, I Do It For You- Bryan Adams

Anybody who bought the Robin Hood Soundtrack should have their US citizenship immediately revoked. Banish them to the Canadian wilderness and don't allow them to return until their name surfaces to the top of the Nationalized Medicine Organ Transplant list. That should delay their return for a good decade or so. I don't think I even need to offer an explanation as to why this song is on the list; it's Bryan Adams for fuck's sake. I don't think Canadians even claim him anymore.

4. I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing- Aerosmith

This song can be immediately identified as shitty solely on the grounds that it was featured in an even shittier Ben Affleck movie. Musical proof that bands should either abstain from drug use completely or never stop because at some point this is what they're reduced to recording.

3. It’s All Coming Back To Me Now/My Heart Will Go On- Celine Dion

Actually, you can pretty much pick any Celine Dion song and put it on the list. You can immediately tell if someone has shitty musical taste by examining their feelings regarding Celine Dion. True Story- I used to have this boyfriend who was almost as big a music snob as me, and I used to catch him when he thought I wasn’t around listening to her greatest hits album at maximum volume and belting out the lyrics. You'd think I would have seen that as a tip-off, but I was young and stupid and felt I could overlook it. I hadn't realized the essential truth; people with shitty musical taste are usually shitty people and very rarely worth your time. I did, however, manage to destroy his Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin limited-edition box sets before I left. The thoughts of him weeping in despair while drowning in a sea of scratched cds and brutally smashed cases brings a smile to my face to this very day. I'm a girl of simple pleasures- making people I hate suffer is one of them.

2. Right Here Waiting- Richard Marx

There was a time, when every goddamned middle school dance I was forced to attend played this song and Spandau Ballet's "True." I'm not wild about the latter, but it seems to be a less horrifying reminder of that ugly kid with braces who sported a rat tail and a Member's Only jacket who tried to cop a feel right there on the gym floor. Maybe he was overcome by the emotional resonance of the song, I dunno.

1. Tonight, I Celebrate My Love- Roberta Flack

Never has a song about getting it on made me feel less like getting it on. Bottom line: This song is for pussies. I am reminded of a quote from one of my dearly departed Southern humorists, Lewis Grizzard, who said, "Sex is not inherently wrong or dirty, but if you really, really put your mind to it, it can be." This song makes me think of vanilla-scented candles, deep, thoughtful stares and two ugly people "becoming one." Ugh. People that use the expression, "becoming one" obviously have never had good sex. If I wanted to become one with something I would do it alone in the privacy of my own home with only the gentle hum of my vibrator shattering the stillness of the room.

Honorable Mention:

Phil Collins and Billy Joel- 2 artists who have built their entire musical catalog on shitty love songs. 99% of their songs suffer from Shitty-Song Syndrome.

PS- I was going to add a certain song by a particularly loathsome Canadian singer to the list, but one of my loyal readers used it in her wedding several years ago and since I was in said wedding I will act as a model of self-restraint and abstain from further comments. Plus, I would just hate to piss off half my fan base in one fell swoop.

I Am The Voice Of Reason

2006-02-01T16:50:00.000-05:00

Someone actually had the sheer audacity to ask me if I even like music since I spend a good deal of time ridiculing the majority of artists and shrieking at the radio. Well, readers, I'll tell you exactly what I told this person: "Fuck You." I know more about music and have infinitely better taste than roughly 99.9% of the general population and it is, indeed, a terrible burden for me to bear. Trust me people- my life would be a helluva lot easier if I could hear a Kelly Clarkson song on the car radio and ignorantly sing along. Last time I wasn't paying attention and didn’t change the station in time, I found myself welcoming the opening stages of a Grand-Maw seizure and a concussion I sustained after my head slammed violently against the steering wheel, nearly causing me to spill the beer in my hand.

First, let me give some perspective regarding my musical upbringing and the improbability that I managed to rise above it. (If I could do it, I would insert a stirring rendition of “We Shall Overcome” right about now.) Everything I know about music is entirely self-taught. My parents' contribution to my musical education was heartfelt, but highly unhelpful. I reference the 45 (yes, it was an actual forty-five) of Kylie Minoque's version of The Locomotion that they bought me on my 6th birthday. Even then, I remember thinking a 6-year-old's version of "This song really sucks ass," and trying my best to feign gratefulness while checking for a price tag so I could exchange it. I was nobody’s fool, even then.

I tried to rise above the musical mediocrity inadvertently inflicted upon me and did manage to squirrel away a copy of The Animals, "House of The Rising Sun" which I played incessantly upon my blue and white Fisher-Price record player. It wasn't "Dark Side Of The Moon," but it wasn't The Oak Ridge Boys (my parents were big fans), either. The height of my mother's musical Naziness culminated in a dramatic gesture of absconding the aforementioned record and banishing it to the upper shelf of her closet on the grounds that she didn't deem it "age appropriate" for a 5-year-old. Oddly, she found it disturbing that her child was belting out lyrics about a whorehouse in New Orleans. Mothers are funny like that. She attempted to placate my justifiable anger by assuring me that it would be returned to me when she determined it more suitable. She then allegedly lost the damn thing in a move, but to this day I feel certain she has it hidden somewhere in the house and is keeping it from me just to be hateful. Considering the musical trauma I suffered at such an early age, it's amazing I have even an ounce of musical taste.

Where in the hell is this going, you might ask? It leads me back to my original point somewhere in a preceding paragraph that I have better taste than you and I want to make sure you fully appreciate it considering the musical bankruptcy of my childhood. I, loyal readers, have appointed myself as your musical conscience. So, in the spirit of my newfound benevolence, I'm going to give 3 bands/artists that you should automatically hate just because they get on my nerves and I told you so.

The Pussycat Dolls

I never thought I'd say this, but this is a group that somehow manages to make the Spice Girls seem talented. If not for music videos, this band would never have received a recording contract, but the geniuses at the label must have been banking on an inevitable onslaught of MTVtastic video tit-baring and ass-shaking. Men are fucking dumb enough to buy albums made by hot women sheerly because hot women make them. (I've been known to have this same affliction regarding Lenny Kravitz, but that's not the point.) Women will buy this album because there's a lot of fucking stupid women out there. "Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me?" is not empowering, it’s just whorish and probably the theme song of every strip club in America. I can go to the neighborhood titty bar if I want to watch whores lip-sync.

Uncle Kracker

Every time I hear his name I always think of that South Park song and a wide smile stretches across my face as I sing, "Shut Your Fucking Mouth Uncle Fucker." And then my smile quickly fades as I realize it's just that talentless fuckwit, Uncle Kracker. This is a man who is the seminal embodiment of everything I loathe about Redneck culture: Budweiser, Nascar and Jeff Foxworthy jokes. He probably says "Git R Done," too. From his name, I’ve always imagined him as the horrible warlord of a trailer park, a combination of some sort of crime boss and white trash dictator. "You can't empty that there chemical toilet behind the tire pile without getting it approved by Uncle Kracker, first.” Or, “Uncle Kracker sets the crank prices around here, boy- if you want to deal in this park you have to go through him.” And, if I wanted to listen to someone who had zero guitar skills and a voice that ranged from horribly flat to noticeably off-key, I would listen to an album that I recorded myself.

James Blunt

No, this is not the newest Hemp Crime fighter, but rather the annoying little bastard who sings that “Beautiful” song. If you’ve watched MTV once in the last month or listened to most any radio station, then you’re familiar with it. Its chorus goes:

You're beautiful. You're beautiful.
You're beautiful, it's true.
I saw your face in a crowded place,
And I don't know what to do,
'Cause I'll never be with you.

You know why she’ll never be with you, fucko? You sing whiny-ass bullshit to her like this. His voice sounds like Jon Mayer sucking on helium. It’s got that same, “I sound like I have a mouthful of shit” quality to it, but it’s higher pitched and annoyingly British. He’s also taken a page from the Fiona Apple School of Video Production and chosen to look especially sad and pensive while thoughtfully removing each article of clothing he’s wearing- Apparently losing your girlfriend necessitates that you lose all your clothing, as well. I hope she left you for another woman, you twat. The only nice thing that I can say about him is at least he’s not an American, we have provided enough embarrassment for ourselves by producing the likes of the above two.

