Well, another year has passed. Hard to believe, huh? I’d like to thank you all for killing some time with me on occasion and sharing your thoughts on the opinions expressed on this website.
Now, to proceed with the first post of the New Year, let’s raise the roof in the ’04 and kick this year off with a bang by starting a new tradition hear at Landshark Sandwich. Call it my answer to the Razzies. Ladies and Gentlemen, I bring to you…
The First Annual “Jump The Landshark” Awards!
Now I’m sure a great deal of you are familiar with the Jump The Shark phenomenon, and for those of you who aren’t, click here to visit the Jump The Shark web site. There’s plenty of information including a full listing of TV shows, discussion boards (for those of you who have enough time on your hands to both read this post and discuss who was the better Darren on Bewitched), and most importantly to you newbies, an explanation of what “Jump The Shark” is all about and where the term originated.
Now although I dubbed these as “awards,” the recipients and their crimes are far too numerous and varied to possibly concoct any sufficient categories. Therefore, all perpetrators are considered equally guilty in the eyes of the almighty tribunal (read: me), and the quality of their shameful acts are open for judgment by you, the readers. In the eyes of the Honorable Judge L.S. Sandwich, justice is blind, the leppard is def, and the criminals are dumb.
So strap on your in-line rollerblades and grab hold of that rope attached to the dune buggy, ‘cause the Landshark is hungry…
VH1. I used to enjoy watching VH1. Really. See, our cable system in Waterbury is for the birds, so I’m not as fortunate as some to be blessed with MTV2, Fuse, or VH1 Classic. Nope. I gots MTV and VH1. You all know my long disdain for MTV (which, for the record, jumped the Landshark eons ago), and now VH1 seems to be running neck and neck with its older cousin for most annoying mainstream music station. These goddamned All Access and The Fabulous Life Of… specials do absolutely nothing for me, and I pity you if they do anything for you. How are we enriched by this in any way? Why should I care about how Jennifer Lopez lives and how much money she makes? What, does VH1 think I don’t hate her enough? Do I need more hatred towards Jenny from the block? Well, maybe. Be that as it may, I don’t need to be reminded of it constantly. These half-baked “insider” programs that seem to be the norm with the network’s newly revamped image and logo bring it several notches below its former greatness. It is now akin to the type of shallow we’re used to saying on E! In the last year, the only special that I’ve enjoyed has been their All Access on primetime cartoons (for obvious reasons). Granted, I dug I Love The 80’s Strikes Back, but that doesn’t mean I can’t see this “sequel” for what it is: a shallow attempt to nab viewers who loved the first series (with good reason, I might add. Their take on the 70’s just didn’t pack the same punch). Meanwhile, my heart and soul of rock and roll has been denied great stuff like The Rock Show and Forever Wild. Hey, I know that Pantera might not push as many units as your beloved Dave Matthews, but why should you deny them air time? Pricks.
The RIAA. Hey, lets sue the people who make us money! Morons. No wonder digital music is on the rise.
Jewel. I’ve gone over this one before, but let me recap: the woman is a fairly talented singer/songwriter with a refreshing earnestness about her. Or at least she was before she fell to clichéd techno beats and saccharine-sweet hooks on her latest album. Let us also not forget the retooled, ultra-glossy, mega-skimpy Hollywood laminated image that she has now adopted. We’ve gone from a humble Eskimo girl with her guitar to a sexed up Barbie Doll getting hosed down by firemen and taking showers in her videos. Y’know, she could boast all she wants about the depth of her lyrics on the new album, but she can’t fool me. That piece of garbage has about as much depth as a kiddie pool owned by a family of midgets. Honey, don’t give me a dime and call it a dollar. This jewel is too polished for the genuine article, which would lead any gemologist to believe it’s a fake. But rather than tossing this diamond back in the rough, I’d be more inclined to put it to the test against a steamroller. Just to see how “real” it is.
Kiss. Another group that I’ve ranted over before. Now I agree, these guys are tried and true sellouts. And that says something since I consider the term “sellout” to be just a buzzword cooked up by hardcore wannabe non-conformists. It gives them a reason to hate a good artist that they once cheered, all because a few more people bought their last album. At any rate, Kiss are the epitome of the Great American Hype Machine. I’ve seen them live, and the show is all shtick, no substance. If I wanted to see a fireworks display featuring guys in makeup, I’d go to Ringling Bros. on the Fourth of July. But see folks, my opinion aside, Kiss really Jumped ye olde Landshark this year. How so you ask? Well for starters, the whole “Kiss Symphony” deal was hokey as hell. It’s an age old last ditch effort to sell tickets at extravagant costs, and an excuse to put out another live album. Secondly, while Peter Criss might be back in the fold, the almighty Ace Frehley, (read: the only talented member of Kiss) was replaced by the talented, yet comparatively mediocre Tommy Thayer. Sorry Tommy, but Space Ace has got your number, plain and simple. Furthermore, the self-proclaimed “hottest band in the world” have allowed themselves to surrender their precious top billing. That’s right. After years of ripping off their fans, and producing all sorts of absurd merchandise ranging from Kiss Coffins to Kiss Tampons, the egos that be have been forced to admit that they aren’t the cat’s meow. On their mega-tour with Aerosmith, Kiss found themselves in a role that they are not used to: opening act. All the pyro and fake blood in the Kiss Prop Department can’t hide the fact that the lords of the Kiss Army are standing on their last legs with a torn ACL.
California. I kept quiet for most of the recall election simply because everyone who wasn’t running took the time to voice their opinion. When they both got done and the dust settled, we were left with the highest paid actor in film history holding a major office in the U.S. Government. I can’t say this really surprises me; I’ve always felt that it would be just a matter of time before the film stars that I grew up with began to enter the political arena. I figured if Jesse Ventura could be elected governor of Minnesota, Arnold Schwarzenegger would have no trouble whatsoever bombarding his way into the hearts of California’s voting population. Now, I’d say that the whole ordeal makes a mockery out of American politics, but if history and chaos theory prove anything, longstanding politicians have been doing that for the past 40 years and change. So I’ll hold my tongue on all that business. Besides, Arnie isn’t the first celebrity to run for office, so I’ll let time and fate be the judge of his skills. The reason the Sunshine State finds its way into the winner’s circle is simply because of the fact that a recall happened to begin with. As far as I’m concerned, this sets a dangerous precedent, and it could allow for any office to be disputed with relative ease as long as someone challenges the individual in the driver’s seat. If you really wanna see our system take a nosedive in the next few years, the California recall would be a good place to begin charting the chronology of its downfall.
Kobe Bryant. Hey, if it keeps the Lakers from becoming the Yankees of the NBA, toss his ass in Oz and let the inmates have at it.
Rush Limbaugh. It’s been a long time coming, but this proves that karma exists. The biggest blowhard in the political world has finally begun to bottom out, and I, for one, couldn’t be happier. Hey Rush, while you were popping OxyContin, you should’ve haggled with your dealer for some TrimSpa.
Jason Newsted. Say what you will about St. Anger (and Jason certainly did), but there’s no denying that this guy’s career is about as dead in the water as Saddam’s chances of a fair trial. Not only did the guy contradict himself every third interview, thereby blowing his chances of reuniting with Metallica, he also apparently blew his gig with Ozzy Osbourne. How does he do it? Better yet, who cares? Good riddance to yesterday’s news.
Ben Moody. OK, your band has a ginormous single, making for a major breakthrough into the mainstream. You’re big time, groupies, tour bus, the whole nine yards. In a few years you’ll probably be headlining major tours. So what do you do? You quit the band. Well, at least that’s Ben Moody’s line of thinking, as he quit Evanescence a little over half a year following their breakthrough with “Bring Me To Life.” Y’know, personal differences aside, is it really possible to dislike someone enough to stick it out for the greater good? Hell, even the Black Crowes went over ten years before splitting up, and they friggin’ hated one another. Besides, Moody’s reportedly known lead singer Amy Lee for over ten years… what on earth could come between them this late in the game? Jesus. And to top it all off, he’s now working on material with Avril Lavigne, and posting on Evanescence’s message board. Oh, yeah, Moody. You’re shark bait.
The Dixie Chicks. Another one that I’ve covered before. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again, leave the sociopolitical commentary to Tom Morello and Bono. These three just aren’t qualified to voice an opinion on the war in Iraq, or our President, and they proved that by the sheer ignorance of their comments. Look, bottom line is that if you’re gonna basically insult the President during a time of international conflict, you better be prepared to back up your comments with some good old fashioned logic. You also better be ready for some major league backlash from the media and soon-to-be former fans. I don’t necessarily agree with the knee-jerk response by the radio stations and the record-buying public, however I cannot say that I’m surprised. That seems to be the way it goes in our humdrum, fair-weather fan country. It’s a tough pill, I know. But ya gotta put your salivary glands to work and swallow that fucker if you plan on making such garish comments. And worst of all, for the love of God, don’t go back on your statements just to cover your ass. Suck it up and take the hit. You’ll be better chicks for it. Until that time, I’ll see you somewhere over the dorsal fin.
Radio104 and ClearChannel Entertainment. Some of you non-Connecticians might find yourselves befuddled by this inclusion, so let me paint the picture for you with disgust as my water colors and frustration as my easel: Radio104 was a popular modern rock radio station based out of Hartford, CT. Since 1999, the station’s main claim to fame was its morning program, featuring Dee Snider. Yes, Dee Snider of Twisted Sister fame. Yes, “We’re-Not-Gonna-Take-It-Shove-It-Up-Tipper-Gore’s-Ass” Dee Snider. Say what you will about the band, but the show was pretty solid, and a nice alternative to Howard Stern for those who might be faint of heart. Anyway, last September, Radio104, which operates under the ClearChannel corporate flagship, pulled the plug on Dee Snider Radio, and replaced it with Bubba the Love Sponge. For those of you who don’t know the name, consider yourselves lucky. Bubba is a flash-in-the-pan Tampa Bay morning DJ who fancies himself the ultimate contender to Howard Stern’s on-air throne. Truth be told, the Love Sponge is just a two-bit Stern rip-off whose taken everything Howie has done and turned it into a gross parody. Consider his show “Redneck Radio” at its worst. Now ClearChannel decided that it’d be a good idea to syndicate Bubba’s show nationwide, and felt that the Hartford area, the long-forgotten hub of New England, would be a great place to start. See, Stern doesn’t air in Tampa Bay, so Bubba’s argument for years has been that Stern is too scared to go up against the Love Sponge. While that claim might have more holes than my dad’s socks, it was enough to convince ClearChannel to give it a go. So in September of ’02, Bubba the Love Sponge hit the airwaves, and the backlash was palpable. Online petitions and Anti-Bubba websites began popping up, and Radio104, despite no apparent change in its musical programming, lost a significant percentage of listeners. In fact, it got so bad that last month, ClearChannel not only dropped Bubba, but completely reworked the format. Once a decent rock station, Radio104 is now the latest in a long line of generic hip-hop stations to surface. The worst crime of all is the fact that there are no longer any DJs spinning discs live. How do I know this? Because the station proudly advertises this fact. The station’s playlist is one big computer program chuck full of the latest jams to blaze (my apologies for including the terms “jams” and “blaze” in the same sentence, but it needed to be done to get the message across). So after alienating its fans and changing the station format, ClearChannel has proven that it cares nothing for its listeners or its employees. Profits are what drive this giant, and that is the sort of mindset that endangers truly great radio. These guys jumped so high, I’m still waiting for them to touch down.
Madonna. For all of her so-called creativity and musical genius, Madonna sure ate it this year. Here’s hoping she’s as good at reinventing herself as all the critics say she is, because after the ’03, she desperately needs an injection of something fresh and lively. You wanna talk about a superstar that’s fallen, Madonna could very well be to 2003 what Michael Jackson was to 2002. That is to say she fucked up royally, and she might not be able to fully recover from her trips. She did so many cartwheels over the Landshark, that the chronology of her jumps is something of a blur to me, but at least we can hit on the big topics. She released Swept Away, which was a critical and financial disaster. Rather than sweeping audiences away, the picture swept the Razzies, AKA the Anti-Oscars. I don’t know a single person who made an attempt to see this gem, but from what I understand it was so bad that Mystery Science Theater 3000 could’ve released a sequel to it’s one and only feature film by slamming the Material Opus. Moreover, Madonna’s latest album, American Life got the shaft from critics and fans. Wow. Even that one floored me. I mean, I’m not a huge fan, but I know the lady has some talent. Regardless, after shooting a controversial video which featured her dropping a grenade in the lap of a George Dubya lookalike, Madonna allowed the clip to be edited, and stated that the intended message was misconstrued amongst patriotic fervor during the Iraqi conflict. Y’know, I really wonder what kind of dictionary celebrities follow, because their comments and messages always seem to get misunderstood by the general public. Maybe Hollywood really does have a language of its own, because I sure as shit can’t imagine that 99% of the American public can get the same message wrong. Let’s also not forget the tepid Gap commercial with Missy Elliott. While there was nothing particularly offensive about the ad, there was also no point for it. It just seemed like a 45-second time killer with no real focus. Disagree with me? How come it’s only been a couple months, and the ad is nowhere to be seen anymore? Case closed. And let us not forget the “controversial” open-mouth kiss with Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera at the MTV Video Music Awards. Y’know, if the only way you can generate publicity for yourself is to consistently spawn controversy, then you’d better reconsider labeling yourself an artist. When that happens, my internal B.S. Detector goes off, and it triggers a murderous churning of the stomach, which then manifests itself into the rants that you read. But truth be told, I’d rather a star be honest than provide me with blog fodder. I would much rather that I didn’t have to write these columns at all. Just for once I wish a celebrity would come out and openly admit, “Yes, I am insulting the intelligence of people everywhere.” Believe it or not, I’d gain more respect for them if they did. And right now, Madonna is sitting pretty atop the list of capital offenders. Soak it up, Material Hack, ‘cause it’s hard to get back on your feet after you’ve jumped over the Landshark as many times as you have.
So there you have it. My, this has been therapeutic. Think I’ll go treat myself to a Frosty at Wendy’s. In the meantime, you’d best get back to sleeping off your hangover you helpless drunk. For shame.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant New Year.
12/31/2003
Ahh, music. Is there anything finer? Well, not if it’s done right. Here are the musical highlights of the ’03.
Top Ten Albums (in no particular order):
1 – Evanescence - Fallen
2 – Dream Theater - Train Of Thought
3 – Black Label Society - The Blessed Hellride
4 – Porch Ghouls - Bluff City Ruckus
5 – Jeff Beck - Jeff
6 – Johnny Cash - American IV: The Man Comes Around
7 – Jet - Get Born
8 – Shinedown - Leave A Whisper
9 – A Perfect Circle - Thirteenth Step
10 – Thursday - War All The Time
And now, ten artists whose new albums I am eagerly anticipating for the ’04:
Aerosmith
AC/DC
Black Label Society
Velvet Revolver
Damageplan
Soil
Godsmack
Dropbox
Rob Zombie
Monster Magnet
Vocalist of the Year – (three-way tie) Amy Lee of Evanescence, Maynard James Keenan of A Perfect Circle, and Brent Smith of Shinedown. Projected winner for ’04: Steven Tyler of Aersomith. Anything less would be uncivilized!