That’s all for now. Being this mean is horribly draining and TRL is coming on in a few minutes.

Death Be Not Proud, But It Can Be Entertaining

2006-01-26T14:13:00.000-05:00

At work this morning, I was, as usual, ignoring any work-related duties and began thumbing through the latest copy of that vile publication, Rolling Stone, when I chanced upon a wee article about my favorite Pseudo-Messianic douche bag, Scott Stapp. Well, actually, I was reading it online due to the fact that I never paid the renewal bill and they’ve stopped sending it. They’re very mean-spirited in that way, without an ounce of loyalty to a long-time subscriber-But, I digress. The article is entitled: Scott Stapp’s Fall From Grace. Normally, I would automatically bypass any mention of Stapp or Creed, but it was a slow day at work, and by slow day I mean I had been using the empty Diet Coke cans scattered on my desk into constructing intricate reproductions of famous landmarks for a good two hours (My crowning moment being an exact replica of the Arc de Triomphe) and it had started to feel tedious and emotionally taxing. Plus, the damned aluminum cans kept falling and I was beginning to elicit suspicious looks from the management, so I decided to take a break and do a little light reading.

First line:

The day Scott Stapp decided to kill himself, his band, Creed, was the most popular rock act in the country.

Now, immediately, this article had my full attention- mention the words, “Scott Stapp” and “killing himself” in the same sentence and I’m all ears. Perhaps, my incessant bitching about the shitty content of Rolling Stone had not fallen upon deaf ears. If this publication would assist Scott Stapp in killing himself or at least report the lovely and glorious details, then I’m nominating Jann Wenner for a goddamned Nobel Peace Prize in Journalism AND I promise I will mail a check for the balance on my account-soon, really soon. THIS would be quality fucking journalism, my friends. These are the stories that, I, the average reader want to hear. Don’t tell me about the newest Kelly Clarkson album; give me the sordid details on a celebrity who gets on my nerves who has the good sense to take his or her own life. (Take a hint, Gwen)

I was so overcome with glee; I probably stopped reading after about the 8th word and drifted off into a private fantasy-world complete with images of torture and decapitation, culminating in his body being ravaged by a pack of wild dogs. It couldn’t be something quick and painless, after all, the mental anguish he personally inflicted upon me by ensuring that “Arms Wide Open” was played a minimum 86 times a day on the radio was more than enough reason to make him suffer, too. But, his death couldn’t be too tragic, either. He’s only about a hop, skip and a jump from self-proclaimed martyrdom anyway and something noble or heroic might just open him up to Sainthood. So, no baby saving and no burning-building rescues. If this backfires on me (no pun intended) and I have to witness a rampant outpouring of grief, I might as well put the gun to my own head.

Once dead, it would be a time for celebration; families should be reunited, flags should be flown. Tailor your activities, as you deem appropriate. Fire up the gas grill and barbecue Creed cds with that zesty lighter fluid marinade you’ve been meaning to use. Put on your black, pleather pants and stained wife-beater and grease yourself down like a pig or one of those sweaty Italian people in the Sopranos and stand on the front lawn with your arms “Wide Open” in a most Christ-like pose and ask someone to pour a bucket of water over you while you try to perfect your best tortured soul pose. Give that special loved-one a call that you stopped speaking to after you saw them wearing a Creed t-shirt. It’s a time for new beginnings and healing.

I tore myself away from my death fantasies and celebratory planning and continued reading.

Stapp himself, though, had become the most hated man in rock.

Had truer words ever been spoken, I ask you?

Stapp had also alienated his band mates with increasingly erratic behavior.

I’m going to assume this was some sort of typo and assume that by “erratic” the author really means “dickish.”

The Weathered tour had ended with a disastrous concert in Chicago, during which Stapp had been visibly intoxicated, at one point lying on his back in the middle of a song. Stapp admits now, "I don't even recall doing that show."

See? You know your show is fucking terrible when your lead singer has to get shit-faced drunk and black out so even he won’t recall it.

…He’d been drinking heavily and had become addicted to Percocet.

If I were Scott Stapp I, too, would drink heavily and regularly pilfer items from the medicine cabinet just to try to numb myself to the painful realization that I was a first-rate, pretentious asshole.

Once home, he quit all drugs, cold turkey.

I almost stopped reading here. The only time I could picture him as even mildly entertaining would be in conjunction with some bat-shit crazy drug stories, like he ate a Christmas tree or severed his testicles in a tragic (but, still funny) scrotum-piercing accident.

And the words I’ve waited all my life to hear him say:

"I wanted to end my life."

Now, by this point in the article I lost all self-control. I was a woman possessed; dancing and frolicking around my cubicle like a Republican with a new Supreme Court nominee while ignoring my co-workers who were giving me strange looks.

He'd become convinced that everyone involved with the band wanted him to die.

Apparently, the other band members were fans of my work. Sweet!!!

The article went on to recant stories of him drinking and playing with his assault-rifle collection. I had to get a glass of water and take a mild sedative to be able to continue reading; my excitement was palpable.

And, then it actually hit me- it was all written in the past tense. Reality hit me solidly in the face, sort of like the time I broke the 100-foot stipulation of the restraining order Gwen had against me and Gavin’s bodyguards, Neil and Bob, had bludgeoned me in the face with Institute cds stuffed in a monogrammed Hello Kitty pillowcase. Everything was not Zen on that particular day, I assure you. If he had, in fact, committed suicide, no doubt, my in-box would have already been flooded with thousands of congratulatory emails from friends and family members by now.

So, I stopped reading; I couldn’t muster the strength to continue and face the imminent disappointment. It was merely a cruel joke perpetuated by Rolling Stone, one that tugged mercilessness upon my little heartstrings and gave me hope- Hope for a douche bag’s demise. I’m not even going to post the link to the article- if you want to be as disappointed as me then go look it up your damn self. I’m going to hide in the bathroom and sulk.

PS, Jann- I may have sent the check, but I “forgot” to sign it.

2006 Wish List and 2005 Reflections

2006-01-09T21:20:00.000-05:00

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.

Emo: Punk For Pussies

2005-12-19T16:00:00.000-05:00

Direct your attention to the picture on the right. If you are not immediately appalled and sickened by their artificial cuteness, then leave this site immediately, I have nothing more to say to you. If you recognize someone in this photo or are, in fact, in the photo, then keep on going- These may be the most important words you will ever read:

RICHARD HELL. RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICCCCCCHARD HELLLLLL. RICHARD HELL RICHARD HELL RICHARD HELL RICHARD HELL RICHARD HELL RICHARD HELL RICHARD HELL RICHARD HELL RICHARD HELL.

MORISSEY. THE CURE. ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOBERT SMMMMMMMMMMMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTTTTHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

BAUHAUS.

BAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUSSSSSSSSSS. PIXIES PIXIES PIXIES PIXIES PIXIES PIXIES PIXIESsssssssssssSSSSSSS

That was, of course, the chorus to the greatest emocore song ever written, entitled "Somebody's just stolen my limited-edition Harry Potter book and used it to beat my kitten to death and stuffed the tiny corpse full of scabs and soft-serve angst and made me sell the corpse to 'The Man' and all I got was this limited-edition TShirtHell Authentic Mildly Offensive T-shirt."

For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about, my apartment has recently become infested with these little urchins we call emo kids (pronounced: eeeh-mo kids). I'm being forced to house them as part of Tennessee's effort to help the victims of Hurricane Katrina. (The emo kids weren't actually displaced by the hurricane, but have not been able to work since the flood, due to their 'xtreme hardcore empathy' and 'collective white guilt' and 'Mom stopped paying for my Shell card.')

Essentially, all emo kids are generic copies of the same creature. (Like roaches. Adorable, anorexic roaches.) An emo person can be easily identified if you know their characteristic trademarks. These little urchins are typified by a particularly bad style of dress and exceedingly poor taste in music, namely emo music. Now, I know the photo shown above may be a bit misleading. Contrary to popular belief, all emo kids may not be as ugly as the two in the photo.