Guitarist of the Year – (tie) Zakk Wylde of Black Label Society and Ozzy Osbourne, and John Petrucci of Dream Theater. Projected winner for ’04: Another tie… Zakk again, and Dimebag Darrell of Damageplan.
Bassist of the Year – Jeordie White of A Perfect Circle. Projected winner for ’04: Too early to tell. Possibly Duff McKagan.
Drummer of the Year – Mike Portnoy of Dream Theater. Projected winner for ’04: Possibly Matt Sorum.
Dick of the Year – Fred Durst.
Hypocrite of the Year – Jason Newsted.
Moron of the Year – Ben Moody.
Lastly, Rest In Peace…
June Carter Cash
Johnny Cash
Howie Epstein
Michael Kamen
Maurice Gibb
Ty Longley
Herbie Mann
Robert Palmer
Noel Redding
Compay Segundo
Barry White
Warren Zevon
And now, stay tuned for the First Annual Jump the Landshark Awards!
Top Ten Albums (in no particular order):
1 – Evanescence - Fallen
2 – Dream Theater - Train Of Thought
3 – Black Label Society - The Blessed Hellride
4 – Porch Ghouls - Bluff City Ruckus
5 – Jeff Beck - Jeff
6 – Johnny Cash - American IV: The Man Comes Around
7 – Jet - Get Born
8 – Shinedown - Leave A Whisper
9 – A Perfect Circle - Thirteenth Step
10 – Thursday - War All The Time
And now, ten artists whose new albums I am eagerly anticipating for the ’04:
Aerosmith
AC/DC
Black Label Society
Velvet Revolver
Damageplan
Soil
Godsmack
Dropbox
Rob Zombie
Monster Magnet
Vocalist of the Year – (three-way tie) Amy Lee of Evanescence, Maynard James Keenan of A Perfect Circle, and Brent Smith of Shinedown. Projected winner for ’04: Steven Tyler of Aersomith. Anything less would be uncivilized!
Guitarist of the Year – (tie) Zakk Wylde of Black Label Society and Ozzy Osbourne, and John Petrucci of Dream Theater. Projected winner for ’04: Another tie… Zakk again, and Dimebag Darrell of Damageplan.
Bassist of the Year – Jeordie White of A Perfect Circle. Projected winner for ’04: Too early to tell. Possibly Duff McKagan.
Drummer of the Year – Mike Portnoy of Dream Theater. Projected winner for ’04: Possibly Matt Sorum.
Dick of the Year – Fred Durst.
Hypocrite of the Year – Jason Newsted.
Moron of the Year – Ben Moody.
Lastly, Rest In Peace…
June Carter Cash
Johnny Cash
Howie Epstein
Michael Kamen
Maurice Gibb
Ty Longley
Herbie Mann
Robert Palmer
Noel Redding
Compay Segundo
Barry White
Warren Zevon
And now, stay tuned for the First Annual Jump the Landshark Awards!
12/19/2003
Dear reader, 'tis the season to be jolly. Now I might come off as Captain Jerky quite often... But I definitely am imbued with the holiday spirit these days. Oh, yes, even I, the brooding, cranky, illegitimate spawn of George Carlin and Dennis Miller (neither one will claim me, and I can't say that I blame them), can see the beauty in life around this time of year.
In fact, I've even gone so far as to extend my holiday shopping list to some of my least favorite people in the world. Oh, they might not know it's from me, but they will never forget the rock thrown through their window with the gift attached...
But here's the catch, see... For the holidays, we always ask for what we want. How often do we ask for what we need? And believe me, the individuals in question are in need of my help.
So, without further ado... a list of what these genetic defectives desperately need for the holidays!
Paris Hilton - Some class and refinement.
Saddam Hussein - A mustache and beard trimmer, a long, hot bath, and of course, a very happy reunion with his sons for the holidays.
Michael Jackson - The coldest, darkest, dingiest cell possible, and the very deep affection of a very lonely 300 lb. cellmate named Rufus. He always wanted to be a child again, now he can know how every kid he has sleep over must feel like.
Lee Boyd Malvo - The wettest sponge possible when he goes to the chair.
TV Execs and Writers everywhere - A Clockwork Orange-inspired viewing of every reality show they’ve ever green-lighted, certain to leave a nasty taste in their brains.
The Clan McMahon - A competent, reasonable booking team that they'll actually listen to.
Ben Moody - A pair of kneepads for when he comes crawling back, begging Amy Lee to rejoin Evanescence.
Paul Stanley - A chest wax.
Gene Simmons - A tongue wax.
Eddie Murphy - A screenplay that doesn't suck and actually showcases his talent.
Scott Weiland - Sobriety. Not that he'd know what to do with it.
Ben Affleck - A good divorce attorney.
Jennifer Lopez - A bad divorce attorney.
Chris Benoit - Some respect and recognition.
Angie Harmon - A much better nose job.
Steve Cojocaru -Membership in the Steven Tyler Look-alike Fan Club, two broken wrists (so he can't type), and a ball gag spot-welded to his teeth.
Jessica Simpson - A deep-sea diving excursion to find out exactly what tuna really is. Just don't let her in on the fact that she'll be wearing cement flippers...
Ozzy Osbourne - A little peace and quiet, and a new group of friends that won't tug him every which way into the limelight.
Jason Newsted - A gig even he can't possibly blow.
Trey Parker and Matt Stone - The Nobel Peace Prize.
Anna Nicole Smith - A massive tapeworm.
Old Navy - Some celebrity spokespeople that aren't right off the B-list.
HBO - A swift kick in the nads for not getting the fifth season of The Sopranos out sooner.
The Queer Eye guys - Vaseline and some discretion.
Kobe Bryant - ...Well actually, if he gets convicted, he'll be getting what he deserves.
Natalie Maines - Some military and/or political experience, so if she ever opens her mouth again, she'll at least know what she's talking about.
Britney Spears - Anything she wants provided she stops calling me so much.
My boss - Some computer know-how and the ability to give me tasks without taking 20 minutes to explain.
My other boss - A cool head and a bag of weed. If anyone needs to relax, it's him.
Your mom - Crabs.
Goodnight and have a pleasant Christmas.
In fact, I've even gone so far as to extend my holiday shopping list to some of my least favorite people in the world. Oh, they might not know it's from me, but they will never forget the rock thrown through their window with the gift attached...
But here's the catch, see... For the holidays, we always ask for what we want. How often do we ask for what we need? And believe me, the individuals in question are in need of my help.
So, without further ado... a list of what these genetic defectives desperately need for the holidays!
Paris Hilton - Some class and refinement.
Saddam Hussein - A mustache and beard trimmer, a long, hot bath, and of course, a very happy reunion with his sons for the holidays.
Michael Jackson - The coldest, darkest, dingiest cell possible, and the very deep affection of a very lonely 300 lb. cellmate named Rufus. He always wanted to be a child again, now he can know how every kid he has sleep over must feel like.
Lee Boyd Malvo - The wettest sponge possible when he goes to the chair.
TV Execs and Writers everywhere - A Clockwork Orange-inspired viewing of every reality show they’ve ever green-lighted, certain to leave a nasty taste in their brains.
The Clan McMahon - A competent, reasonable booking team that they'll actually listen to.
Ben Moody - A pair of kneepads for when he comes crawling back, begging Amy Lee to rejoin Evanescence.
Paul Stanley - A chest wax.
Gene Simmons - A tongue wax.
Eddie Murphy - A screenplay that doesn't suck and actually showcases his talent.
Scott Weiland - Sobriety. Not that he'd know what to do with it.
Ben Affleck - A good divorce attorney.
Jennifer Lopez - A bad divorce attorney.
Chris Benoit - Some respect and recognition.
Angie Harmon - A much better nose job.
Steve Cojocaru -Membership in the Steven Tyler Look-alike Fan Club, two broken wrists (so he can't type), and a ball gag spot-welded to his teeth.
Jessica Simpson - A deep-sea diving excursion to find out exactly what tuna really is. Just don't let her in on the fact that she'll be wearing cement flippers...
Ozzy Osbourne - A little peace and quiet, and a new group of friends that won't tug him every which way into the limelight.
Jason Newsted - A gig even he can't possibly blow.
Trey Parker and Matt Stone - The Nobel Peace Prize.
Anna Nicole Smith - A massive tapeworm.
Old Navy - Some celebrity spokespeople that aren't right off the B-list.
HBO - A swift kick in the nads for not getting the fifth season of The Sopranos out sooner.
The Queer Eye guys - Vaseline and some discretion.
Kobe Bryant - ...Well actually, if he gets convicted, he'll be getting what he deserves.
Natalie Maines - Some military and/or political experience, so if she ever opens her mouth again, she'll at least know what she's talking about.
Britney Spears - Anything she wants provided she stops calling me so much.
My boss - Some computer know-how and the ability to give me tasks without taking 20 minutes to explain.
My other boss - A cool head and a bag of weed. If anyone needs to relax, it's him.
Your mom - Crabs.
Goodnight and have a pleasant Christmas.
12/01/2003
I’m sick of hearing about Paris Hilton. All others in the room who share this irritation, kindly raise your hands high.
As you probably know, I’ve ripped on celebrities many times in the past, and it’s not likely I’ll be stopping anytime soon, especially when wastes of skin like Paris Hilton are making the regular rounds on my front page, and taking up valuable space in my e-mail inbox.
So she made a sex tape. Big friggin’ whoop, who in Hollywood hasn’t these days? I’m sure even Bea Arthur made a sex tape with Ellen DeGeneres at some point.
I’ll take a five minute break while you go shower up to cleanse your mind of that image.
Back yet? Good. Bea and Ellen in the shower!
I’ll wait again. Sorry, but you didn’t scrub hard enough, skippy.
OK, no more references of the sort for the rest of this post. Honest injun.
So yeah, Paris made a sex tape, and now it’s found its way to the media’s grubby, sticky little hands. Well color me curmudgeony, but why should we give two shits about Paris Hilton’s little home video? For that matter, why should we give one shit about Paris Hilton to begin with? Has she done anything worth acknowledging lately? How about ever? I’m not keepin’ score or nothin’, but c’mon folks, this girl and her ‘ittle sister are about as useless as useless gets.
”How useless are they?"
Glad you asked…
They’re about as useless as a nicotine patch is to Denis Leary.
They’re about as useless as a young, beautiful, single woman in Michael Jackson’s bedroom.
They’re about as useless as a turn signal to a New Jersey motorist.
They’re about as useless as an AA meeting to Scott Weiland.
They’re about as useless as another Beastmaster movie.
Now that’s fuckin’ useless, kiddies.
So far, to my knowledge, the only thing these two kittens do is show up at parties, dance, drink, and make fools out of themselves. Should we really be giving them all this attention if that’s all they’re known for? Paris, Nikki, you’re cute, but call me up when you find a cure for the clap. Given your sex lives (what else would you expect from a couple of chicks named after a hotel?), I certainly hope you’re hard at work trying to crack that Rosetta.
But the news coverage on E! News Daily and Access Hollywood isn’t what gets me. That’s why God invented the remote control… for switching to Law & Order reruns on TNT. No, what gets me is every day I check my e-mail, I have some article of correspondence mentioning Ms. Hilton’s escapade courtesy of some anonymous snapperhead that is likely to buy me a virus and/or a subscription to the best of Girls Gone Wild! The Bestiality Edition.
And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s spam.
So Paris, if you’re readin’ this, and I hope to God you are… I, and every other sane, reasonable, decent human being that’s schleppin’ this pebble are really, really, really of hearing about you on an hourly basis.
However, I am a big supporter of the way you’re handling this. I really appreciate the fact that you’re laying low, as do we all. In fact, I’d like to recommend that you continue employing this practice well after this mess blows over.
And while you’re at it, please recommend your brilliant PR strategy to Michael Jackson, Pamela Anderson, Liza Minelli, Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, Fred Durst, and those Queer Eye For The Straight Guy blokes. In fact, have your wealthy parents buy an island and take them all with you. An island far away from cameras, televisions, and computers. Far away from us… nay, me!
*Sigh*
Why can’t Soleil Moon Frye make a sex tape? I wouldn’t mind her being overexposed.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant December.
As you probably know, I’ve ripped on celebrities many times in the past, and it’s not likely I’ll be stopping anytime soon, especially when wastes of skin like Paris Hilton are making the regular rounds on my front page, and taking up valuable space in my e-mail inbox.
So she made a sex tape. Big friggin’ whoop, who in Hollywood hasn’t these days? I’m sure even Bea Arthur made a sex tape with Ellen DeGeneres at some point.
I’ll take a five minute break while you go shower up to cleanse your mind of that image.
Back yet? Good. Bea and Ellen in the shower!
I’ll wait again. Sorry, but you didn’t scrub hard enough, skippy.
OK, no more references of the sort for the rest of this post. Honest injun.
So yeah, Paris made a sex tape, and now it’s found its way to the media’s grubby, sticky little hands. Well color me curmudgeony, but why should we give two shits about Paris Hilton’s little home video? For that matter, why should we give one shit about Paris Hilton to begin with? Has she done anything worth acknowledging lately? How about ever? I’m not keepin’ score or nothin’, but c’mon folks, this girl and her ‘ittle sister are about as useless as useless gets.
”How useless are they?"
Glad you asked…
They’re about as useless as a nicotine patch is to Denis Leary.
They’re about as useless as a young, beautiful, single woman in Michael Jackson’s bedroom.
They’re about as useless as a turn signal to a New Jersey motorist.
They’re about as useless as an AA meeting to Scott Weiland.
They’re about as useless as another Beastmaster movie.
Now that’s fuckin’ useless, kiddies.
So far, to my knowledge, the only thing these two kittens do is show up at parties, dance, drink, and make fools out of themselves. Should we really be giving them all this attention if that’s all they’re known for? Paris, Nikki, you’re cute, but call me up when you find a cure for the clap. Given your sex lives (what else would you expect from a couple of chicks named after a hotel?), I certainly hope you’re hard at work trying to crack that Rosetta.
But the news coverage on E! News Daily and Access Hollywood isn’t what gets me. That’s why God invented the remote control… for switching to Law & Order reruns on TNT. No, what gets me is every day I check my e-mail, I have some article of correspondence mentioning Ms. Hilton’s escapade courtesy of some anonymous snapperhead that is likely to buy me a virus and/or a subscription to the best of Girls Gone Wild! The Bestiality Edition.
And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s spam.
So Paris, if you’re readin’ this, and I hope to God you are… I, and every other sane, reasonable, decent human being that’s schleppin’ this pebble are really, really, really of hearing about you on an hourly basis.
However, I am a big supporter of the way you’re handling this. I really appreciate the fact that you’re laying low, as do we all. In fact, I’d like to recommend that you continue employing this practice well after this mess blows over.
And while you’re at it, please recommend your brilliant PR strategy to Michael Jackson, Pamela Anderson, Liza Minelli, Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, Fred Durst, and those Queer Eye For The Straight Guy blokes. In fact, have your wealthy parents buy an island and take them all with you. An island far away from cameras, televisions, and computers. Far away from us… nay, me!
*Sigh*
Why can’t Soleil Moon Frye make a sex tape? I wouldn’t mind her being overexposed.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant December.
11/28/2003
Christ, has it been a year already? A whole fuckin’ year? What have I been doing with my life…
Well, to commemorate the anniversary, I figure I might as well let you in on the background behind the seemingly non sequitur moniker of ye olde blog.
Most people would probably take “Landshark” and “Sandwich” as two separate phrases, but in reality, the name is an amalgamation of “Landshark” and “Shark Sandwich.” Think of that “Before & After” category on Wheel Of Fortune where they take sayings, phrases, names, etc. that are linked by a common word, and create a hybrid phrase based on them. Example, they could take “Alexander the Great” and “The Great Wall of China” and come up with a homoerotic conquest of the Far East by a bisexual Greek teenager.
Actually, it’d work out to “Alexander The Great Wall Of China.” Silly example, but it serves our purposes here. So the question remains, what the hell is a Landshark, and why a Shark Sandwich? Allow me to answer…
Landshark comes from the classic Saturday Night Live bit from ’75 that parodied a possible sequel to Jaws (bear in mind that this was ’75, so we hadn’t yet encountered any piss-poor sequels to this great film). Basically, Chevy Chase played the shark, Dan Aykroyd played Chief Brodie, John Belushi did a phenomenal Hooper, and the cast for the sketch was rounded out by Lorraine Neuman, Gilda Radner, Jane Curtin, Garrett Morris and guest host Candace Bergin.
Hard to believe Candace Bergin was hot at one point. Anyway…
The skit ran like an excerpt from the then-hypothetical Jaws II in which the main antagonist was no longer a Great White, but rather a “Landshark, the most dangerous species known to man.” The Landshark, or Landy for short, stalked young single women by knocking at their door and posing as repairmen, mailmen, and the like. Example:
*Knocking at door, young woman goes to answer door. By now, the classic “dun dun dun dun dun dun” Jaws theme is playing.*
Woman – Yes?
Landy – Mrs. Arnoldsberg?
W – Who?
L – Miss Sabitowitz?
W – Who is this?
L – (pausing) Plumber.
W – I didn’t call for a plumber.
L – (pausing) Telegram.
W – Telegram? Oh, OK…
From here, the young lady would unlock and open her door only to have a giant pair of foam jaws come crashing down on her head. Funny shite, especially for ’75. So that explains Landshark.
Shark Sandwich comes from another classic bastion of comedic fun, that being the mockumentary known as This Is Spinal Tap. For those of you who don’t know, the film plays out as a documentary being filmed about a once-legendary British hard rock band known as Spinal Tap. The band is befuddled constantly by botched stage shows, smaller venues, and a long line of rapidly expiring drummers. The main players are documentary director Marty DeBergi (Rob Reiner, who also directed the film itself), lead singer/guitarist David St. Hubbons (Michael McKean), lead guitarist Nigel Tufnel (Christopher Guest) and bassist Derek Smalls (Harry Shearer).
In one classic segment, DeBergi is interviewing the band and reading them reviews of their albums. Their opus titles are so absurd you can’t help but bust a gut. For example, Intravenous De Milo and The Gospel According To Spinal Tap are among the items in their catalog (it should be duly noted that the band is at this point in time touring to support their upcoming release, Smell The Glove). DeBergi comes to one album named Shark Sandwich. Marty informs the band that the review consists of only two words:
“Shit sandwich.”
So there you have it. The etymology behind my blog. Now get the fuck outta my house.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
Well, to commemorate the anniversary, I figure I might as well let you in on the background behind the seemingly non sequitur moniker of ye olde blog.
Most people would probably take “Landshark” and “Sandwich” as two separate phrases, but in reality, the name is an amalgamation of “Landshark” and “Shark Sandwich.” Think of that “Before & After” category on Wheel Of Fortune where they take sayings, phrases, names, etc. that are linked by a common word, and create a hybrid phrase based on them. Example, they could take “Alexander the Great” and “The Great Wall of China” and come up with a homoerotic conquest of the Far East by a bisexual Greek teenager.
Actually, it’d work out to “Alexander The Great Wall Of China.” Silly example, but it serves our purposes here. So the question remains, what the hell is a Landshark, and why a Shark Sandwich? Allow me to answer…
Landshark comes from the classic Saturday Night Live bit from ’75 that parodied a possible sequel to Jaws (bear in mind that this was ’75, so we hadn’t yet encountered any piss-poor sequels to this great film). Basically, Chevy Chase played the shark, Dan Aykroyd played Chief Brodie, John Belushi did a phenomenal Hooper, and the cast for the sketch was rounded out by Lorraine Neuman, Gilda Radner, Jane Curtin, Garrett Morris and guest host Candace Bergin.
Hard to believe Candace Bergin was hot at one point. Anyway…
The skit ran like an excerpt from the then-hypothetical Jaws II in which the main antagonist was no longer a Great White, but rather a “Landshark, the most dangerous species known to man.” The Landshark, or Landy for short, stalked young single women by knocking at their door and posing as repairmen, mailmen, and the like. Example:
*Knocking at door, young woman goes to answer door. By now, the classic “dun dun dun dun dun dun” Jaws theme is playing.*
Woman – Yes?
Landy – Mrs. Arnoldsberg?
W – Who?
L – Miss Sabitowitz?
W – Who is this?
L – (pausing) Plumber.
W – I didn’t call for a plumber.
L – (pausing) Telegram.
W – Telegram? Oh, OK…
From here, the young lady would unlock and open her door only to have a giant pair of foam jaws come crashing down on her head. Funny shite, especially for ’75. So that explains Landshark.
Shark Sandwich comes from another classic bastion of comedic fun, that being the mockumentary known as This Is Spinal Tap. For those of you who don’t know, the film plays out as a documentary being filmed about a once-legendary British hard rock band known as Spinal Tap. The band is befuddled constantly by botched stage shows, smaller venues, and a long line of rapidly expiring drummers. The main players are documentary director Marty DeBergi (Rob Reiner, who also directed the film itself), lead singer/guitarist David St. Hubbons (Michael McKean), lead guitarist Nigel Tufnel (Christopher Guest) and bassist Derek Smalls (Harry Shearer).
In one classic segment, DeBergi is interviewing the band and reading them reviews of their albums. Their opus titles are so absurd you can’t help but bust a gut. For example, Intravenous De Milo and The Gospel According To Spinal Tap are among the items in their catalog (it should be duly noted that the band is at this point in time touring to support their upcoming release, Smell The Glove). DeBergi comes to one album named Shark Sandwich. Marty informs the band that the review consists of only two words:
“Shit sandwich.”
So there you have it. The etymology behind my blog. Now get the fuck outta my house.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
11/24/2003
Kids, I’ve been to a lotta damn concerts in my life. Over 50 to be precise. But I gotta tell ya, I’ve never seen a more overrated, overblown, underwhelming piece of trash band… than Kiss.
And with that comment, I can feel the millions of infuriated grease-painted stares looking my way. Yes, I have thrown a direct blow to the Kiss Army. It’s put up or shut up time, Kissies, so put away your Kiss dolls and condoms and coffins and pregnancy tests and tampons and mood rings and retainers and hubcaps and crack pipes and adult diapers with Paul Stanley’s star on them.
I saw Kiss perform this summer with Aerosmith, and I gotta tell ya, Boston’s finest made the “hottest band in the world” look like a bunch of amateurs with pyro. Essentially, that’s all Kiss is and ever was. A mediocre band with make-up and pyrotechnics. Don’t like it? Well, that’s the bottom line kiddies.
Remember when Kiss took off the make-up in the 80’s? Remember that? Remember how far they plummeted until they put it back on in ’96? Ever wonder why? No, it’s not because Peter and Ace were gone at that time; their career had already begun to flag before any departures. Here’s a simple formula.
Kiss’s music – make-up and stage shows = generic hair metal personified.
And that’s just the sad fact. The Kiss Army (or “Spineless Lemmings,” as I like to call them) have been blinded by huge explosions, long tongues, and fake blood for thirty years. So much so that they’ve been unable to realize that the band they worship is frickin’ horrible. Peter and Gene can’t sing for shit (I won’t even begin to get on Peter Criss’s rendition of “Beth” at this summer’s concert), and musically, they can play, but that’s about it. They’re not spectacular, and save “Rock And Roll All Nite,” “Shout It Out Loud,” and a few others, they have never had a knack for good solid hard rock hooks. And at this stage in the game, all that pseudo-mime make-up is a goddamn blessing. When Peter came out for “Beth,” his face looked like a damn burlap bag.
Speaking of Peter Criss, I never thought I would see a less talented “big” drummer than Charlie Watts, but Peter proved me wrong. How can this guy be rated up there with the likes of Neil Peart when it took him a full 30 seconds to start “Rock And Roll All Nite.” He looked confused, like he had never sat at a drum kit before.
Peter! It’s snare, high hat! Snare, high hat! I’ve sat at a drum kit twice in my life, and I can play that beat!
I guess someone forgot to wind up the key in his back when he went offstage prior to “Beth.”
Then there’s Paul Stanley, the hairy-chested Starchild. Y’know, Paul subscribes to every sad classic rock cliché imaginable. Paul’s between-song shuck ‘n jive consists of, “Are you ready to rock, Hartford?!” “It’s time to rock, Hartford!” “Let me hear you, Hartford!” “Who wants to rock and roll in Hartford tonight?!” I wish I was making this up. But his most absurd comment came in something so ridiculously asinine, it makes Poison look like Bob Dylan:
”Y’know Hartford, there a lot of bad stuff going on in the world these days. Every night on the news, you see it, turmoil all over the world. But we can save the world. We can save the world with rock n’ roll!”
I’m amazed no freelance snipers have aimed for that black star on Paul’s face yet.
How can you be so insipid to make a comment like that? What is this, ’73 all over again? Paul, it’s almost 2004! Get with it, for Chrissakes!
Then, of course, there’s Gene Simmons. The long-tongued butt-ugly self-proclaimed sex god who sleeps with Shannon Tweed and her three cousins on a mountain of cash every night. I do believe Gene has a slightly better voice than Paul, but that’s only because Paul’s voice shakes and quivers like Katherine Hepburn on a fuckin’ mechanical bull. Gene didn’t have much to offer at all, save the requisite fire-spewing/fake blood vomiting. And, of course, he flew. That’s right. He flew with the assistance of a harness. You know who else flew in concert, Gene? The New Kids On The Block and ‘NYSYNC. Rock stars do not fly, you ugly prick!
I can’t really say anything bad about Ace Frehley. The man is a talented guitarist, probably on the level of Joe Perry. And he was smart enough to get outta dodge while the getting’ was good. That being said, Tommy Thayer, while a solid guitarist, couldn’t hold a candle to Ace if he wanted to.
And Aerosmith blew them outta the water without so much as a hint of pyro.
So kids, take it from me, put away your Kiss dolls and stop slobbering over your Kiss boxer shorts.
They suck. Always have, always will, period.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
And with that comment, I can feel the millions of infuriated grease-painted stares looking my way. Yes, I have thrown a direct blow to the Kiss Army. It’s put up or shut up time, Kissies, so put away your Kiss dolls and condoms and coffins and pregnancy tests and tampons and mood rings and retainers and hubcaps and crack pipes and adult diapers with Paul Stanley’s star on them.
I saw Kiss perform this summer with Aerosmith, and I gotta tell ya, Boston’s finest made the “hottest band in the world” look like a bunch of amateurs with pyro. Essentially, that’s all Kiss is and ever was. A mediocre band with make-up and pyrotechnics. Don’t like it? Well, that’s the bottom line kiddies.
Remember when Kiss took off the make-up in the 80’s? Remember that? Remember how far they plummeted until they put it back on in ’96? Ever wonder why? No, it’s not because Peter and Ace were gone at that time; their career had already begun to flag before any departures. Here’s a simple formula.
Kiss’s music – make-up and stage shows = generic hair metal personified.
And that’s just the sad fact. The Kiss Army (or “Spineless Lemmings,” as I like to call them) have been blinded by huge explosions, long tongues, and fake blood for thirty years. So much so that they’ve been unable to realize that the band they worship is frickin’ horrible. Peter and Gene can’t sing for shit (I won’t even begin to get on Peter Criss’s rendition of “Beth” at this summer’s concert), and musically, they can play, but that’s about it. They’re not spectacular, and save “Rock And Roll All Nite,” “Shout It Out Loud,” and a few others, they have never had a knack for good solid hard rock hooks. And at this stage in the game, all that pseudo-mime make-up is a goddamn blessing. When Peter came out for “Beth,” his face looked like a damn burlap bag.
Speaking of Peter Criss, I never thought I would see a less talented “big” drummer than Charlie Watts, but Peter proved me wrong. How can this guy be rated up there with the likes of Neil Peart when it took him a full 30 seconds to start “Rock And Roll All Nite.” He looked confused, like he had never sat at a drum kit before.
Peter! It’s snare, high hat! Snare, high hat! I’ve sat at a drum kit twice in my life, and I can play that beat!
I guess someone forgot to wind up the key in his back when he went offstage prior to “Beth.”
Then there’s Paul Stanley, the hairy-chested Starchild. Y’know, Paul subscribes to every sad classic rock cliché imaginable. Paul’s between-song shuck ‘n jive consists of, “Are you ready to rock, Hartford?!” “It’s time to rock, Hartford!” “Let me hear you, Hartford!” “Who wants to rock and roll in Hartford tonight?!” I wish I was making this up. But his most absurd comment came in something so ridiculously asinine, it makes Poison look like Bob Dylan:
”Y’know Hartford, there a lot of bad stuff going on in the world these days. Every night on the news, you see it, turmoil all over the world. But we can save the world. We can save the world with rock n’ roll!”
I’m amazed no freelance snipers have aimed for that black star on Paul’s face yet.
How can you be so insipid to make a comment like that? What is this, ’73 all over again? Paul, it’s almost 2004! Get with it, for Chrissakes!
Then, of course, there’s Gene Simmons. The long-tongued butt-ugly self-proclaimed sex god who sleeps with Shannon Tweed and her three cousins on a mountain of cash every night. I do believe Gene has a slightly better voice than Paul, but that’s only because Paul’s voice shakes and quivers like Katherine Hepburn on a fuckin’ mechanical bull. Gene didn’t have much to offer at all, save the requisite fire-spewing/fake blood vomiting. And, of course, he flew. That’s right. He flew with the assistance of a harness. You know who else flew in concert, Gene? The New Kids On The Block and ‘NYSYNC. Rock stars do not fly, you ugly prick!
I can’t really say anything bad about Ace Frehley. The man is a talented guitarist, probably on the level of Joe Perry. And he was smart enough to get outta dodge while the getting’ was good. That being said, Tommy Thayer, while a solid guitarist, couldn’t hold a candle to Ace if he wanted to.
And Aerosmith blew them outta the water without so much as a hint of pyro.
So kids, take it from me, put away your Kiss dolls and stop slobbering over your Kiss boxer shorts.
They suck. Always have, always will, period.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
11/19/2003
11/14/2003
My friends, genius comes in many strange forms. Sometimes it’s enlightening and inspiring. Sometimes it’s misunderstood and confusing. Sometimes it’s radical and frightening.