The number one sign that someone is an emo kid is their bad hair. They have a slightly different take on the hair spray revolution of the 80's. Back then, you teased your hair into utter submission, leaving virtually no hair follicle out of place. Emo kids want to give the appearance of looking as if they arose from the dumpster that afternoon, feeling so sensitive and emotionally overwhelmed that they just didn't have the fortitude necessary to raise their skinny, pale arms and slag a hairbrush through their coiffure. The truth about their rockin' new 'do's, however, is that they use enough hair products to make the members of Flock of Seagulls rife with envy. Their hair is artfully messy, because it shows those of us who actually brush our hair how cutting-edge they really are. "Take that, you stupid hair brushers! I'll show you!"

The second clue that you have an emo kid on your hands is their attire. They spend countless dollars on their wardrobes with the sole intention of appearing homeless. They swathe themselves in expensive, designer jeans that are made for pre-teens, allowing them to eat only delicious laxatives and other authentic Emo cuisine such as Laxatives On Toast and Laxatives In A Hole and Laxative Gumbo Swirl. Their retro-looking t-shirts are a minimum two sizes too small and bear the names of bands who either haven't sold a record in 25 years or ones who are sooooo cutting-edge that the record execs, like, totally don't understand them. They also have an odd penchant for wearing clothes that are horribly inappropriate for the current season. I live in the South, where the temperature in the summer routinely reaches over 90 degrees; sane people wear fewer articles of clothing during these times. Emo kids will continue to wear their wool sweaters and scarves and their cute little striped knit caps during heat waves.

I can live with the horrible fashion statement, but I refuse to even mildly tolerate their attitudes in general, which flow right into their shitty music. I think the term, Emo, is short for, "Emotionally Pussified." They want to make artful music that speaks from their heart and write lyrics about how they felt that day their little kitten, Pepper, got gang-raped by the neighborhood dogs. And when they're not writing about the sex life of a family pet, they're whining about their feelings or their unrequited love for another emo kid--similar to a kitten's sex life, but with more yarn balls. Emo takes some of the best aspects of punk music, disillusionment with the establishment and rebellion, strips it of all the rage and fury and reduces it to a primitive level of self-pity.

If I can convince at least one emo kid of the error of their ways and make Dashboard Confessional sell one fewer album then I feel like my time on this planet has been well spent. If I can't convince them, then hopefully I can at least make people hate them as much as I do and bitch-slap them upon first detection. And, you've gotta try it at least once, nothing will brighten your day like making one of the little fuckers cry like a girl.

*editing, additional content, and emotional distress provided by MM

More emo fun courtesy of JC (no, not that JC):

http://www.vidking.com/viewvideo.php?id=515

U2 Pics from 11/19 Atlanta Show

2005-12-04T23:04:00.000-05:00

Fiona Apple and your tiresome fans, How I hate you...Let me count the ways...

2005-11-30T22:15:00.000-05:00

Dearest Fiona:

I'm on to you. Don't think for a second that your transparent little gloom and doom game is fooling me or anyone else who is not a 13-year-old girl. I knew you were a fake the first time I was unfortunate enough to accidentally see the music video for "Criminal." You tried to look like a homeless person the director found doing smack in the stalls of the Greyhound bus station restrooms and then paid you $5 to strip down to your underwear and writhe around on the floor while mouthing your trite, little lyrics. But, unfortunately for you, I could tell that the bruises were a little too strategically placed and came from the hand of a makeup artist. It was obvious you were trying way too hard to look like a crackwhore- you should've been taking your cues from Courtney Love on that one, she has looking like a crackwhore down to a science.

I don't care that you pretend like you're bat-shit crazy and have meltdowns during awards shows and interviews. Honestly, that's the only time when you verge on being moderately interesting. I enjoy seeing a nice Mariah Carey-esque breakdown just as much as the next girl, but you're not even overly convincing. I'll even admit I'm only slightly annoyed by the fact that you are a vegan (which, in itself, is vaguely irritating) and did record a message on PETA's hotline urging people not to eat turkeys on Thanksgiving. If Sting can save the rain forests, I guess you can lend your support to saving domestic fowl from the Butterball factory. Somehow, though, the plight of the turkey, one of the dumbest creatures on the planet, seems to make protecting- Oh, say, several million trees, totally pale in comparison. PS- You might get more guests at the holiday dinner table if you'd stop serving that Tofurkey garbage, but maybe that's just me.

My main problem with you is not even music-related. I think your wounded and tortured artist bit is an utter sham. If I thought you were legitimately wounded and/or tortured I would wholeheartedly pledge my undying support. I might even be convinced to join the "Free Fiona" movement, but let's not push it. What really chaps me is that you've built your entire career around the art of displaying tragic and forlorn looks to the camera. Looks that have always reminded me of how my cat looked that time my Dad backed over him with his car in our driveway.

I'm still confirming this with my sources, but I have evidence to expose you as the fraud that you are. You didn't grow up in New York City with your little show business roots. You were not an emotionally disturbed teen. I don't buy into all those years of extensive psychotherapy and treatments. I don't think any of your despair or anguish is authentic or genuine. I think you're boring and normal and completely ordinary and this routine is a carefully planned façade.

Your real name is Sunshine O'Grady. You were born and raised in a hippie commune in Phoenix, Arizona. Your record collection consists entirely of The Mamas and The Papas, Peter, Paul and Mary, and The Carpenters. I know for a fact that your favorite color is pastel pink, not black. Your bedroom is decorated with rainbows and unicorns and your favorite movie is Jerry Maguire just because of that fucking, "You complete me" horseshit line which, no doubt, sends you into a flood of tears each time it's uttered. You're no sexual freak. You are, in fact, still a virgin and you've been wearing a Promise Ring that your childhood boyfriend gave you after you let him get to "second base" with you that time when your parents were out-of-town at the James Dobson conference in Omaha.

So, don't give me that pained stare behind those blank, Dan Quayle eyes and expect me to believe the lie you continue to perpetuate. You are nothing more than a marketing strategy that some record exec devised after reading Girl, Interrupted back in 1994. You don't appeal to the chronically depressed and alienated; you appeal to the people who want to pretend like they're chronically depressed and alienated. You may have duped the teenage girls and stupid males who comprise your fan base, but I know the truth and I'm not buying into your fabricated pain and mental afflictions story. I have seen the face of crazy, my friend, and it is most certainly not you. As Jack Nicholson's character said in As Good As It Gets, "Sell crazy someplace else, we're all stocked up here."

Sincerely,

A Concerned Friend

PS- You wouldn't happen to have Paul Thomas Anderson's number lying around anywhere, would you?

Institute Sucks Balls

2005-11-28T17:18:00.000-05:00

As many of you know, I attended the U2 shows in Atlanta a couple of weeks ago. More will come on that (It kicked ass, btw) after I upload my pictures. But first, I'd like to take a moment to personally advocate the removal of the opening band, Institute, and actively encourage my readers to aid me in a grass roots letter writing campaign to have Gavin Rossdale neutered and sold to gypsies.

Now, I know the real question on everybody's mind is, "Why did you sit through their so-called performance? Why not do what every other self-respecting music fan would have done and gotten drunk off your ass and screamed insults and obscenities from your seat?" It's a valid question, granted, and there were a few factors. First, I was some two-hours away from home and had to drive back that night, so drinking myself silly was not a great idea. Secondly (and probably more importantly), I don't think I could have gotten a flask of anything past security and the drink prices were damned near astronomical. I think even Budweiser was in the neighborhood of $8 or the promise of a major organ. Most importantly, however, I had paid a lot of money for the tickets, not to mention the fact that I hadn't seen them in four years- There was no way I was missing any of U2's set by spending most of the night in the line to the women's restroom.

Just to preface the tirade that is about to ensue; in Institute's defense, they really did try. I'll give 'em a big solid "E" for effort, but that doesn't begin to make up for the 2 hours of my life they wasted.

Due to the ineptitude of the Philips Arena staff, it took nearly an hour to get past security and into the venue on the first night which made me miss about half of Institute's set. In retrospect, I realize now that perhaps they were actually doing me a favor and I should have slipped them a couple of bucks in gratitude. I got down there much earlier on Saturday and decided since I had nothing better to do I might as well listen. I really kept an open mind while I listened. (Insert Laughter) That's a complete lie and I won't even pretend that I gave them half a chance. Come on, they've been relegated to opening- band status; even they know they suck.