But when my friends and I exhibit genius, it’s nothing short of twisted and disturbing.
Case in point… my friend Blue and I were recently discussing a mutual friend who recently tied the knot. Now our bud Moby works a 9-5 a good 45-minute drive away, and on occasion shoots hoops after punching out. When he makes it back to the homestead, he attaches his ass to his beloved recliner, and vegs out for hours on end before his TiVo-enhanced entertainment center. In fact, the only time he detaches from said seating apparatus is to get a brew or hit the commode.
This gave us a brilliant idea.
Imagine, if you will, a combination recliner/toilet bowl. Oh, I know, Homer Simpson developed a similar device in one episode of The Simpsons, but Blue and I have made some modifications to the design.
First off, a universal remote that operates every possible electronic device/component imaginable built into the armrest. Furthermore, a refrigerator built into one side of the recliner for the old man’s brew of choice. Moreover, a T.P. dispenser on the other side of the chair (gotta be sanitary, folks). Did we mention built-in air fresheners (gotta love that new car scent)? And of course, massaging rollers in the seatback and ass. Everything so that the average alpha male never has to leave the comfort of his favorite recliner again. Our name for this contraption?
We have christened it the “La-Z-Bowel.”
Now some of you female types might get a bit miffed for fear that your man will become an overweight, uninspired shell of his former sexy self. And you have right to be scared, lassies, ‘cause these mothers’ll sell like frickin’ hot cakes. So what’ll you do when you needs yo’ lovin’? What’s the solution?
I’m still single ladies.
Goodnight, and have a La-Z tomorrow.
But when my friends and I exhibit genius, it’s nothing short of twisted and disturbing.
Case in point… my friend Blue and I were recently discussing a mutual friend who recently tied the knot. Now our bud Moby works a 9-5 a good 45-minute drive away, and on occasion shoots hoops after punching out. When he makes it back to the homestead, he attaches his ass to his beloved recliner, and vegs out for hours on end before his TiVo-enhanced entertainment center. In fact, the only time he detaches from said seating apparatus is to get a brew or hit the commode.
This gave us a brilliant idea.
Imagine, if you will, a combination recliner/toilet bowl. Oh, I know, Homer Simpson developed a similar device in one episode of The Simpsons, but Blue and I have made some modifications to the design.
First off, a universal remote that operates every possible electronic device/component imaginable built into the armrest. Furthermore, a refrigerator built into one side of the recliner for the old man’s brew of choice. Moreover, a T.P. dispenser on the other side of the chair (gotta be sanitary, folks). Did we mention built-in air fresheners (gotta love that new car scent)? And of course, massaging rollers in the seatback and ass. Everything so that the average alpha male never has to leave the comfort of his favorite recliner again. Our name for this contraption?
We have christened it the “La-Z-Bowel.”
Now some of you female types might get a bit miffed for fear that your man will become an overweight, uninspired shell of his former sexy self. And you have right to be scared, lassies, ‘cause these mothers’ll sell like frickin’ hot cakes. So what’ll you do when you needs yo’ lovin’? What’s the solution?
I’m still single ladies.
Goodnight, and have a La-Z tomorrow.
10/17/2003
Yankees fans can never know pain. Not the way a Red Sox fan knows it.
Last night, you all got a sample, a taste, a cursory lick of hopelessness. Tell me, how did you like it?
Last night, you were sitting on the edges of your seats, not a fingernail left on your hand, sweating enough bullets to fill a crater, weren't you? Welcome to our world. This is how we live day in, day out, especially come October. For a moment, tell me you didn't doubt your Bronx Bombers. Look me in the eye and say you didn't begin to wonder if the "curse" would be shattered last night. If you tell me you never worried an ounce, you're not only arrogant, you're a filthy fuckin' liar.
That aside, I have nothing bad to say. I'm proud of Boston's effort considering that they are the eternal longshot. This play-off series convinced me that I will see them win the World Series before I'm gone. But to all you Yankees fans who refuse to give credit where credit is due, who simply brush it off and give thanks to your "curse," grow up. Nothing is worse than an obnoxious sports fan, regardless of who they root for. Put a sock in it.
Sure, I like rubbing it in people's faces, but 99.9% of the time, I'm content to keep our victories sacred by smiling to myself. I don't want to lose the joy since it doesn't often cross my eyes. Honestly, I wish I were the only one. I know plenty of obnoxious Red Sox fans, so don't think that I'm making the Yanks' fanbase out to be some kind of cult. Truth be told, I have plenty of close friends who're loyal to the Yanks, and hey, that's fine by me. While impulsive in my younger years, I refuse to demean myself or either team by coming to blows over a sports rivalry. In the long run, we respect one another and don't go name-calling. That's what sportsmanship is all about, and I laud it.
However, sportsmanship in general is lost on a lot of people nowadays, fans and players alike (so to answer your question, no, I don't condone Pedro Martinez's actions last week. Happy?). For the past week and change, all I've heard is "curse this" and "curse that." "1918 this" and "1986 that." "Bucky Dent this" and "Bill Buckner that." All I've seen is arrogant, conceited grins from cocky Yankees fans. You wonder why more people from Boston haven't gone B.P. (Beyond Postal) and attempted to carpet bomb Yankee Stadium. Thank God for discretion.
I'd like to think that in some alternative universe, some wonderful type of Karmageddon, these "rub it in your face" types will wind up being reborn into a family of deer 10 feet from Ted Nugent's compound. Then you will know what it's like to be singled out and intimidated. Then you'll know what it's like to hide yourself in a sports bar. Think that over the next time you attempt to condescend to a Red Sox loyalist like myself, OK?
Well, I won't be watching the World Series as neither team interests me. Sure, I'll root for the Marlins, no problem. But why waste my time watching a game that doesn't involve the team I bleed for? And yes, I bleed red. I bleed red to the end, and I'm not the only one. If nothing else, being a Sox fan has taught me humility, and how to cope with pain. But to pull one tearjerker on you, I've got a 9-year-old cousin who is no doubt crying after last night's game, and will probably be ridiculed at school today. When was the last time a 9-year-old Yankee fan had to weep? What, Giambi didn't get that million-dollar raise on his contract? Bernie Williams didn't hit the homer your way? Jeter didn't hit on your mom when he met her? Some day you'll know the pain. Some day you'll know what it means to be stripped of your pride. I guarantee it.
In closing, I'd like to reference my friend Sav. Now Sav is a tried-and-true Mets fan who, for obvious reasons, loathes the Yankees. Now, he could be petty and "1986" me to death, but he realizes there are bigger fish to fry. When I woke up and signed on this morning, his away message, on a scale of one to ten, ranked "totally awesome." And I don't think he'd mind if I shared it with you now...
"Where the hell did all these 'Yankee fans' come from? Half of you wagon-riders didnt even know Aaron Boone played for the Yanks. Now he's a hero? Please. Most of you should spend less time seeing how cute Jeter looks and hoppin' on the Yanks train and try loving the game of baseball itself. As for you true Yankee fans, that was a great game, couldn't have asked for a better series. I can't imagine what a Red Sox fan must feel like. It has been a while seen I've seen a team with that much heart. That alone made it an amazing series. You've captured the souls of New Englanders (and hopeless Mets fans) everywhere... The Sox define team unity."
Amen, Brother Sav.
Goodnight and have a pleasant tomorrow (yes, even you Yankees fans).
Last night, you all got a sample, a taste, a cursory lick of hopelessness. Tell me, how did you like it?
Last night, you were sitting on the edges of your seats, not a fingernail left on your hand, sweating enough bullets to fill a crater, weren't you? Welcome to our world. This is how we live day in, day out, especially come October. For a moment, tell me you didn't doubt your Bronx Bombers. Look me in the eye and say you didn't begin to wonder if the "curse" would be shattered last night. If you tell me you never worried an ounce, you're not only arrogant, you're a filthy fuckin' liar.
That aside, I have nothing bad to say. I'm proud of Boston's effort considering that they are the eternal longshot. This play-off series convinced me that I will see them win the World Series before I'm gone. But to all you Yankees fans who refuse to give credit where credit is due, who simply brush it off and give thanks to your "curse," grow up. Nothing is worse than an obnoxious sports fan, regardless of who they root for. Put a sock in it.
Sure, I like rubbing it in people's faces, but 99.9% of the time, I'm content to keep our victories sacred by smiling to myself. I don't want to lose the joy since it doesn't often cross my eyes. Honestly, I wish I were the only one. I know plenty of obnoxious Red Sox fans, so don't think that I'm making the Yanks' fanbase out to be some kind of cult. Truth be told, I have plenty of close friends who're loyal to the Yanks, and hey, that's fine by me. While impulsive in my younger years, I refuse to demean myself or either team by coming to blows over a sports rivalry. In the long run, we respect one another and don't go name-calling. That's what sportsmanship is all about, and I laud it.
However, sportsmanship in general is lost on a lot of people nowadays, fans and players alike (so to answer your question, no, I don't condone Pedro Martinez's actions last week. Happy?). For the past week and change, all I've heard is "curse this" and "curse that." "1918 this" and "1986 that." "Bucky Dent this" and "Bill Buckner that." All I've seen is arrogant, conceited grins from cocky Yankees fans. You wonder why more people from Boston haven't gone B.P. (Beyond Postal) and attempted to carpet bomb Yankee Stadium. Thank God for discretion.
I'd like to think that in some alternative universe, some wonderful type of Karmageddon, these "rub it in your face" types will wind up being reborn into a family of deer 10 feet from Ted Nugent's compound. Then you will know what it's like to be singled out and intimidated. Then you'll know what it's like to hide yourself in a sports bar. Think that over the next time you attempt to condescend to a Red Sox loyalist like myself, OK?
Well, I won't be watching the World Series as neither team interests me. Sure, I'll root for the Marlins, no problem. But why waste my time watching a game that doesn't involve the team I bleed for? And yes, I bleed red. I bleed red to the end, and I'm not the only one. If nothing else, being a Sox fan has taught me humility, and how to cope with pain. But to pull one tearjerker on you, I've got a 9-year-old cousin who is no doubt crying after last night's game, and will probably be ridiculed at school today. When was the last time a 9-year-old Yankee fan had to weep? What, Giambi didn't get that million-dollar raise on his contract? Bernie Williams didn't hit the homer your way? Jeter didn't hit on your mom when he met her? Some day you'll know the pain. Some day you'll know what it means to be stripped of your pride. I guarantee it.
In closing, I'd like to reference my friend Sav. Now Sav is a tried-and-true Mets fan who, for obvious reasons, loathes the Yankees. Now, he could be petty and "1986" me to death, but he realizes there are bigger fish to fry. When I woke up and signed on this morning, his away message, on a scale of one to ten, ranked "totally awesome." And I don't think he'd mind if I shared it with you now...
"Where the hell did all these 'Yankee fans' come from? Half of you wagon-riders didnt even know Aaron Boone played for the Yanks. Now he's a hero? Please. Most of you should spend less time seeing how cute Jeter looks and hoppin' on the Yanks train and try loving the game of baseball itself. As for you true Yankee fans, that was a great game, couldn't have asked for a better series. I can't imagine what a Red Sox fan must feel like. It has been a while seen I've seen a team with that much heart. That alone made it an amazing series. You've captured the souls of New Englanders (and hopeless Mets fans) everywhere... The Sox define team unity."
Amen, Brother Sav.
Goodnight and have a pleasant tomorrow (yes, even you Yankees fans).
10/16/2003
On my way to work today, I was listening to Howard Stern on the radio as usual. The guest of the moment was famed hip-hop star Ludacris. Now, as you all should know, I’ve got some issues with the entire hip-hop subculture. Lemme offer you this disclaimer before you go crying “racist.” Skin color, heritage, ethnic/cultural background, that means nothing to me. I judge people by the quality of their beings. They are either good or bad, case closed.
And granted, I am not a fan of hip-hop in general. My tastes tend to lean towards the rock edge of things, but that is just a personal preference. I am, however, irritated and severely alarmed by the glorification of the hip-hop lifestyle portrayed in both song and on the screen. Welcome to the Bling Bling Revolution, as I call it.
But to get back to the point (so you can see where I’m going with this), Ludacris was on Howard Stern this morning. One of the questions Howard asked him (semi-jokingly) was if he carried a gun or not. Ludacris responded he did, but added that it was “for show.”
He carries a gun for show.
Does that bother you at all? Does that make your ears perk up? This man, who fancies himself a superstar in the hip-hop community, carries a deadly weapon, designed for the sole intent to end life, for show. When you hear a comment that proud, that smug, that blatantly ignorant, it’s really hard to disagree with even the most extreme right-wing conservatives who preach against the evils of modern music, particularly rap and it’s glorification of drugs and violence, and its degradation of women.
This is where musical preference falls by the wayside, and disdain for a subculture sets in.
Just some more fuel to the fire: I was watching Scarface a few nights ago on cable, and Ice-T was offering between-commercial commentary on what the film means to him and how it has influenced the hip-hop community.
For those of you who’ve never seen the film, lemme sum it up for ya: Cuban refugee makes it big in America by working as a lackey, killing his superior, and selling cocaine. At the height of his fortune, he is murdered my enemies. That sums it up in a nutshell.
The film does, however, offer up lavish sets, especially in the Miami clubs and Tony Montana’s palatial estate. The phrase, “The world is yours” is echoed throughout the story ad nauseum, as the only thing Tony (Al Pacino) craves is more power. He wants to rule the world, and for a time, he does. But the fast life founded on drugs and crime winds up being his undoing. I know, it sounds a bit clichéd, sure. But it’s still a marvelous picture.
The screenplay was written by Oliver Stone, who at the time was battling cocaine addiction himself. In many ways, it is a social commentary on the criminal underworld, especially as it pertains to drugs. Think of it as one big “Just Say No” campaign with piles of coke, scores of bullets, and a barrage of 182 “F-Bombs.”
However, many in the hip-hop community have taken the stylish imagery from the film and tried to model their livelihood based on that. Think about it, every time Cribs invades a rappers house, the constants are always the same: Cristal, fancy pool, flashy bedroom, and Scarface on DVD. I sincerely doubt that Ice-T or Ludacris ever took a contemporary film class, otherwise they’d be able to read between the lines and figure out that the movie preaches against the type of life they’re leading. Either that, or they just don’t care.
I’d be really curious what Oliver Stone and Brian DePalma think of how the hip-hop community has idolized Tony Montana. I’d love to conduct an interview to see just what they think of this business, ‘cause I gotta tell ya, it disgusts me. Rap used to be a serious social genre. Artists like NWA, Grandmaster Flash, and Public Enemy used the form to preach against social injustice, racism, street life, police brutality, and other topics pertinent to African-Americans at the time.
Now, however, like most musical styles, it has degenerated. In this instance, it has degenerated to one grandiose six-figure, diamond-encrusted, fully-locked-and-loaded Cinderalla story come true for many rappers. But come on, let’s be honest, how long can those fortunes sustain before they start to wear thin on the public? Didn’t you guys see MC Hammer’s Behind The Music? The story doesn’t end pretty! Royalties will only cover so many payments on your Bentley until one is deemed an empty investment by the record company. Even half-assed overpriced clothing lines aren’t likely to keep you afloat.