Mr. Stefani's band played about an hour each night, which was roughly 59 1/2 minutes longer than anyone should be forced to tolerate listening to them. If you remember Bush's music at all, you have a pretty good idea of what Institute sounds like. Institute's even worse, though, because they are trying like hell (unsuccessfully, I might add) to branch into a heavier sound. This alleged heavier sound basically consists of turning up the volume on Gavin's guitar so we can hear both of the chords he's been learning and adding some moron from the band, Helmet, whose name I'm too lazy to bother Googling. And really, the only moderately redeeming quality of Bush was the fact that although they also sucked balls, at least they could write a fairly catchy chorus. It wasn't particularly good, but you might find it stuck in your head if you didn't change the radio station fast enough. Rossdale is, undoubtedly, taking his writing cues from Eddie Vedder and has decided that good songwriting entails that you never once write a discernible chorus or anything resembling a melody. Their music manages to simultaneously be loud and boring at the same time, a feat normally only reserved for the likes of Nickelback or Linkin Park. If I ever run out of Sominex at night, I'm switching to a stiff dose of Institute to lull me into slumber.

Although, their music is comically pathetic, their real downfall comes as a direct result of their British pansy of a lead singer's stage antics. As he vigorously strummed his made-to-look vintage guitar, his faced wracked with angst and mock-fury, he would run his hand through his long, flowing locks, which invariably sent the fourteen-year-olds females into a fit of teenage hysteria. It's kind of sad when a 38-year-old man's entire fan base is composed of the overflow from his wife's middle school devotees. And probably only the 7th-graders like Institute; by the time you get to 8th-grade you've figured out how lame they really are and have moved on to, like, way better people, like, you know, Kelly Clarkston.

After showcasing his lack of guitar prowess he switched to a hand-held microphone and proceeded, much to my horror, to quite literally, skip around the entire ellipse that encompassed the stage. Unless you're the age of four or in a production of Guys and Dolls, I am of the opinion that males should never skip under any circumstances. He's even failed to master the art of the macho rock n' roll fist-pumping gesture and I didn't see any devil's horns thrown even once. His hand gestures are more akin to flailing his arms in the air and looking like he was trying to sprinkle the audience with magic pixie dust or glitter he stole from little Gwenie's Hello Kitty makeup bag. Perhaps, one of the more disturbing parts of the performance came at the end when in some sort of creative fury he climbed atop one of the speakers and began to voraciously hump it, I'm sure causing Michael Stipe to faint outright in his box seat. The real show-stopper, however, came during the last song when Gavin resumed his Townshend impersonation and lifted his guitar high above his head and acted as if he was going to smash it. I admit, the possibility of destruction makes me a tad giddy, so when the little wimp didn't even have the chutzpah to actually do it, I was inconsolable in my seat.

Dear readers, I implore you to get out your pen and paper and join me in the fight to end this music travesty.

PS- Please don't buy that damned Gwen album, either. It sucks balls, too.

Who Moved My Chee- I Mean, Glow-Sticks?

2005-11-16T15:00:00.000-05:00

Madonna: Confessions from a dance floor
Rating: 6.1

I'm going to get right to the point on this review. I believe your reaction to the album's title will completely dictate what you think of the album, itself. If you find yourself squealing with delight at the thoughts of an entire Madonna dance club album, stop reading this and head straight to your nearest Best Buy and pick up a copy. If you either aren't overly enthralled with dance music in general or you believe that ol' Madge lost all music relevancy years ago, don't even think about purchasing this album and continue reading. This album serves as the perfect safety net for her because she won't lose any loyal fans, but at the same time, she won't gain any new ones either. This cd is not going to change your mind if you didn't like club music or Madonna already.

The first single, "Hung Up," is probably the best of the bunch and samples Abba's "Gimme Gimme Gimme (A Man After Midnight). Actually, the album kinda had me going through about the first three tracks. By the fourth, "Future Lovers," I was bored. The album flows pretty seamlessly from track to track, and therein lies the entire problem- every song sounds virtually the same. Honestly, I kept having to check the track listing to see if I was still on the same song. Now, perhaps, sitting at your desk at the office may not be the ideal setting for listening. I'm sure if you're throwing a party you can forego a DJ entirely and just let the CD play without interruption. That's fine and dandy; everybody needs a good party CD in their collection. But, unless you're on the payroll as a dancer at the gay club, you're probably doing more things than spinning around the dance floor with your pacifier and glow sticks and are, in fact, listening to music outside a club/party setting. And, come on, who really believes that Ms. Ciccone is still hanging out with twenty-somethings on the dance floor these days? And if she is, I think she might need to take an extra Kabbalah class or two.

Most of my disappointment in this album is in the lyrics, though. Apparently, Madge did at least have the good sense (particularly sense she co-wrote the majority of the songs) not to print the lyrics in the CD insert. There are very few lyrical gems here, and most of it is fairly insipid, actually. Here's the opener from "I Love New York":

I don't like cities
But I like new york
Other places make me feel like a dork
Los Angeles is for people who sleep
Paris and London
Baby you can keep

Vocally, she sounds just fine. I can't tell a noticeable difference between her vocals now than ten or fifteen years ago. It's hard to say if that is because she hasn't lost any vocal range or if it's because she and her co-producer, Stuart Price, have processed the hell out of it. The music is completely electronically generated, there's nary a trace of anything resembling an actual instrument.

So, if you're looking for a mindless dance cd with some good beats that you can listen to at the club, on the way to the club or adoringly dreaming of the club; then by all means purchase this cd. If you expect a little depth, look elsewhere. There's a line in the third track, "Sorry" that's chorus says "I've heard it all before." Yeah, after hearing this cd I kind of feel like I have.

Top-5 Most Revered, Yet Most Over-Rated Bands: Just Because You're A Veritable Icon Doesn't Make You Exempt From My Wrath

2005-11-10T21:58:00.000-05:00

1. The Beatles

I can hear the collective gasp emitted from my readers even as I type this, and trust me, my little fingers are quivering with fear above the keyboard. I will, no doubt, be cast to the lowest bowels of music hell for uttering such sacrilege towards the Holy Beatle Nation, whose members will most certainly flood my in-box with poorly-worded death threats and accusations regarding my mental stability. The truth is just too much for some people, I suppose. I will fully concede the fact that The Beatles had definable moments of brilliance in their rather substantial body of work. But, for every, While My Guitar Gently Weeps, there are ten of Rocky Raccoon; and anybody that tells you to your face that they actually like Rocky Raccoon is a damned, dirty liar and should not be trusted.

Most annoyingly, people seem to think that name-checking The Beatles either as a musical influence or a personal favorite lends them some sort of added level of credibility. Ask ten Beatles' fans to name 5 albums and I bet you the majority couldn't give you 3. At least John Lennon and George Harrison, the two moderately interesting members, had the good grace to just die. Nowadays, we're stuck with that useless fossil, McCartney, until probably sometime into the next century, where he will no doubt still be whoring himself out for $300 a ticket and singing When I'm 64 at the age of 108. I'd like to slap that silly little smirk off his face and if I didn't think he could afford a legal team that would make O.J. weep with bitter envy I would, too.

2. Marilyn Manson

I'll admit it, initially, I found his antics and persona mildly entertaining. At least his shtick seemed a bit different than whatever crap was populating the Billboard charts. And then I found out his name was Brian Warner and realized that he was just another one of those loser kids in high school who wore pentagrams and Pantera t-shirts and stood in the shadows practicing looks of anger and self-loathing. Rather quickly, after the initial shock had worn off, even the unwashed masses realized that without his shock-factor he was still that same kid hiding behind the lockers in his trench coat. You know you've hit rock-bottom when you have to resort to looking like an androgynous robot in order to get people to pay attention to you. Bowie beat you by 25 years, moron, and at least he did it with a bit of style and panache.

3. Phish

I must be the only self-proclaimed Deadhead who loathes Phish and thinks that Trey Anastasio is about as relevant to music as Dick Cheney's grocery list. Whether you like the Dead or not, you have to admit they were excellent musicians. Trey and the boys (I mean really, can you name one other member?) sound like they just bought their instruments from the pawn shop last week and are still on Chapter 1 of their "Guitar For Dummies" instructional guide. Insipid, would be a generous word for the lyrical content and I unequivocally refuse to advocate any band whose song titles include Scent Of A Mule and Dog Faced Boy. I'm guessing they're attempting to be witty and clever, however, they always sound like a bunch of Dungeons and Dragons nerds who got together to make jokes about their little 6-sided die. It's only funny to a very few.

4. Blondie

I'm sure I'm now gonna take some heat from the Blondie fans as well, but unlike the disgruntled Manson fans who are, in fact, probably hiding a semi-automatic weapon beneath that trench coat, I'm not particularly frightened by you people. You're probably in your late forties anyway, and think that $2,000 seems reasonable for a chance to hear The Eagles play Hotel California for the 7 billionth time. If music has taught us anything, it's that white people should never attempt to rap. A fact sorely ignored and later solidified by the advent of Vanilla Ice. People use words to describe Blondie such as "innovative" and "ground-breaking." I just see a woman with a penchant for ill-fitting clothing and a band who was at the right place at the right time. They would have most certainly stoned that woman if she had started her off-key warbling career south of the Mason-Dixon line. Rapture is no Freebird, my dear readers, I'll tell you that. Yee-haw!

5. Green Day

They have an album entitled Dookie that hasn't a trace of irony that can be found anywhere on it. Surely, that should be enough to have them drawn and quartered right there. Billy Joe Armstrong is most certainly the name of a man conceived in an illicit trailer park somewhere in the back woods of southern rural Alabama. The fact that he was actually a little poseur-kid from California is inexplicable, yet far more irritating. I would have much preferred the former as at least it would have given a completely different meaning to the song, Nimrod. Most likely because it would have described his father or brother or, hey this is Alabama- his father/brother. Far worse than Armstrong's name is his legion of fans. You know you're in trouble when even your own fans turn against you. All the little psuedo-punk kids who championed them when they were virtual nobodies, chastised them when they became uber-famous, have now hailed the advent of their new album as the second-coming of Punk music. Punk music, my ass. Just because you pretend to thumb your nose at the establishment and wear a bit of eyeliner and spike your well-coiffed hair doesn't make you punk. Listen to any album by Bad Brains or Operation Ivy and then talk to me about punk, my little deluded friends.

6* No Doubt

I'm not even going to point out the obvious and explain their place on the list as I figure most people pretty well know my feelings on the subject by now.

Shameless Filler

2005-11-09T11:00:00.000-05:00

Ok, so my friend Gina has deluded me into thinking that I can enter the National Novel Writing Month's contest and write a 50k novel by the end of November. So, pardon me if the content is a bit thin until December. Here's an email I composed yesterday during a 3 hour boring-ass meeting I attended against my will...

As I was in the lovely and historically significant Read House this morning to attend a 3-hour meeting I had completely forgotten about (until a frantic call came in from the office wondering where the hell I was) I decided to make use of my time during said meeting by composing for you the Mother of All Top-10 Lists.

I call it......*pause for dramatic emphasis*

TOP 10 REASONS WHY RACHEL IS THE FUCKING SHIT (in no particular order, of course)

1. Rachel has an in-depth, working knowledge of computer audio systems, including, but not limited to, all functions regarding the mute button. Phil Spector ain't got nothing on me, baby. Wall of Sound, my ass. (Upon further reflection, I realized that no one would actually get this reference except for the person for whom the email was intended, so I thought a quick explanation was in order. I had lost sound on my notebook for weeks and couldn't figure out why. It was brought to my attention by my ever-faithful personal tech guru that I had, in fact, had it on mute the entire time.)

2. Rachel's proven track-record of reliable bookkeeping and financial and data records management has made her a virtual pioneer in the field of safeguarding important information. Her system, which she has ingeniously entitled, "File 13: If I Can't Find It, It's Probably Gone For Good" is utilized by major accounting firms and data records services all over the world.

3. She consistently wins the Insurance Purgatory's Punctuality Award. People who facilitate the upkeep of the Greenwich Mean Time system routinely call upon her to confirm the correct time by her diamond-encrusted Timex IronWoman watch.

4. She is a model of restraint and self-control regarding acquisitions and purchasing of "life enhancing products." i.e. Spaceage Polymer Material featured on an Infomercial at 4 a.m.

5. She has devastatingly green eyes and an odd penchant for being attracted to grumpy, disgruntled convenience store clerks full of irony and biting sarcasm.

6. Rachel is quite capable of being able to walk AND chew gum simultaneously, a trait rarely seen in the enchantingly blonde species.

7. Rachel is up for several awards this year, most importantly, she is rumored to be the leading candidate in the Cleanest and Most Sanitary Car Award. The startling number of Camel Bucks found in the floorboards alone, has enabled her to put a rather substantial down payment on a summer home in the Vineyard.

8. She has an overactive, yet highly entertaining imagination that ran rampant during the aforementioned meeting and resulted in the construction of an elaborate meeting escape plan involving a pencil eraser, two unsuspecting, mildly Autistic Mexicans and a Brazilian bikini-wax kit.

9. Rachel can attend a 3-hour meeting about, well, whatever it was about, and manage to appear to be furiously take notes while actually composing inane Top-10 lists.

10. Rachel's just da shit, baby.

Why Sing It When You Can Spell It? Gwen Stefani Advocates Fruit In Your Diet, Correct Spelling and Shitty Songwriting

2005-10-25T10:06:00.000-04:00

You know, I was thinking about contemporary music the other day and I was suddenly struck with the notion that there seems to be something missing. I thought long and hard, wracking my oft-abused brain for what it could be. Was it lyrical content? Maybe, but, there are still a few decent songwriters out there. Was it dope-ass rhymes dropped like it's hot to a funky-ass, crunked-up beat? Nah, there's plenty of that going around. It wasn't until perusing the produce aisle of the local Piggly- Wiggly that it really struck me. As I gazed downward at a piece of overpriced fruit, it suddenly hit me. Planets collided, the earth shook, the Red Sea may have parted when my epiphany overtook me. "There's not enough songs about fruit and their correct spelling" I shrieked, startling two nearby soccer moms and a large man with no teeth who was spending an inordinately large amount of time squeezing cantaloupes in the melon section.

Fuck the Florida orange juice commercials- Dole produce and the National Spelling Bee have Gwen Stefani. Not only does Gwen advocate adding fruit to your diet, she also spells the shit for you. Maybe you heard the song "Hollaback Girl" and became confused initially. Was she talking about oranges? Was that a kumquat she referenced? And that's when Gwen lays it all out for us, so crystally clear, "B-A-N-A-N-A-S." After all, bananas is a really tricky word to spell and I can think of at least half a dozen other fruits off-hand that it resembles in sound. And we all know that lyrically, Gwen is a bit of a genius, anyway. I mean let’s examine further:

Uh huh, this is my shit

Now, if that's not a humdinger of an opening line I don't know what is.

Ok, first verse:

A few times I've been around that track
So it's not just gonna to happen like that
Because I ain't no hollaback girl
I ain't no hollaback girl

I'm going to avoid the obvious joke here and not make a comment regarding the fact that Gwen's been around the track more times than an Indy pace car, but, dammit, I just couldn't help myself.

Here's where we really start running into trouble: the chorus.

Ooooh ooh, this my shit, this my shit

Based on the idiocy of the lyric I have constructed my own theory regarding its inception.

Gwen, arrives at the studio one morning following a session of all-night Hello Kitty necklace making and monograming her Dora the Explorer luggage with captions reading, "I Heart Gavin." She is understandably tired and feeling a bit under the weather. Her little ears are now stopped up and she's having trouble hearing. Little trooper that she is, she presses on in the studio and begins to lay down vocals for the track. She begins with the aforementioned verse, her countless yes-men nodding in agreement, dollar signs appearing before their glowing beady eyes. Gwen strikes me as a write-on-the-fly type of girl with mad improvising skills, so during a break she whips out a Pikachu pen from hubby Gavin's stylish man purse (which is fortunately exactly color coordinated to match her bright, purple knee-socks) and is furiously jotting down ideas for the chorus. Inadvertently, a sound tech leaves one of the microphones on and one of the producers can be heard saying, "Uh-oh. This is shit." Poor Gwen, her ears stopped up and her breath reeking of day-old Rumplemintz and Pez, mishears his statement and cries, "Oooh ooh, this my shit." I'll give her this, she's pithy, if nothing else.