Whatever the case is, these folks don’t have as rosy a future as they might like. It absolutely turns my stomach to witness such a gross abuse of money.
Or maybe all those Scarface DVD’s just got cut off halfway to the end. Yeah, that’s it. Word.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
And granted, I am not a fan of hip-hop in general. My tastes tend to lean towards the rock edge of things, but that is just a personal preference. I am, however, irritated and severely alarmed by the glorification of the hip-hop lifestyle portrayed in both song and on the screen. Welcome to the Bling Bling Revolution, as I call it.
But to get back to the point (so you can see where I’m going with this), Ludacris was on Howard Stern this morning. One of the questions Howard asked him (semi-jokingly) was if he carried a gun or not. Ludacris responded he did, but added that it was “for show.”
He carries a gun for show.
Does that bother you at all? Does that make your ears perk up? This man, who fancies himself a superstar in the hip-hop community, carries a deadly weapon, designed for the sole intent to end life, for show. When you hear a comment that proud, that smug, that blatantly ignorant, it’s really hard to disagree with even the most extreme right-wing conservatives who preach against the evils of modern music, particularly rap and it’s glorification of drugs and violence, and its degradation of women.
This is where musical preference falls by the wayside, and disdain for a subculture sets in.
Just some more fuel to the fire: I was watching Scarface a few nights ago on cable, and Ice-T was offering between-commercial commentary on what the film means to him and how it has influenced the hip-hop community.
For those of you who’ve never seen the film, lemme sum it up for ya: Cuban refugee makes it big in America by working as a lackey, killing his superior, and selling cocaine. At the height of his fortune, he is murdered my enemies. That sums it up in a nutshell.
The film does, however, offer up lavish sets, especially in the Miami clubs and Tony Montana’s palatial estate. The phrase, “The world is yours” is echoed throughout the story ad nauseum, as the only thing Tony (Al Pacino) craves is more power. He wants to rule the world, and for a time, he does. But the fast life founded on drugs and crime winds up being his undoing. I know, it sounds a bit clichéd, sure. But it’s still a marvelous picture.
The screenplay was written by Oliver Stone, who at the time was battling cocaine addiction himself. In many ways, it is a social commentary on the criminal underworld, especially as it pertains to drugs. Think of it as one big “Just Say No” campaign with piles of coke, scores of bullets, and a barrage of 182 “F-Bombs.”
However, many in the hip-hop community have taken the stylish imagery from the film and tried to model their livelihood based on that. Think about it, every time Cribs invades a rappers house, the constants are always the same: Cristal, fancy pool, flashy bedroom, and Scarface on DVD. I sincerely doubt that Ice-T or Ludacris ever took a contemporary film class, otherwise they’d be able to read between the lines and figure out that the movie preaches against the type of life they’re leading. Either that, or they just don’t care.
I’d be really curious what Oliver Stone and Brian DePalma think of how the hip-hop community has idolized Tony Montana. I’d love to conduct an interview to see just what they think of this business, ‘cause I gotta tell ya, it disgusts me. Rap used to be a serious social genre. Artists like NWA, Grandmaster Flash, and Public Enemy used the form to preach against social injustice, racism, street life, police brutality, and other topics pertinent to African-Americans at the time.
Now, however, like most musical styles, it has degenerated. In this instance, it has degenerated to one grandiose six-figure, diamond-encrusted, fully-locked-and-loaded Cinderalla story come true for many rappers. But come on, let’s be honest, how long can those fortunes sustain before they start to wear thin on the public? Didn’t you guys see MC Hammer’s Behind The Music? The story doesn’t end pretty! Royalties will only cover so many payments on your Bentley until one is deemed an empty investment by the record company. Even half-assed overpriced clothing lines aren’t likely to keep you afloat.
Whatever the case is, these folks don’t have as rosy a future as they might like. It absolutely turns my stomach to witness such a gross abuse of money.
Or maybe all those Scarface DVD’s just got cut off halfway to the end. Yeah, that’s it. Word.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
10/13/2003
Am I the only one who finds the lack of solid guitar playing in today’s music troublesome? Anyone else in on this? Anyone at all?
I remember when the guitar heroes of generations past used to actually be quite talented. Hendrix, Clapton, Page, Beck, Rhoads, Van Halen, Satriani, Vai, Hammett, Vaughan, etc. What happened? When did we trade in Angus Young for the non-descript dude from Linkin Park? When did Yngwie Malmsteen give way to Mike Mushok from Staind? When did we forget about Michael Schenker the second we saw Wes Borland?
I don’t get it. I seriously don’t get it. The guitar has been such an integral part of contemporary music since the 60’s, when did it take a backseat to everything else? My only hope is that with the current saturation of the Nu Metal genre that good old rootsy guitar playing will return to prominence.
Now it should be duly noted that I am somewhat excluding the blues from this list. Since ’95 we’ve been graced with great blues guitarists like Kenny Wayne Shepherd, Jonny Lang, Shannon Curfman, Joe Bonamassa, Eric Gales, Derek Trucks and Doyle Bramhall II. Those guys are OK by me. They’ve got chops and they know what it’s all about. They understand good blues and what the genre requires, so they are henceforth exempt.
I’m also not referring to virtuosos or progressive rockers. Joe Satriani, Steve Vai and Dream Theater’s John Petrucci simply live to bend and break the rules of what is possible with music, and in doing so they have spawned a few generations of relatively small but fiercely loyal fans. Don’t believe me? Check out the Dream Theater Scenes From Manhattan DVD, and take note of Petrooch onstage. I guarantee you’ll have no doubts.
No, good reader, I’m talking more along the lines of hard rock. Seems that with the exception of ageless classic rockers like Aerosmith’s Joe Perry and AC/DC’s Angus Young, nearly no one is bothering to put the time into their guitar work anymore. The heavy metal scene itself, once renowned for rapid fire riffs and scaling solos has given way to thick, out of tune riffs that seem to loop over and over without much feel. Hell, as I’ve mentioned here before, I love St. Anger, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t vexed about the fact that Kirk Hammett didn’t solo. Not once. It’s disheartening to see one of the best guitarists ever forego his trademark solos.
My major curiosity pertains as to where things took a left turn. Unlike most people, I do not blame the Seattle Explosion (I can’t stand the term “grunge”) for this sudden shift. Kurt Cobain’s fretwork, while obviously simple, was still graced with the occasional solo. In an Angus Young sort of way, he gave a lot of younger guitarists hope that they, too could be in a great band, even with simple riffs and solos. Kim Thayill from Soundgarden was not afraid to solo, and did quite well with it to boot. Mike McCready and Stone Gossard of Pearl Jam still have their chops when the time is right. And Jerry Cantrell from Alice In Chains is one of the best guitarists ever. Period.
So I don’t blame the Seattle Explosion. I think a lot of things changed when Korn got in the game. Now don’t get me wrong, I dig Korn. They’re a very creative band, but the whole amalgamation of metal, rap and funk mixed in with out of tune seven-string guitars did a lot to damage the music scene. Lots of imitators popped up in their wake, all of whom are not worthy of being mentioned. But they exploded big, causing Nu Metal to grow at a lightning-quick pace on ye olde product life cycle. But with accelerated growth comes an earlier maturation point, and that’s where the market is now. The only full-on metal bands, Nu or otherwise to survive the trend have been Korn, Disturbed and Godsmack. Fine, throw in Linkin Park as well, but they’re still a new band, so there’s plenty of time for them to jump the shark like all the rest.
Let’s be honest folks, there aren’t too many beacons of light out there for us guitar aficionados. Aside from active classic rockers like Perry, Young, Ted Nugent, Edge and Alex Lifeson, touring whores like Steve Howe, Billy Gibbons and (of course) Keith Richards, prog rockers/virtuosos like Vai, Satch and Petrooch, and the ubiquitous Kirk Hammett, how many actual guitar heroes are there anymore? Only other guys that come to mind are Tom Morello, Jerry Cantrell, Dimebag Darrell and the almighty Zakk Wylde. I mean, these are guys who, because of their axe-handling abilities have managed to inspire legions of aspiring guitarists without the brand equity of their band name. Sure, lotsa people love Godsmack (myself being one of them). But how many can actually name the lead guitarist?
See? Eh? For the record his name is Tony Rombola.
Y’know, it’s sad to see music devolving so quickly. And again, I’m talking about rock music. Screw pop and hip-hop, I don’t have a gauge on that stuff. We went from scores of breeding grounds for great bands in the 60’s (the Beatles, the Stones, the Yardbirds, the Who, Led Zep, Cream, Hendrix), 70’s (Aerosmith, AC/DC, Deep Purple, Rush, Pink Floyd) 80’s (Van Halen, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, Metallica, Guns N’ Roses, Blizzard Of Ozz) and 90’s (Nirvana, Soundgarden, Alice In Chains, Pearl Jam, Rage Against The Machine, Korn) to an apparent cesspool of overrated under-practiced hollow rock.
That’s not to say there’s no hope. I think there are a few budding artists out there that show signs of potential. I dig Nickelback (ballads notwithstanding) if nothing else for the fact that they sound like a good ol’ fashioned classic rock four-piece. The guitar work ain’t too shabby either. Similarly, Theory Of A Deadman bring back that rootsy feel typical of Southern Rock with some good tunes. Stone Sour mixes old school metal norms with AIC-inspired melodies, thick riffs, and “ear-delicious” solos. Even Evanescence has the occasional solo to complement Amy Lee’s amazing voice, and y’know what? They’re not too shabby. I’m also excited about the Porch Ghouls, whom Joe Perry describes as sounding like “Peter Green-era Fleetwood Mac on steroids.” If you’ve ever listened to Peter Green’s chops, you know that’s a good thing. Australia’s Jet are a nice return to classic blues-swagger guitar-infused rock n’ roll with the odd solo here or there. Also, Velvet Revolver (comprised of STP’s Scott Weiland, GNR’s Slash, Duff McKagan and Matt Sorum, and Infectious Groove’s Dave Kushner) are almost guaranteed to bring back some of the traditional fretwork standards courtesy of the man in the black hat.
And more and more, young bands are getting away from downtuning and opting for melody. That in and of itself is a step in the right direction, and who knows? The next crop of real guitar heroes might not be that far around the corner. Until that time, I don’t mind swimming, wandering aimlessly through the melodic tributaries of the mainstream. You should consider joining me sometime.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
I remember when the guitar heroes of generations past used to actually be quite talented. Hendrix, Clapton, Page, Beck, Rhoads, Van Halen, Satriani, Vai, Hammett, Vaughan, etc. What happened? When did we trade in Angus Young for the non-descript dude from Linkin Park? When did Yngwie Malmsteen give way to Mike Mushok from Staind? When did we forget about Michael Schenker the second we saw Wes Borland?
I don’t get it. I seriously don’t get it. The guitar has been such an integral part of contemporary music since the 60’s, when did it take a backseat to everything else? My only hope is that with the current saturation of the Nu Metal genre that good old rootsy guitar playing will return to prominence.
Now it should be duly noted that I am somewhat excluding the blues from this list. Since ’95 we’ve been graced with great blues guitarists like Kenny Wayne Shepherd, Jonny Lang, Shannon Curfman, Joe Bonamassa, Eric Gales, Derek Trucks and Doyle Bramhall II. Those guys are OK by me. They’ve got chops and they know what it’s all about. They understand good blues and what the genre requires, so they are henceforth exempt.
I’m also not referring to virtuosos or progressive rockers. Joe Satriani, Steve Vai and Dream Theater’s John Petrucci simply live to bend and break the rules of what is possible with music, and in doing so they have spawned a few generations of relatively small but fiercely loyal fans. Don’t believe me? Check out the Dream Theater Scenes From Manhattan DVD, and take note of Petrooch onstage. I guarantee you’ll have no doubts.
No, good reader, I’m talking more along the lines of hard rock. Seems that with the exception of ageless classic rockers like Aerosmith’s Joe Perry and AC/DC’s Angus Young, nearly no one is bothering to put the time into their guitar work anymore. The heavy metal scene itself, once renowned for rapid fire riffs and scaling solos has given way to thick, out of tune riffs that seem to loop over and over without much feel. Hell, as I’ve mentioned here before, I love St. Anger, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t vexed about the fact that Kirk Hammett didn’t solo. Not once. It’s disheartening to see one of the best guitarists ever forego his trademark solos.
My major curiosity pertains as to where things took a left turn. Unlike most people, I do not blame the Seattle Explosion (I can’t stand the term “grunge”) for this sudden shift. Kurt Cobain’s fretwork, while obviously simple, was still graced with the occasional solo. In an Angus Young sort of way, he gave a lot of younger guitarists hope that they, too could be in a great band, even with simple riffs and solos. Kim Thayill from Soundgarden was not afraid to solo, and did quite well with it to boot. Mike McCready and Stone Gossard of Pearl Jam still have their chops when the time is right. And Jerry Cantrell from Alice In Chains is one of the best guitarists ever. Period.
So I don’t blame the Seattle Explosion. I think a lot of things changed when Korn got in the game. Now don’t get me wrong, I dig Korn. They’re a very creative band, but the whole amalgamation of metal, rap and funk mixed in with out of tune seven-string guitars did a lot to damage the music scene. Lots of imitators popped up in their wake, all of whom are not worthy of being mentioned. But they exploded big, causing Nu Metal to grow at a lightning-quick pace on ye olde product life cycle. But with accelerated growth comes an earlier maturation point, and that’s where the market is now. The only full-on metal bands, Nu or otherwise to survive the trend have been Korn, Disturbed and Godsmack. Fine, throw in Linkin Park as well, but they’re still a new band, so there’s plenty of time for them to jump the shark like all the rest.
Let’s be honest folks, there aren’t too many beacons of light out there for us guitar aficionados. Aside from active classic rockers like Perry, Young, Ted Nugent, Edge and Alex Lifeson, touring whores like Steve Howe, Billy Gibbons and (of course) Keith Richards, prog rockers/virtuosos like Vai, Satch and Petrooch, and the ubiquitous Kirk Hammett, how many actual guitar heroes are there anymore? Only other guys that come to mind are Tom Morello, Jerry Cantrell, Dimebag Darrell and the almighty Zakk Wylde. I mean, these are guys who, because of their axe-handling abilities have managed to inspire legions of aspiring guitarists without the brand equity of their band name. Sure, lotsa people love Godsmack (myself being one of them). But how many can actually name the lead guitarist?
See? Eh? For the record his name is Tony Rombola.
Y’know, it’s sad to see music devolving so quickly. And again, I’m talking about rock music. Screw pop and hip-hop, I don’t have a gauge on that stuff. We went from scores of breeding grounds for great bands in the 60’s (the Beatles, the Stones, the Yardbirds, the Who, Led Zep, Cream, Hendrix), 70’s (Aerosmith, AC/DC, Deep Purple, Rush, Pink Floyd) 80’s (Van Halen, Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, Metallica, Guns N’ Roses, Blizzard Of Ozz) and 90’s (Nirvana, Soundgarden, Alice In Chains, Pearl Jam, Rage Against The Machine, Korn) to an apparent cesspool of overrated under-practiced hollow rock.