So that's right dude, meet me at the bleachers
No principals,no student-teachers

Something tells me Gwen spent a considerable amount of time behind the bleachers in high school. The fact that she name-checks principals (note the plural) and student teachers leads me to believe she didn't earn that "A" in Algebra on test scores alone.

That's right I'm the last one standing, another one bites the
dust

Gee, that's original- never heard that line before. Take you all day to come up with that one, did it?

And finally, the real heart of the song:

Let me hear you say this shit is bananas
B-A-N-A-N-A-S
(This shit is bananas)
(B-A-N-A-N-A-S)

Chiquita must be writing the check out to Gwen as we speak.

I'm sorry, I know there are millions of you mindless drones out there who actually like the song, but come on people- Wake the fuck up! It's not bad enough that she actually sings about fruit, but she has to spell the goddamn thing over and over again. Actually, now that I think about it, I'm convinced that she's actually spelling it for Gavin's benefit. He has trouble with those big words.

PS- MM, I swear to God, if you ever try to make me listen to that song again, this time I WILL get out of the car at the Starfuck's drive-thru and run screaming across the street. That's just b-a-n-a-n-a-s.

The Reincarnation of Queen: Brian May I Hope Your Royalty Check Bounces

2005-10-18T15:34:00.000-04:00

I am appalled. I am livid. It never ceases to amaze me, the endless string of music groups who decide to perpetuate the lie of reestablishing a once great band years after a vital member has departed. I’m not referring to bands that lose a member mid-stream during their heyday and continue. AC/DC managed to successfully replace Bon Scott with Brian Johnson at the helm. Def Leppard replaced guitarist Steve Clarke, the Red Hot Chili Peppers replaced their guitarist, Hillel Slovak, and Metallica replaced Cliff Burton after his untimely demise. Hell, even Kiss has managed to survive more line-up changes than the Major League Baseball All-Star game. The point being, sometimes you can successfully replace a member of the group. All of these groups were arguably just as good with their replacement.

With that said, I think it is utterly ridiculous and comically pathetic when bands reunite years later, after their popularity has waned and the band itself has already been dissolved and try to incorporate a new member into the mix. Queen’s reformation is a sterling example of this kind of nostalgic money-hungry zeal that tugs on the hapless listeners heart and purse strings.

Freddie Mercury was arguably one of the greatest vocalists if not one of the greatest front-men ever to strut across the stage. You’ll be hard-pressed to beat him in stage presence and you damned near can’t top him in vocal ability. How many Queen cover songs do you hear? Not many. Most artists find it such an initially daunting task that they don’t even attempt it. You can’t belt out a Queen song without some vocal chops. Have you ever sung Bohemian Rhapsody? And I don’t mean by yourself in the car with the windows rolled up, I mean actually trying to hit every note like Freddie. Good luck and don’t blame me if you start the neighborhood cats to screeching in the process.

I mean, seriously, how do you follow-up the best? George Michael came closest to actually pulling it off with his cover of “Somebody To Love” in the early 90’s. He has the vocal range and he managed to capture the feeling of the song, but he was no Freddie Mercury. Not to mention the fact that he didn’t even sport the 70’s gay porn star ‘stache on his upper lip. Go back to your Beverly Hills restroom trolling and give us a goddamned break. But, hey- at least he didn’t try to be Queen’s front man.

Brian May and whoever else is responsible for deciding to dredge up Queen and stick Paul Rodger’s sorry bloated ass behind the mic should be shot, no questions asked. He should get down on his hands and knees and beg for his old job back in Bad Company and be damned thankful that there are actually people out there who consider themselves fans of their classic rock lame-ass crap. Paul Rodgers is not fit to hold Freddie’s probably now tattered and well-aged leather armband. I mean, Paul, don’t you know that you are a shooting star? I really wish you would shoot the hell somewhere else and quit kicking us fans in the teeth.

Brian May, I hold you personally responsible. Everybody knows that you’ve always been the businessman of the group. I hope your next fucking royalty check bounces.

Freddie Mercury R.I.P.

Creative Audio Should Contribute To My Ritalin Fund

2005-10-09T23:11:00.000-04:00

It has recently been brought to my attention that I may suffer from the affliction ADD. I think we can go ahead and assume that I do not have the HD of AD/HD as I have been labeled many things in my life (some unmentionable), but not one of them has ever been hyperactive. Now I'm not suggesting that Creative Audio, makers of my fine MP3 player, actually brought about my "condition." I contend, however, that it has exacerbated my preexisting ADD tendencies.

The other night I made my ritualistic trip to the back porch for a spurious round of drinking and writing. As usual, I brought my MP3 player and headphones along for the occasion and sat down to work (which usually consists of a generous amount of internet surfing peppered with brief moments of actual writing). I have filled roughly two-thirds of the 40gb hard drive of my player with my music collection. There are a few random cds that I have yet to add, but for the most part, it's everything I own. This fact alone, the idea that I can carry around every cd I own in my pocket, is mind-boggling in itself.

After writing a good 2 minutes, I decided to pause for a smoke break and concentrate solely on the music at hand. I scrolled through the artist list, settled on a particular song and then promptly changed it 15 seconds later. I moved to the next track, thinking to myself, "Oh, I haven't heard this one in awhile" and then proceeded to scroll back through the artist list to switch to something else. At this point, I decided to start counting the number of times I changed songs before they ended. I lost count somewhere around thirty in a span of 10 minutes. I would like to say that I was consistent in my choices, or at least thematic in the playlist, but that was not the case. I started with Radiohead and ended with Marvin Gaye, with various artists such as Television, The Talking Heads and Wu-Tang Clan interspersed in-between. I'm eclectic, if nothing else.

The root problem is that my listening playlist is constructed solely out of the current mood on the radar screen. I find music to be both mood altering and mood enhancing. For example, repetitively listening to Tori Amos makes me want to call every man who has ever pissed me off and scream, "Fuck you. You lying bastard." When I'm depressed, I want to drown my sorrows in whatever Jeff Tweedy of Wilco, has been drinking. I also find that constant listening to The Smiths will cause me to not want to leave my chair. My point is, music can either put me into a certain mood or I use it to amplify and add to my mood. So, I'm on a perpetual quest to find the perfect song for my mood.

This is where the MP3 player is my downfall. Before this little God-send, if I got some burning desire to hear the live version of "Sunday Bloody Sunday" with Edge doing vocals and playing his guitar unaccompanied, that meant I would have to get up off my ass and dig through several thousand cds in order to find it. Generally, the task would seem too daunting initially and combined with an inherent laziness, I wouldn't actually get up to find it. Or, on the off-chance that the need to hear said song was so great that it overrode the laziness factor, I would venture inside to dig through several boxes of cds and invariably lose interest half-way through the search, forget what I was initially looking for and select something else.

Now that I have the MP3 player, everything's right at my fingertips. I can change tracks to my heart's content. This has also caused at least one social problem with my friends. I have learned it's perfectly fine to do this within the privacy of my headphones, but others not directly involved in the playlist selection find it annoying and grow quite testy. I have often been accosted with idle threats that people will not ride in a vehicle with me or some have had the actual nerve to try to impound the MP3 player in hopes of restricting the endless string of 30 second music clips. I think it's much akin to watching late-nite Time Life music infomercials where all you get to hear are snatches of songs. I have learned to confuse my audience by playing a game of "Name That Tune" which is in all actuality, a thinly veiled attempt to blind others to the fact that I'm still changing the song. Another trick I've learned is the subtle, yet effective, method I like to call the "Fade Out." It requires a fairly inattentive audience who may not be familiar with the particular song and might not notice that half-way through the first verse of "Sweet Jane" the song mysteriously decreased in volume and changed to "Piss Factory". Timing is key and I am a master of the volume button.

I see no problem in any of this. Others like to point out that most people can listen to entire albums, if not entire songs without changing it. I think it's an urban legend perpetuated by the people who want to stop my mad Djing skills.

Creative Audio has now forced me into a mental state requiring medication and I think the bastards should have to pay for part of it.

CD Review Rating System

2005-10-07T16:23:00.000-04:00

Ok, gang...I'm about to start posting some CD reviews and since it always annoys the snot out of me when reviewers either A: Don't give some sort of quantitative measure of judgment or B: They give a completely arbitrary grade, number or asinine symbol which means absolutely zilch to the person who is reading the review. So, I am going to use a numbered system, but I'm actually going to explain the formula and criteria I'm using as the basis of my judgment. I was thinking of adding a separate space in each review that actuality lists the scores for each category, but for Christ's sakes, this is not an Olympic event and I think we can all assume I did the math correctly.

*sounds of uncontrolled laughter erupt from readers*

Graded Factors (On a 1-10 scale, 10 being the highest, and all factors weighed equally)

1. Lyrical Content
2. Musical Performance/Quality
3. Production Quality
4. Vocal Performance
5. Overall Album Cohesiveness
6. Originality

Top 10 Reasons Nickelback Should Die

2005-10-06T08:49:00.000-04:00

1. Their lead singer is so ugly and untalented he has probably inspired hope to a whole generation of equally ugly, untalented white people. Who can really put an estimate on the damage he's caused or on how many other shitty bands will crop up because some ugly kid believed he could be in a band because Chad Kroeger did it. Thanks a lot buddy.

2. Nickelback crossed the line from mildly annoying to warranting death threats after 2002's hit "How You Remind Me" was played a minimum of 75+ times a day/ 7 days a week. Think I'm exaggerating? Their little web site touts the song as being Billboard's most played song of 2002. I swear to God, at one point it go so out of control that it was actually feasible to hear the song on the car radio, go to the Kwiki Mart, hear it piped through the store, and then walk back to the parking lot where some jackass in a Creed T-shirt could be heard singing under his breath "This is how you remind me..."

3. It has mass cross-sectional appeal. This group must send the A & R people into a real fucking frenzy because this music is just bland enough to really appeal to the average dumbass. I'm sure this music is the voice of frat boys and all other testosterone-fueled little white kids who think that this is the music that really speaks to their generation. Werd.

4. Lyrical Content. Now, I know we're not splitting the atom here, but for God's sakes, throw us a friggin' bone here, buddy. I won't bore you with endless examples to prove how insipid their lyrics are, so we'll just focus on the aforementioned song "How You Remind Me."

Never made it as a wise man

Jeez. That's a shocker.

I couldn't cut it as a poor man stealing

Gee- That's a shame. Too bad you weren't picked up for multiple counts of B & E. Jail time might have at least kept you off the radio (unless you are a hip-hop artist, and then you can actually record an entire album and shoot a music video from inside the jail cell. True story- but I digress).

yeah, yeah, yeah, no, no
yeah, yeah, yeah, no, no

As God as my witness, this little lyrical jewel is repeated a multitude of times.

these five words in my head
scream "are we having fun yet?"
yet, yet
are we having fun yet [3x]

Note the 3x- As if you didn't catch it any of the 15 other times it's repeated in the song.

5. They suffer under delusion that they "RAWK." Let's clear up one thing right off- Just because you can hit a power chord doesn't mean you rock. Go listen to some Tom Morello and get back to me on this one.

6. Their band name is Nickelback, which is just downright stupid, and if I'm not mistaken is derived from a football term. They're Canadian- what the fuck do they know about football, Eh?

7. They continue to put out new albums. Unforgivable.

8. Nickelback has been nominated for a 2005 Juno Award in the Producer of The Year Category. I'm gonna go with the boys of South Park on this one and say "Blame Canada." But, at least they're not American.

9. They suck. Enough said.

10. Next time any of their songs comes on the radio (don't worry you won't have to wait too long) put your ear up as close as you can to the radio. Turn it up as loud as you can tolerate without becoming physically ill. If you listen closely, you can actually hear the heart of rock n' roll stop beating. Somebody please call Huey Lewis.

Sheryl Crow and Gwen Stefani: Musical Proof That You Can Sing Off-Key And Still Sell Albums

2005-10-04T21:17:00.000-04:00

Let me just preface this particular diatribe by saying, I don’t have anything personally against either artist. In theory, I should totally be waving the estrogen flag of female power in their favor. I mean, they both actually write their own music, which is, in fact, quite a novel feat these days. Hell, Sheryl Crow even plays a musical instrument. I would also like to point out that I am in no way threatened by the fact that both, especially Stefani, are epitomized as the standard for female iconic rock stars who have more than their fair share of male devotees. So, before you start playing the jealous female card, let me offer reasons as to why I detest both of their music.

My main problem with both of them is simply this: A complete lack of talent. Now, music, primarily rock music, has generally little to do with actual talent or ability. Nobody’s ever accused Bob Dylan of having a particularly great voice. Mark Knopfler may be a guitar virtuoso, but his voice sounds like a combination of years of repetitive gargling with Draino and a massive saliva buildup he needs to extricate. But, both of them know how to write quality lyrics and can actually use the flaws and inadequacies of their voice as a tool to convey the emotional resonance of the song. If you’re talented enough you can get around minor problems like vocal quality.

I don’t believe that inadequacy even remotely encompasses a definition of Sheryl Crow’s vocal range. First of all, am I the only person on the planet who has ever noticed that she’s never on key? I’m not even talking about her live performances; I’m strictly referring to her studio work. Didn’t somebody in the production studio tell her that she was, ya know, off-key? I offer “Strong Enough” as one of the best examples of her off-key prowess. I swear to God, she manages to hit notes that are so far off the scale and so high-pitched that they are only detectable to dogs or bats. I guarantee you that if there was ever some sort of nuclear holocaust and all the whistles that the police use for their dogs were suddenly gone, we wouldn’t have to worry. Good ol’ Sheryl could let loose with a rendition of “All I Wanna Do” and dogs would be cowering and yelping in a minimum of three counties. And the worst part of it all? She actually writes that shit for herself. I might cut her some slack if she was covering someone else’s material, but she suffers under the misguided delusion that she can actually hit these notes and writes music that is impossibly outside of her own ability.

Gwen, sweet little, half-naked Gwen- The woman who has single-handedly taken wearing a bikini-top to the most fashionable peaks of the pop chart. Honestly, I think people, especially men, just get confused. They watch her videos and confuse her attractiveness and lack of clothing with quality music. What they don’t realize is that when you’re riding around in your car listening to a No Doubt cd, that cuteness doesn’t exactly translate well through your speakers. Nobody’s going to say, “Well the song is stupid as hell, but, damn, she looks hot in the video.” Perhaps, a viable alternative for Stefani would be to stick to releasing her material solely by video, at least that way we wouldn’t have to hear her warbling on every damned radio station. Vocally, she is mediocre, at best, a combination of heavy breathing and this odd half-singing/half-speaking cadence she has acquired. As a friend of mine commented to me when he found out the topic o' the day, “If there is a God, I just hope he lets Talk Talk sue the hell out of No Doubt for bastardizing a perfectly good song.” Couldn’t agree more, TC.

Her lack of talent doesn’t just end at vocal ability, however, so let’s just take a quick jaunt through one of her hits. Sheryl Crow is no lyrical wordsmith, but at least she’s a little more rock star about the whole thing. She sings about drinking and having sex- the very fundamentals of rock music. Sweet little Gwen, she sang about wanting to get married. How very un-rock star. I’m going to go on record as saying, “Marry Me” has got to be one of the most pandering and anti-feminist songs on record of late, if not one of the most fucking irritating. It starts, “I can’t help it that I like to be kissed. And I wouldn’t mind if my name changed to Mrs.” Pardon me one moment while I choke back the overwhelming urge I have to regurgitate. And, we’re not even going to go into the fact that she just rhymed “kissed” and “Mrs.” At least with Sheryl, she’s a little more ballsy about the whole thing, she asks if he’s strong enough to be her man. Gwen’s like the delusional lovesick teenager who sits around reading copies of Bride magazine and planning her non-existent wedding to an equally non-existent fiancé. Gwenie, why don’t you just reiterate the fallacy that the higher goal of all women is marriage? Yipppppeeeee!!!!!! (Although, in her defense, it must have worked because she got that smug twat of a boyfriend to marry her. Mad props, yo.) My point is that she’s got millions of teenage girls who think she is Cool Incarnate and she’s doing them a complete disservice by pumping out this lyrical garbage, not to mention the fact that I seem to have this inherent knack of being able to find one of her songs on the radio at any given time. Thanks Clear Channel. And thanks to Gwen and Sheryl for trucking on and giving hope to a nation of equally untalented females by showing them that you don’t have to have a shred of talent to succeed in the music business.