That’s not to say there’s no hope. I think there are a few budding artists out there that show signs of potential. I dig Nickelback (ballads notwithstanding) if nothing else for the fact that they sound like a good ol’ fashioned classic rock four-piece. The guitar work ain’t too shabby either. Similarly, Theory Of A Deadman bring back that rootsy feel typical of Southern Rock with some good tunes. Stone Sour mixes old school metal norms with AIC-inspired melodies, thick riffs, and “ear-delicious” solos. Even Evanescence has the occasional solo to complement Amy Lee’s amazing voice, and y’know what? They’re not too shabby. I’m also excited about the Porch Ghouls, whom Joe Perry describes as sounding like “Peter Green-era Fleetwood Mac on steroids.” If you’ve ever listened to Peter Green’s chops, you know that’s a good thing. Australia’s Jet are a nice return to classic blues-swagger guitar-infused rock n’ roll with the odd solo here or there. Also, Velvet Revolver (comprised of STP’s Scott Weiland, GNR’s Slash, Duff McKagan and Matt Sorum, and Infectious Groove’s Dave Kushner) are almost guaranteed to bring back some of the traditional fretwork standards courtesy of the man in the black hat.
And more and more, young bands are getting away from downtuning and opting for melody. That in and of itself is a step in the right direction, and who knows? The next crop of real guitar heroes might not be that far around the corner. Until that time, I don’t mind swimming, wandering aimlessly through the melodic tributaries of the mainstream. You should consider joining me sometime.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
9/16/2003
Y'know what I can't stand? These stupid bumperstickers that say, "God Is My Co-Pilot." How ridiculous is this? If the people driving these cars were such devout Christians, they'd know that God can do pretty much anything He wants. I mean, He's Lord and Creator of all of us, as well as this pebble we call home, not to mention the entire frickin' universe. I'd say He's got a good handle on pretty much everything there is.
So why would He need a co-pilot?
Think about it, if you're a professional pilot, and you step into that cockpit and the Big Man Himself is sitting behind the controls, are you really gonna intrude? He's God for cryin' out loud!
And $10 says He'll do one of two things. He'll either A) smile at you thoughtfully, as if to say, "aww, how cute!" Y'know, kinda like when you were a naïve child trying to figure out how to tie a necktie so you could be more like dad. Or B) look at you rather indignantly and say, "Motherfucker, get your ass back in coach! I'm God! I've got this one covered, kid!"
Who are you to think that you’re of a similar caliber as the Good Lord? You arrogant prick. You oughta be run off the road just for insinuating such a thing.
I’d do that myself, but I’m not gonna. I’m relatively certain God’s already got your number. And He’s gonna be mighty pissed that you think of yourself that highly.
My advice to you: bend over and say your prayers.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
So why would He need a co-pilot?
Think about it, if you're a professional pilot, and you step into that cockpit and the Big Man Himself is sitting behind the controls, are you really gonna intrude? He's God for cryin' out loud!
And $10 says He'll do one of two things. He'll either A) smile at you thoughtfully, as if to say, "aww, how cute!" Y'know, kinda like when you were a naïve child trying to figure out how to tie a necktie so you could be more like dad. Or B) look at you rather indignantly and say, "Motherfucker, get your ass back in coach! I'm God! I've got this one covered, kid!"
Who are you to think that you’re of a similar caliber as the Good Lord? You arrogant prick. You oughta be run off the road just for insinuating such a thing.
I’d do that myself, but I’m not gonna. I’m relatively certain God’s already got your number. And He’s gonna be mighty pissed that you think of yourself that highly.
My advice to you: bend over and say your prayers.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
9/15/2003
First off, I gotta pay my respects to one of the central focuses of my last post, the Man in Black himself, Mr. Johnny Cash. I think we all knew he wasn’t long for this world, but that cannot take away from his contributions. He’ll be missed.
Now, onto the matters at hand…
Have you noticed that everyone has their own talk show now? Seriously. Dear reader, I think it’s only a matter of time before you and I have our own talk shows. All we need to do is have a five-minute cameo in a moderately popular film in which we steal the scene. We’ll catch the eye of some half-wit producer from some lackluster cable station, and within a matter of seconds we’ll be signing a contract for our own talk show.
Can you smell the excitement? ‘Cause I can’t.
Folks, who wants a talk show? Seriously, are they even entertaining anymore? Save the almighty holy trinity of late night hosts (Letterman, O’Brien, Leno), the talk show is a dead art form, case closed. And even I have to admit that none of those guys are as funny as they were 5-10 years ago.
OK, let’s clear something up first. There are two divisions of the modern talk show. The first is entertainment-based. That is to say, shows that focus around celebrities, television, film, music, and various newsmakers. The second is shock-based. These are focused on trashy people in clothes that are way too tight bitching about how their mom slept with their boyfriend while neglecting their 900-pound obese brother and his 7-year-old out of control daughter who beat up the handicapped kid with the bizarre skin disorder at school.
I’m focusing on the former, not the latter. Stay with me here and please bear right at the fork in the road, lest ye want to be knee-deep in Mauryworld. What the hell kinda name is “Maury,” anyway? If you really hate your child, name him or her “Maury.” Heck, my mother named one of her garden gnomes “Maury” once, and a week into his stay at El Casa de Rico, he had an unfortunate encounter with a ball peen hammer. Sad, really. Moving along…
Now these talk shows can, based on their nature, be aired at almost any given point during the day. Early morning, mid-day, late afternoon, late night, late late night, hell, there’s a talk show for every meal of the day including in-between snackfests. But why? Do we really obsess over watching these shows so much?
An aside, in an upcoming post I will list the ten best programs on TV and why. Back to this post, already in progress.
I mean, look at some of the hosts. These are not superstars with major talents a la Letterman or O’Brien, let alone the almighty Carson. These are Hollywood Squares alumni who are too big for their britches.
I mean, does Caroline Rhea need a show? What gives her the right to take over Rosie O’Donnell’s spot? Not that I ever felt Rosie was anything special, but Caroline Rhea is a supporting cast member on Sabrina The Teenage Witch. Hardly what I’d call a barnburner of a television show. Or Jesse Ventura? Jesse, good wrestler, better commentator, quasi-joke of an actor, questionable governor, lets keep your resume limited to those items alone, OK? Or what about Wayne Brady? He’s the guy who improvises songs on the spot on Whose Line Is It Anyway? He’s a good-looking cat with a decent singing voice. But he is not as funny as Ryan Stiles or Colin Quinn, period. Hell, the fucking 7-Up guy has his own show! Orlando Jordan hasn’t even had a hit movie yet! Let’s see, The Time Machine, Evolution, and that horrible horrible film with Eddie Griffin. Oh, yeah. This guy is a superstar in every sense of the word. Hocking soda will only get you so far. Hell, I’m sure if Clara Peller hadn’t been so old during her “where’s the beef” days, she’d have wound up with her own talk show.
And now we’ve got Sharon Osbourne. Now Sharon, I give her credit for A) getting her husband straightened out, and B) being a savvy businesswoman. But the entire Osbourne clan has given into every Hollywood tabloid cliché possible. With the exception of Ozzy himself (who is too loveably brain dead to know otherwise), not a one of them is innocent. Heck, if I ever get together in a band and want it to be a big hit, all I’ll do is date Kelly Osbourne. Hey, sometimes a man has to get his hands dirty. Whatever pushes units, right?
So what is gonna separate Sharon’s show from anyone else’s? Probably nothing. Is she gonna put her own spin on things? Most likely. Will she cuss like a sailor? Undoubtedly. Will it be fresh and innovative? Hardly. Eventually, it will fall to every other tired cliché imaginable. I think this is why I hate television so much. There’s barely anything on that I haven’t already seen in some shape or form. And I’m not talking reruns, I’m talking cleverness, good writing, good characters, good hosts, etc. I feel truly sorry for Jimmy Kimmel, as I find the man truly funny. He is unfortunately handcuffed by the brass at ABC for his brand of comedy. A shame, really, ‘cause he’s got potential to be the next big thing in late night. If only he could’ve landed a gig at HBO.
Hell, word has it that Britney Spears and Jennifer Lopez are in talks for their own talk shows. Folks, these two “supertalents” have gone from useless singers to useless actresses to soon-to-be useless talk show hostesses in a matter of four years. Granted, now that these two gems are no longer engaged or don’t have any hot 40-year-old women to make out with, they probably have a lot of free time on their hands.
Look, lemme sum it up for you nicely folks. Any day that Michael Essany, a 20-something no-name from Buttfuck, Generica USA can land an hour-long show on E!, it sets a dangerous precedent.
Anyone can get their own talk show. Anyone.
So with that in mind, I present to you a list of five individuals whom I would like to see host a talk show in the near future.
Kevin Smith. Aside from being wonderfully crass, the man is also brutally honest. You need look no further than Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back or the ill-fated Clerks cartoon to know that he pulls no punches, and has it in for celebrities. Not even his pal Ben Affleck is safe at all times. Moreover, the man is painfully intelligent, which would provide for a spectacularly enlightening show. His biting witticisms are off the cuff and hilarious.
Lewis Black. Saw the man live once, nearly ruptured my spleen laughing. I swear, you wanna talk about a guy who hates everyone, Lewis is that guy. No one is safe, period. Not Starbucks, not the president, not celebrities, not your mom. Just have an ample supply of black coffee and cigarettes on hand for the host of the moment. He’ll fly through ‘em.
Zakk Wylde. Zakk is completely unfiltered with no apologies whatsoever. Half the show would be him chugging beer, shredding on the “buzzsaw” and chugging more beer. Throw in the occasional live performance by the in-house band, Zakk’s own Black Label Society. Frequent guests would be Dimebag Darrell, Jerry Cantrell, Mike Piazza and Rob Zombie. If that’s not a winning combination, I don’t know what is. Hell, Fuse would eat that shit up and ask for seconds.
Henry Rollins. I think few things would be as entertaining as watching Henry Rollins psychologically dismantle half-hearted, weak-minded guests on a daily basis. I mean, c’mon. Can’t you just picture the man decimating Jewel for her recent “efforts” in the music business? Or maybe having an arm-wrestling match with Glenn Danzig. This thing’s got money written all over it.
George Carlin. If you really need me to explain this one, I don’t want you visiting this site again. Ever. The man is comedy’s answer to God, understand? Not only is he one of the longest active comedians around, but he’s also the funniest. Period. He says the things that no one else is willing to, and for that reason alone, I laud the man. Television is just aching for a dose of Carlin.
Until the time that any or all of those guys get their own shows, I don’t feel like I’m missing much by working in the morning or going to bed early at night. If I’m to be entertained, I first must be impressed, and quite frankly, the average talk show just doesn’t cut it anymore. Think of this as my “Dr. Phil” dose of advice to the industry: stop looking for the next pseudo-celebrity to be a talk show host and just stick with what works. Trust me, ratings will follow. If you build it, they will come. Case closed.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
Now, onto the matters at hand…
Have you noticed that everyone has their own talk show now? Seriously. Dear reader, I think it’s only a matter of time before you and I have our own talk shows. All we need to do is have a five-minute cameo in a moderately popular film in which we steal the scene. We’ll catch the eye of some half-wit producer from some lackluster cable station, and within a matter of seconds we’ll be signing a contract for our own talk show.
Can you smell the excitement? ‘Cause I can’t.
Folks, who wants a talk show? Seriously, are they even entertaining anymore? Save the almighty holy trinity of late night hosts (Letterman, O’Brien, Leno), the talk show is a dead art form, case closed. And even I have to admit that none of those guys are as funny as they were 5-10 years ago.
OK, let’s clear something up first. There are two divisions of the modern talk show. The first is entertainment-based. That is to say, shows that focus around celebrities, television, film, music, and various newsmakers. The second is shock-based. These are focused on trashy people in clothes that are way too tight bitching about how their mom slept with their boyfriend while neglecting their 900-pound obese brother and his 7-year-old out of control daughter who beat up the handicapped kid with the bizarre skin disorder at school.
I’m focusing on the former, not the latter. Stay with me here and please bear right at the fork in the road, lest ye want to be knee-deep in Mauryworld. What the hell kinda name is “Maury,” anyway? If you really hate your child, name him or her “Maury.” Heck, my mother named one of her garden gnomes “Maury” once, and a week into his stay at El Casa de Rico, he had an unfortunate encounter with a ball peen hammer. Sad, really. Moving along…
Now these talk shows can, based on their nature, be aired at almost any given point during the day. Early morning, mid-day, late afternoon, late night, late late night, hell, there’s a talk show for every meal of the day including in-between snackfests. But why? Do we really obsess over watching these shows so much?
An aside, in an upcoming post I will list the ten best programs on TV and why. Back to this post, already in progress.
I mean, look at some of the hosts. These are not superstars with major talents a la Letterman or O’Brien, let alone the almighty Carson. These are Hollywood Squares alumni who are too big for their britches.
I mean, does Caroline Rhea need a show? What gives her the right to take over Rosie O’Donnell’s spot? Not that I ever felt Rosie was anything special, but Caroline Rhea is a supporting cast member on Sabrina The Teenage Witch. Hardly what I’d call a barnburner of a television show. Or Jesse Ventura? Jesse, good wrestler, better commentator, quasi-joke of an actor, questionable governor, lets keep your resume limited to those items alone, OK? Or what about Wayne Brady? He’s the guy who improvises songs on the spot on Whose Line Is It Anyway? He’s a good-looking cat with a decent singing voice. But he is not as funny as Ryan Stiles or Colin Quinn, period. Hell, the fucking 7-Up guy has his own show! Orlando Jordan hasn’t even had a hit movie yet! Let’s see, The Time Machine, Evolution, and that horrible horrible film with Eddie Griffin. Oh, yeah. This guy is a superstar in every sense of the word. Hocking soda will only get you so far. Hell, I’m sure if Clara Peller hadn’t been so old during her “where’s the beef” days, she’d have wound up with her own talk show.
And now we’ve got Sharon Osbourne. Now Sharon, I give her credit for A) getting her husband straightened out, and B) being a savvy businesswoman. But the entire Osbourne clan has given into every Hollywood tabloid cliché possible. With the exception of Ozzy himself (who is too loveably brain dead to know otherwise), not a one of them is innocent. Heck, if I ever get together in a band and want it to be a big hit, all I’ll do is date Kelly Osbourne. Hey, sometimes a man has to get his hands dirty. Whatever pushes units, right?
So what is gonna separate Sharon’s show from anyone else’s? Probably nothing. Is she gonna put her own spin on things? Most likely. Will she cuss like a sailor? Undoubtedly. Will it be fresh and innovative? Hardly. Eventually, it will fall to every other tired cliché imaginable. I think this is why I hate television so much. There’s barely anything on that I haven’t already seen in some shape or form. And I’m not talking reruns, I’m talking cleverness, good writing, good characters, good hosts, etc. I feel truly sorry for Jimmy Kimmel, as I find the man truly funny. He is unfortunately handcuffed by the brass at ABC for his brand of comedy. A shame, really, ‘cause he’s got potential to be the next big thing in late night. If only he could’ve landed a gig at HBO.