BTW Gwen, Gavin just called from the studio and he wants his balls back.

If Love Is The Drug, I’d Just As Soon Have A Crack Rock: 7 Songs Guaranteed To Make You Wanna Get Drunk And Call An Ex

2005-10-03T22:15:00.000-04:00

So, I’m bucking the standard Top 10 format. Sue me. This idea came upon me recently, due to the chance DJing of my MP3 player, which decided to use the random function to string together a slough of cheery little numbers in some sort of twisted psychological mind game/play list. After weeping profusely and practicing low guttural moaning for a good hour, I gathered my blabbering self up and attempted to salvage a wee bit of dignity by comprising a list of essential break-up/post break-up songs. This is harder than it might appear. There’s a fine line between wallowing in self-pity and despair and the schmaltzy, schmuck-fest of Nazareth’s “Love Hurts.” So, if you’re looking for a list containing Sinead’s “Nothing Compares 2 U” (which should be immediately stricken from the list on grounds of Prince’s annoying use of pre-Instant Messaging pseudo-word usage) you’re gonna have to go elsewhere.

Top 7 Break-Up/Post Break-Up Songs (in no particular order)

1. “I Threw It All Away” - Bob Dylan from the album, Nashville Skyline I’m not even going to begin to extol all the virtues of this album, suffice it to say it’s damned good, but usually overlooked in his catalog. The lyrics of this song are absolutely laced with regret. He’s miserable because he knows he only has himself to blame, and that knowledge is unbearable.

Once I had mountains in the palm of my hand,
And rivers that ran through ev'ry day.
I must have been mad,
I never knew what I had,
Until I threw it all away.

2. “Pictures of You” - The Cure from the album Disintegration
Here’s another one about regret. This one encapsulates the “I got drunk because I was so depressed and somewhere after my 5^th beer I started dragging out all the old pictures and now I feel even worse” kinda moment.

If only i'd thought of the right words
I could have held on to your heart
If only i'd thought of the right words
I wouldn't be breaking apart
all my pictures of you

3. “Guess I’m Doing Fine” - Beck from the album, Sea Changes
Now, here’s a cheerful little number. Actually, this album may rank right up there in the “Listened to at the wrong time, I might just slit my wrists” category

It’s only lies that I’m living
It’s only tears that I’m crying
It’s only you that I’m losing
Guess I’m doing fine

4. “Call Me On Your Way Back Home” - Ryan Adams from the album, Heartbreaker
This one’s not going to exactly pick you up, either, especially if you know the back-story. It was written and recorded just after his long-term girlfriend, interestingly enough, comedian Carol Burnette’s daughter, died of cancer. Now, normally I would automatically file this away into the schmuck category, however, there’s something so brutally honest about it that I can’t dismiss it that easily. Trust me, the words on the page don’t do justice to the emotional impact of the song.

Cause I miss you
And I just wanna die without you
Oh I just wanna die without you
Yeah I just wanna die without you

5. “Last Goodbye” - Jeff Buckley from the album, Grace
What can I say- Jeff Buckley was The Man. Slightly different take on this one; it’s unclear who’s actually ending things. The lyrics, themselves, are poetry, but Buckley’s voice is the lynchpin to making it work.

This is our last goodbye
I hate to feel the love between us die
But it's over
Just hear this and then I'll go
you gave me more to live for,
more than you'll ever know.

6. "With Or Without You”- U2 from the album, The Joshua Tree
I’m gonna take some flak over this one, I just know it. I’m the U2 martyr who suffers endless jibes from people who like to point out that I always include U2 songs in any list I make (this means you, MM, if you’re reading this). Well, dammit, it’s my list and you people should all count yourselves fortunate that I didn’t make all 7 U2-related. So, there. I will argue to my last breath that this song should make the cut. You’ve never been in love with someone if you don’t know what it means when Bono sings, “I can’t live with or without you.”

My hands are tied
My body bruised, she’s got me with
Nothing to win and
Nothing left to lose

7. “Love Hurts” - Nazareth from the albu- Oh, who really gives a shit; I was just trying to see if you would read all 7.

The Rolling Stones & Rolling Stone Magazine: Sounding The Death Toll To Rock Music

2005-10-02T15:32:00.000-04:00

I was idly flipping through the latest copy of Rolling Stone magazine this evening. For some reason, whether out of a perverse, if not misguided, sense of nostalgia, or a delusional sense of hope that there might actually be some content that rises above the usual banality, I am still a subscriber. For all intensive purposes, Rolling Stone ceased to be even moderately relevant sometime after they began featuring Hollywood movie stars or Britney Spearsish tarts on their covers. The magazine is no longer about actual music, save the David Fricke column, which is usually relegated to three paragraphs somewhere near the back of the music review section juxtaposed against the latest review of whatever crap is topping the music charts. I am cynical. I am jaded. I know I’m going to be disappointed. I know it’s going to be an endless barrage of untalented and uninspiring “artists” in the most liberal sense of the word. I know it’s evolved into a popularity contest as opposed to musical criticism and the introduction of new artists. There was a time in the not too distant past when I could actually read about artists I had never heard of, instead of retreads of information that I knew months ago. And let me just point out that I have no ties to record companies. I don’t get advanced copies of shit. I’m not on any kind of insider mailing list. What I know and listen to is strictly a combination of word-of-mouth and hours of Internet fact-finding quests.

And yet, every month I rather embarrassingly, flip through the magazine with a zeal and fervor that I usually only reserve for opening a brand new, virgin cd from its womb. Oh, God. (Hands clasped together in eager expectancy) maybe this will be the issue where I will find some redeeming value in its content. Perhaps, it will remind me of why I have been such a faithful subscriber through this continuous barrage of pejorative horseshit. I must be completely and utterly insane. It’s disgraceful, really, holding onto a ridiculous idea of loyalty and former admiration for a musical institution that is utterly bankrupt of originality or worth.

Which leads me to my other rant- The Rolling Stones. A band that has more money than God, but is about as musically bankrupt as the aforementioned magazine. One of the advertisements this month in said magazine featured a full-page ad for The Stones new tour or maybe it was for the goddamn finance company that is sponsoring it. Now, to clarify, this particular rant is not in regard to whether the band has “sold-out” to corporate America and the merits/drawbacks to corporate sponsorship of a major tour, but the little ditty that was featured in the copy. It goes like this: “Ameriquest Mortgage is proud to sponsor The Rolling Stones…and the American Dream.” I physically recoiled when I read this statement. I would assume, having more money than God, the band is fairly shrewd in any partnership they undertake. They approve everything that contains their name or that tacky-as-shit tongue logo. SOMEBODY, had to look at this and give it the proverbial thumbs-up before it could go to press.

The first thought that jumps to my mind would be, “What the fuck do The Rolling Stones know about the mythical “American Dream?” Last time I checked, they weren’t even American for Christ’s sake. Now, I must admit, I haven’t actually heard their newest release, and I have no intention of doing so. So, if the cd contains evidence of unlocking the secret to the American Dream my tirade is all for naught and completely useless. But, I seriously doubt it. I don’t have to listen to it to know how it sounds, it sounds like every other album of theirs for the last 15-20 odd years: A couple of moderately listenable tracks surrounded by 10-12 other songs that are merely audible fillers. I don’t have to listen to it to know I won’t like it, just like I know that if I want to be bored I’ll attempt, once again, to watch “The English Patient.” Some things in life are just a given.

So next time you are thumbing through the pages of the latest edition of Rolling Stone magazine looking for details on the newest Stones tour and you hear the bells a'-tollin'- Remember, that's the sound of rock music dying a tortured and painful death.

Foray Into Blogging

2005-10-02T15:07:00.000-04:00

Ok, so I'm not sure how this is going to go. I actually just set this up almost inadvertently when trying to post a comment to a friend's blog http://u2lorax.blogspot.com/ I'm not even sure I'm going to keep this, but I have quite a bit of random music shit that I've written and have nowhere to put it, so this might actually be ideal. If you haven't guessed, most of my time is spent listening to, talking about, or writing about music- so this is my new ranting musical platform.