Hell, word has it that Britney Spears and Jennifer Lopez are in talks for their own talk shows. Folks, these two “supertalents” have gone from useless singers to useless actresses to soon-to-be useless talk show hostesses in a matter of four years. Granted, now that these two gems are no longer engaged or don’t have any hot 40-year-old women to make out with, they probably have a lot of free time on their hands.
Look, lemme sum it up for you nicely folks. Any day that Michael Essany, a 20-something no-name from Buttfuck, Generica USA can land an hour-long show on E!, it sets a dangerous precedent.
Anyone can get their own talk show. Anyone.
So with that in mind, I present to you a list of five individuals whom I would like to see host a talk show in the near future.
Kevin Smith. Aside from being wonderfully crass, the man is also brutally honest. You need look no further than Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back or the ill-fated Clerks cartoon to know that he pulls no punches, and has it in for celebrities. Not even his pal Ben Affleck is safe at all times. Moreover, the man is painfully intelligent, which would provide for a spectacularly enlightening show. His biting witticisms are off the cuff and hilarious.
Lewis Black. Saw the man live once, nearly ruptured my spleen laughing. I swear, you wanna talk about a guy who hates everyone, Lewis is that guy. No one is safe, period. Not Starbucks, not the president, not celebrities, not your mom. Just have an ample supply of black coffee and cigarettes on hand for the host of the moment. He’ll fly through ‘em.
Zakk Wylde. Zakk is completely unfiltered with no apologies whatsoever. Half the show would be him chugging beer, shredding on the “buzzsaw” and chugging more beer. Throw in the occasional live performance by the in-house band, Zakk’s own Black Label Society. Frequent guests would be Dimebag Darrell, Jerry Cantrell, Mike Piazza and Rob Zombie. If that’s not a winning combination, I don’t know what is. Hell, Fuse would eat that shit up and ask for seconds.
Henry Rollins. I think few things would be as entertaining as watching Henry Rollins psychologically dismantle half-hearted, weak-minded guests on a daily basis. I mean, c’mon. Can’t you just picture the man decimating Jewel for her recent “efforts” in the music business? Or maybe having an arm-wrestling match with Glenn Danzig. This thing’s got money written all over it.
George Carlin. If you really need me to explain this one, I don’t want you visiting this site again. Ever. The man is comedy’s answer to God, understand? Not only is he one of the longest active comedians around, but he’s also the funniest. Period. He says the things that no one else is willing to, and for that reason alone, I laud the man. Television is just aching for a dose of Carlin.
Until the time that any or all of those guys get their own shows, I don’t feel like I’m missing much by working in the morning or going to bed early at night. If I’m to be entertained, I first must be impressed, and quite frankly, the average talk show just doesn’t cut it anymore. Think of this as my “Dr. Phil” dose of advice to the industry: stop looking for the next pseudo-celebrity to be a talk show host and just stick with what works. Trust me, ratings will follow. If you build it, they will come. Case closed.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
8/29/2003
Don’t call it a comeback, I’ve been just laying in wait of something bizarre/stupid/outrageous/absurd to come along deserving of my brand of commentary.
Leave it up to MTV to accommodate me.
So yeah, last night were the ’03 VMA’s. Well light a fire under my ass and call me enraged (or underwhelmed, based on the quality of the show). It seems like with each passing year, MTV, the ever-loving bastion of superficiality, the seemingly endless well of shallowness manages to outdo itself.
Y’know, I remember when this worthless network used to award videos deserving of recognition. I remember Sinead O’Connor’s “Nothing Compares 2 U,” R.E.M.’s “Losing My Religion,” Aerosmith’s “Cryin’,” Neil Young’s “This Note’s For You,” truly memorable videos that are hard to get out of your mind.
I’ve often criticized the music video genre. I’ve always felt that the blending of images and words, while novel and perhaps innocent in its conception, has managed to put style way over the top, burying substance to the point of no return. However, once in awhile, a video will come along that honestly blends images and words so beautifully, you cannot help but take notice. Sadly, more often than not these videos go unrecognized by the fine folks at Empty-V. See, it’s in the name of the award show itself. “VMA’s.” “Video Music Awards.” The “video” is placed before the “music.” The style comes before the substance. The image comes before the message. The song is secondary, case closed. I could write and record the next What’s Going On?, but if I don’t have a sufficient video for my first single, I’ll never get a second glance from MTV, and my art won’t see the light of day on their network. That’s why so many great videos go tragically unnoticed.
Case in point: a nice piece of work like Stone Sour’s video for “Bother” went completely unacknowledged, and was barely played on the network. Still, if you’ve seen the video, you know what I’m talking about. Corey Taylor singing this sad but beautiful song of lament to a rapidly aging version of himself. Simple, yet effective. It gets the message across beautifully. Yet no one really cares.
Similarly, I think Metallica’s video for “St. Anger” deserved some props. Props that were not received. Criticize the album if you will, but you’d be hard pressed to deny that the video, filmed at San Quentin, fit the theme of the song nicely. However, the video was only nominated for one bleeding award that was given to Linkin Park, a two-bit flash in the pan at best. And don’t give me the argument that the nominees are decided based on airplay, because according to a recent article on CNN.com, it would appear that one of the nominees for video of the year was played less than ten times on MTV itself.
I’m speaking of course about Johnny Cash’s video for “Hurt.” If this video doesn’t affect you in some way, check for a pulse, because you’re probably dead. It’s fraught with emotion, and if it doesn’t evoke some kind of emotional response from you, be it sorrow, pain, anything, then you’re missing the big picture. Let’s look at the other nominees:
“Cry Me A River” by Justin Timberlake. I’ll give this guy some credit since he’s managed to make a successful leap from cardboard cutout pre-packaged pop to some relatively solid R&B. The video features him making out with a girl, arguing with a girl, dancing around, and singing while water floods his surroundings. Not really a bad song, but hardly a memorable video.
“In Da Club” by 50 Cent. How this guy made it is mystifying to me. I attribute it all to his partner in crime, Eminem. Without his name in the liner notes and his face in the videos, 50 probably wouldn’t be where he is today, and you know what? That’s just fine with me. I honestly can’t figure out what the big deal about this guy is. I don’t think he’s a terribly talented rapper, not on the level of an Eminem or a Tupac. His video is him working out and partying. Well, sans the working out bit, that’s every rap video today. See, that’s the thing. 50 is in serious need of some Band-Aids, ‘cause he’s all cut up. Moreover, his tough guy image and bulletproof vest make him a sure thing in da “Image is Everything” club.
“Lose Yourself” by Eminem. Granted, a great song. My flirtation with hip hop ended with MC Hammer, but to be truthful, there have been some noteworthy luminaries in the genre. To me, the legends are Run DMC, Public Enemy, NWA, Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg, Tupac, and Eminem. End of story. No more, no less. I think this is Em’s best song to date, but not his best video. It’s just a medley of images from 8 Mile intertwined with him rapping. Fair enough, great promotional tool, better song. Not his best video. I think something like “Cleaning Out My Closet” would be much more appropriate for this nomination, since it’s a good strong blend of imagery and lyrics. So while I (surprisingly) give credit to the man, I don’t feel this video is deserving of the nomination, let alone the award.
“Work It” by Missy Elliott. A new, improved, Trim-Spa imbued Missy Elliott dances, raps, and works the turntables while covered in bees. To me, the most memorable thing about this video is the recurring image of the old, fat-ass Missy. All the lipo in the world still can’t repair that Mr. Ed-like horseface of hers. Once again, like 50, I don’t get it, don’t see the point, don’t know why it even deserves to be nominated.
Meanwhile, Johnny Cash’s thoughtful, emotional treatment of Nine Inch Nails’ “Hurt” went home with one award that wasn’t even presented on the program. Best Cinematography. Well big whoop. Lets piss away all the poignant, emotional value of the video and award it for its technical merits. Screw the song, respect the tech. And that, my friends, is Empty-V for ya. Style over substance, now and forever. We reached a point of no return in 1999 with the insurrection of cookie cutter pop and bling-bling-pass-the-Cristal-fuck-ya-hoes hip hop. There’s no looking back. Those of us salivating for musical substance are up Shit Creek without a paddle. Welcome to 2003, can I take your coat?
As for memorable moments, well the one that everyone is talking about is the opening segment. Madonna, Britney Spears, and Christina Aguilera, paying homage to the Material Hack’s first-ever VMA performance, replete with oversized wedding cake and bustier-style wedding dresses on the juniors. But it wasn’t just that, it was the open mouth kiss Madonna planted on each of her young protégés.
Meanwhile, Timberlake is in the audience thinking, “I can’t believe my ex kissed Madonna before me.”
But see, this is where the VMAs are consistently coming up short. Their live performances. To me, the last great live performances were U2 at the ’01 VMAs, and Kid Rock, Run DMC, and Aerosmith at the ’99 awards. Memorable moments beyond live performances are getting few and far between, save Tim C. from Rage storming the stage back in 2000. Very little since has raised an eye. I was shocked when Metallica was announced to be playing. “Holy shit, a band that has some relevance in our musical culture! What will they think of next?” For the record, I dug their performance. It was a side of them we don’t see often, and a nice little homage to some of the better artists of the MTV generation. That, and ya can’t go wrong with “Frantic, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tock.”
But for the most part, when it comes to live performances, those folks at MTV now have to rely on absurd schlock like last night’s embarrassing opening display, or nostalgic wistfulness like last year’s “big” performance by the new and not-so-improved Guns N’ Roses. The motivation for all three women in last night’s bisexual moment of the year was similar to Axl Rose’s motivation last year. The motivation is, “what’s best for me?”
Let’s travel into the minds of these four headcases:
Axl: “Well, the world tour is coming up, we need some publicity, otherwise people aren’t even gonna know that there is a GNR anymore. Better take those folks at MTV up on their offer and stir the shit a little bit.”
Madonna: “My career is flagging, I’ve been branded an anti-American, my new album tanked, my last movie tanked, and my new GAP commercial is an embarrassment. Better reprise the wedding cake bit with Britney and Christina and stir the shit a little bit.”
Britney: “Well, I’ve been outta the limelight for a good year now, everyone knows I’m not a virgin anymore, and my ex-boyfriend is enjoying success that is nothing short of a slap in the face to me. Better take Madonna up on her offer for the wedding cake/kiss bit and stir the shit a little.”
Christina: “I’ve been labeled a whore, a sellout, a skank, everyone hates me, my album is faltering in sales, no one will take me seriously, I’m a joke. Better take Madonna up on her offer for the wedding cake/kiss bit and stir the shit a little.”
See, the line of thinking here is no different than Michael Jackson’s when he kissed Lisa Marie Presley at the awards some years ago. “What can I do that will benefit me? How can I use the VMA’s as a podium to promote me?” Egotism at its most rampant, ladies and gentlemen.
I’m sure millions of red-blooded American males have developed an everlasting hard-on since last night’s display, and I applaud them for showing that their peckers work proper. Nevertheless, I will remember the display less for its sex appeal and more for the sheer shallowness of the intentions.
Meanwhile, Johnny Cash spent last night in the hospital with a stomach ailment. I’m glad he wasn’t at the live show, because I would’ve been personally insulted to be lumped in with the rest of these “winners.”
I’ll also give credit to Timberlake for at least mentioning the man. His nominations were grossly under-acknowledged by the producers, and they should be ashamed of themselves. For a guy the magnitude of Timberlake to give credit to Cash, that proves him to be a class act in many ways, and to that effect, I have a newfound respect for the man. Humility, when genuine, never goes unrecognized.
So another VMA has passed, and most of us have probably learned nothing. I’m resentful over the fact that I killed my Thursday night watching just to see Metallica perform, and to see Johnny Cash get his dues. And I only got half of that combination. I don’t want my MTV, I want my Thursday night back. In fact, I want the last 20 years back. The only real “triumphs” to MTV’s credit are, in my eyes, Guns N’ Roses, U2, and the Seattle Explosion of the early 90’s. I hate to say it, but without the music video, there’s a relatively good chance that those artists may have gone unnoticed, so I have MTV to thank for that at least. The rest has been 20 solid years of soft fluff. Think about it, how many one-hit wonders has MTV spoonfed and provided us over the years? Not since the golden days of disco have so many artists pissed away 15 minutes of fame. A few diamonds in the rough do not make for a legacy, they make for a hype machine.
MTV has degenerated to a cultural burp. Their waning influence is noted by the fact that TRL no longer has all the top artists on its countdown. Where were Godsmack and Disturbed on TRL? How about Audioslave or Evanescence? They all had albums that made into Billboard’s Top Ten. What? They’re not MTV material? Let MTV2 cover those bands? Better yet, leave them as debris for Fuse to gobble up? But I thought MTV had a thumb on the pulse of all things music. Well that thumb is slipping rapidly. Why else do you think that they were charging 99 cents a call to vote for the Viewer’s Choice Award last night?
I could go on and on, but I’m already up to four full pages of rant in Microsoft Word, so as I end this post, I give you some thought-provoking lyrics by one of my favorite bands, Dream Theater.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
Just Let Me Breathe
By Dream Theater
Open your eyes
And turn off your mind.
Step right up folks
And you will find
A growing trend,
An epidemic
Spread with Zen
And hypodermics, yeah.
Just close your mind,
You can find all you need with your eyes.
The big machines take care of you
Until you kill yourself,
And then the sales go through the roof,
Calculated, formulated.
Feed my head with simple thoughts
And let me breathe instead of being taught.
All bottled up and tearing at the seams,
I’m bored.
Just let me breathe.
A daily dose of eMpTyV
Will flush your mind right down the drain.
Shannon Hoon and Kurt Cobain,
Make yourself a household name, yeah, yeah.
Just close your mind,
You can find all you need with your eyes.
The big machines take care of you
Until you kill yourself,
And then the sales go through the roof,
Calculated, formulated.
Feed my head with simple thoughts
And let me breathe instead of being taught.
All bottled up and tearing at the seams,
I’m bored.
Just let me breathe.
Strike up your best angst-ridden posture,
Manufactured angler.
Let’s not forget my legacy,
All my heroes have failed me.
Now they’re dead and buried, yeah.
Just close your mind,
You can find all you need with your eyes.
The big machines will take care of you
Until the fashion fades
And the checks go through.
My bankroll’s red
And my face is blue,
And still they’ll turn their backs on me for someone new.
Feed my head
With some real thoughts,
And let me think instead
Of being taught.
I’ll say things
You won’t believe.
Just stand back,
Just let me breathe…
Leave it up to MTV to accommodate me.
So yeah, last night were the ’03 VMA’s. Well light a fire under my ass and call me enraged (or underwhelmed, based on the quality of the show). It seems like with each passing year, MTV, the ever-loving bastion of superficiality, the seemingly endless well of shallowness manages to outdo itself.
Y’know, I remember when this worthless network used to award videos deserving of recognition. I remember Sinead O’Connor’s “Nothing Compares 2 U,” R.E.M.’s “Losing My Religion,” Aerosmith’s “Cryin’,” Neil Young’s “This Note’s For You,” truly memorable videos that are hard to get out of your mind.
I’ve often criticized the music video genre. I’ve always felt that the blending of images and words, while novel and perhaps innocent in its conception, has managed to put style way over the top, burying substance to the point of no return. However, once in awhile, a video will come along that honestly blends images and words so beautifully, you cannot help but take notice. Sadly, more often than not these videos go unrecognized by the fine folks at Empty-V. See, it’s in the name of the award show itself. “VMA’s.” “Video Music Awards.” The “video” is placed before the “music.” The style comes before the substance. The image comes before the message. The song is secondary, case closed. I could write and record the next What’s Going On?, but if I don’t have a sufficient video for my first single, I’ll never get a second glance from MTV, and my art won’t see the light of day on their network. That’s why so many great videos go tragically unnoticed.
Case in point: a nice piece of work like Stone Sour’s video for “Bother” went completely unacknowledged, and was barely played on the network. Still, if you’ve seen the video, you know what I’m talking about. Corey Taylor singing this sad but beautiful song of lament to a rapidly aging version of himself. Simple, yet effective. It gets the message across beautifully. Yet no one really cares.
Similarly, I think Metallica’s video for “St. Anger” deserved some props. Props that were not received. Criticize the album if you will, but you’d be hard pressed to deny that the video, filmed at San Quentin, fit the theme of the song nicely. However, the video was only nominated for one bleeding award that was given to Linkin Park, a two-bit flash in the pan at best. And don’t give me the argument that the nominees are decided based on airplay, because according to a recent article on CNN.com, it would appear that one of the nominees for video of the year was played less than ten times on MTV itself.
I’m speaking of course about Johnny Cash’s video for “Hurt.” If this video doesn’t affect you in some way, check for a pulse, because you’re probably dead. It’s fraught with emotion, and if it doesn’t evoke some kind of emotional response from you, be it sorrow, pain, anything, then you’re missing the big picture. Let’s look at the other nominees:
“Cry Me A River” by Justin Timberlake. I’ll give this guy some credit since he’s managed to make a successful leap from cardboard cutout pre-packaged pop to some relatively solid R&B. The video features him making out with a girl, arguing with a girl, dancing around, and singing while water floods his surroundings. Not really a bad song, but hardly a memorable video.
“In Da Club” by 50 Cent. How this guy made it is mystifying to me. I attribute it all to his partner in crime, Eminem. Without his name in the liner notes and his face in the videos, 50 probably wouldn’t be where he is today, and you know what? That’s just fine with me. I honestly can’t figure out what the big deal about this guy is. I don’t think he’s a terribly talented rapper, not on the level of an Eminem or a Tupac. His video is him working out and partying. Well, sans the working out bit, that’s every rap video today. See, that’s the thing. 50 is in serious need of some Band-Aids, ‘cause he’s all cut up. Moreover, his tough guy image and bulletproof vest make him a sure thing in da “Image is Everything” club.
“Lose Yourself” by Eminem. Granted, a great song. My flirtation with hip hop ended with MC Hammer, but to be truthful, there have been some noteworthy luminaries in the genre. To me, the legends are Run DMC, Public Enemy, NWA, Dr. Dre, Snoop Dogg, Tupac, and Eminem. End of story. No more, no less. I think this is Em’s best song to date, but not his best video. It’s just a medley of images from 8 Mile intertwined with him rapping. Fair enough, great promotional tool, better song. Not his best video. I think something like “Cleaning Out My Closet” would be much more appropriate for this nomination, since it’s a good strong blend of imagery and lyrics. So while I (surprisingly) give credit to the man, I don’t feel this video is deserving of the nomination, let alone the award.
“Work It” by Missy Elliott. A new, improved, Trim-Spa imbued Missy Elliott dances, raps, and works the turntables while covered in bees. To me, the most memorable thing about this video is the recurring image of the old, fat-ass Missy. All the lipo in the world still can’t repair that Mr. Ed-like horseface of hers. Once again, like 50, I don’t get it, don’t see the point, don’t know why it even deserves to be nominated.
Meanwhile, Johnny Cash’s thoughtful, emotional treatment of Nine Inch Nails’ “Hurt” went home with one award that wasn’t even presented on the program. Best Cinematography. Well big whoop. Lets piss away all the poignant, emotional value of the video and award it for its technical merits. Screw the song, respect the tech. And that, my friends, is Empty-V for ya. Style over substance, now and forever. We reached a point of no return in 1999 with the insurrection of cookie cutter pop and bling-bling-pass-the-Cristal-fuck-ya-hoes hip hop. There’s no looking back. Those of us salivating for musical substance are up Shit Creek without a paddle. Welcome to 2003, can I take your coat?
As for memorable moments, well the one that everyone is talking about is the opening segment. Madonna, Britney Spears, and Christina Aguilera, paying homage to the Material Hack’s first-ever VMA performance, replete with oversized wedding cake and bustier-style wedding dresses on the juniors. But it wasn’t just that, it was the open mouth kiss Madonna planted on each of her young protégés.
Meanwhile, Timberlake is in the audience thinking, “I can’t believe my ex kissed Madonna before me.”
But see, this is where the VMAs are consistently coming up short. Their live performances. To me, the last great live performances were U2 at the ’01 VMAs, and Kid Rock, Run DMC, and Aerosmith at the ’99 awards. Memorable moments beyond live performances are getting few and far between, save Tim C. from Rage storming the stage back in 2000. Very little since has raised an eye. I was shocked when Metallica was announced to be playing. “Holy shit, a band that has some relevance in our musical culture! What will they think of next?” For the record, I dug their performance. It was a side of them we don’t see often, and a nice little homage to some of the better artists of the MTV generation. That, and ya can’t go wrong with “Frantic, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tock.”
But for the most part, when it comes to live performances, those folks at MTV now have to rely on absurd schlock like last night’s embarrassing opening display, or nostalgic wistfulness like last year’s “big” performance by the new and not-so-improved Guns N’ Roses. The motivation for all three women in last night’s bisexual moment of the year was similar to Axl Rose’s motivation last year. The motivation is, “what’s best for me?”
Let’s travel into the minds of these four headcases:
Axl: “Well, the world tour is coming up, we need some publicity, otherwise people aren’t even gonna know that there is a GNR anymore. Better take those folks at MTV up on their offer and stir the shit a little bit.”
Madonna: “My career is flagging, I’ve been branded an anti-American, my new album tanked, my last movie tanked, and my new GAP commercial is an embarrassment. Better reprise the wedding cake bit with Britney and Christina and stir the shit a little bit.”
Britney: “Well, I’ve been outta the limelight for a good year now, everyone knows I’m not a virgin anymore, and my ex-boyfriend is enjoying success that is nothing short of a slap in the face to me. Better take Madonna up on her offer for the wedding cake/kiss bit and stir the shit a little.”
Christina: “I’ve been labeled a whore, a sellout, a skank, everyone hates me, my album is faltering in sales, no one will take me seriously, I’m a joke. Better take Madonna up on her offer for the wedding cake/kiss bit and stir the shit a little.”
See, the line of thinking here is no different than Michael Jackson’s when he kissed Lisa Marie Presley at the awards some years ago. “What can I do that will benefit me? How can I use the VMA’s as a podium to promote me?” Egotism at its most rampant, ladies and gentlemen.
I’m sure millions of red-blooded American males have developed an everlasting hard-on since last night’s display, and I applaud them for showing that their peckers work proper. Nevertheless, I will remember the display less for its sex appeal and more for the sheer shallowness of the intentions.
Meanwhile, Johnny Cash spent last night in the hospital with a stomach ailment. I’m glad he wasn’t at the live show, because I would’ve been personally insulted to be lumped in with the rest of these “winners.”
I’ll also give credit to Timberlake for at least mentioning the man. His nominations were grossly under-acknowledged by the producers, and they should be ashamed of themselves. For a guy the magnitude of Timberlake to give credit to Cash, that proves him to be a class act in many ways, and to that effect, I have a newfound respect for the man. Humility, when genuine, never goes unrecognized.
So another VMA has passed, and most of us have probably learned nothing. I’m resentful over the fact that I killed my Thursday night watching just to see Metallica perform, and to see Johnny Cash get his dues. And I only got half of that combination. I don’t want my MTV, I want my Thursday night back. In fact, I want the last 20 years back. The only real “triumphs” to MTV’s credit are, in my eyes, Guns N’ Roses, U2, and the Seattle Explosion of the early 90’s. I hate to say it, but without the music video, there’s a relatively good chance that those artists may have gone unnoticed, so I have MTV to thank for that at least. The rest has been 20 solid years of soft fluff. Think about it, how many one-hit wonders has MTV spoonfed and provided us over the years? Not since the golden days of disco have so many artists pissed away 15 minutes of fame. A few diamonds in the rough do not make for a legacy, they make for a hype machine.
MTV has degenerated to a cultural burp. Their waning influence is noted by the fact that TRL no longer has all the top artists on its countdown. Where were Godsmack and Disturbed on TRL? How about Audioslave or Evanescence? They all had albums that made into Billboard’s Top Ten. What? They’re not MTV material? Let MTV2 cover those bands? Better yet, leave them as debris for Fuse to gobble up? But I thought MTV had a thumb on the pulse of all things music. Well that thumb is slipping rapidly. Why else do you think that they were charging 99 cents a call to vote for the Viewer’s Choice Award last night?
I could go on and on, but I’m already up to four full pages of rant in Microsoft Word, so as I end this post, I give you some thought-provoking lyrics by one of my favorite bands, Dream Theater.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
Just Let Me Breathe
By Dream Theater
Open your eyes
And turn off your mind.
Step right up folks
And you will find
A growing trend,
An epidemic
Spread with Zen
And hypodermics, yeah.
Just close your mind,
You can find all you need with your eyes.
The big machines take care of you
Until you kill yourself,
And then the sales go through the roof,
Calculated, formulated.
Feed my head with simple thoughts
And let me breathe instead of being taught.
All bottled up and tearing at the seams,
I’m bored.
Just let me breathe.
A daily dose of eMpTyV
Will flush your mind right down the drain.
Shannon Hoon and Kurt Cobain,
Make yourself a household name, yeah, yeah.
Just close your mind,
You can find all you need with your eyes.
The big machines take care of you
Until you kill yourself,
And then the sales go through the roof,
Calculated, formulated.
Feed my head with simple thoughts
And let me breathe instead of being taught.
All bottled up and tearing at the seams,
I’m bored.
Just let me breathe.
Strike up your best angst-ridden posture,
Manufactured angler.
Let’s not forget my legacy,
All my heroes have failed me.
Now they’re dead and buried, yeah.
Just close your mind,
You can find all you need with your eyes.
The big machines will take care of you
Until the fashion fades
And the checks go through.
My bankroll’s red
And my face is blue,
And still they’ll turn their backs on me for someone new.
Feed my head
With some real thoughts,
And let me think instead
Of being taught.
I’ll say things
You won’t believe.
Just stand back,
Just let me breathe…
8/04/2003
Incoming!
Checking in for just a second of my precious summer time to let you know about my new passion, the Lyrical Hotbed, where you can find my all-time favorite song lyrics. Once more, thanks go out to Maggie for the inspiration. You're alright, kiddo.
Here's what to expect when I do return (which oughta be relatively soon): a rant on the Kiss Army, and a commentary on the current state of guitar in today's musical scene.
And with that, I bid you adieu.
Outgoing!
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
Checking in for just a second of my precious summer time to let you know about my new passion, the Lyrical Hotbed, where you can find my all-time favorite song lyrics. Once more, thanks go out to Maggie for the inspiration. You're alright, kiddo.
Here's what to expect when I do return (which oughta be relatively soon): a rant on the Kiss Army, and a commentary on the current state of guitar in today's musical scene.
And with that, I bid you adieu.
Outgoing!
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
7/08/2003
Ladies and gentlemen, the CEO of Landshark Sandwich.
*People begin to cheer as Rick makes his way to the podium to deliver the LSS State of the Union Address.*
Good morning. As you can all see by the information posted on this site, it has been nearly a full month since my last post of rant-laden goodness. I will cut straight to the chase, ladies and gentlemen. This is my last summer as a free man. Oh, I may be working part time, but for the most part, I am free until the end of August. Sure, I may have my fair share of concerts and traveling to partake of, but this is my last summer before I complete my MBA studies at UNH.
Having said that, I regret to inform you that this site will be on temporary hiatus until the end of the summer. Please understand that I do want to discuss a variety of intense topics, such as bad summer movies, the continued bastardly acts of the RIAA, and pure genius.
However, odds are I will never get so great an amount of free time again... barring unemployment, of course. Having said that, I hope you can all appreciate my decision to temporarily suspend the site. Bear in mind that this is nothing permanent, merely an unofficial leave of absence. I will be checking in from time to time.
Thank you for your cooperation.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
*People begin to cheer as Rick makes his way to the podium to deliver the LSS State of the Union Address.*
Good morning. As you can all see by the information posted on this site, it has been nearly a full month since my last post of rant-laden goodness. I will cut straight to the chase, ladies and gentlemen. This is my last summer as a free man. Oh, I may be working part time, but for the most part, I am free until the end of August. Sure, I may have my fair share of concerts and traveling to partake of, but this is my last summer before I complete my MBA studies at UNH.
Having said that, I regret to inform you that this site will be on temporary hiatus until the end of the summer. Please understand that I do want to discuss a variety of intense topics, such as bad summer movies, the continued bastardly acts of the RIAA, and pure genius.
However, odds are I will never get so great an amount of free time again... barring unemployment, of course. Having said that, I hope you can all appreciate my decision to temporarily suspend the site. Bear in mind that this is nothing permanent, merely an unofficial leave of absence. I will be checking in from time to time.
Thank you for your cooperation.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
6/16/2003
How do some people make it into graduate school? I mean, really. For that matter, how do some people get the green light to teach graduate level classes? I thought Skidmore College was the ultimate example of Darwin’s Waiting Room, but I’m beginning to wonder if the University of New Haven’s current cast of characters is coming up fast on the inner track to try and knock the bookie’s favorite out of the running.
I’ve already gone into great detail about Prof. Kotter, Jar Jar and Tony Lemons. Well gear up, here’s another batch of cerebrally challenged “special cases” that I have encountered in my first year of graduate school.
Let’s start with the minor offenders. First on the hit list is “Prof. Fudd.” Fudd is so codenamed because he is not only follicly challenged, but also possesses a mild speech impediment that is frighteningly similar to his Warner Bros. namesake. Now Fudd teaches Finance, and knows his stuff. However, he doesn’t really know how to teach it. I had a similar case with a Statistics professor codenamed “Foreyample” (see, because of his thick Chinese accent, whenever he said “for example,” it came out as “foreyample.” That’s not to make light of the language barrier or his ethnicity, but merely to acknowledge the fact that he uttered this maligned expression so damned much, it became emblazoned in my mind for all eternity). Smart enough guy, just not a great teacher.
The proof is in the proverbial pudding when you take into account that on the mid-term, the class average was a whopping 79 (which, according to some students who claim to have approached Fudd personally, may be overstated. It might actually be a 72. Either way, that sucks). I, myself, pulled a 76. Considering I know nothing of finance, didn’t study a lick, and the fact that numbers hurt my head, I can rest easy with that. With an almost guaranteed A-/A in my only other class this term, I can assume I will pull at least a 3.0 this term. But you know, for a 601 course (which, it should be so stated, at the graduate level is the equivalent of a 101 undergrad course), that just says something about his teaching. What is says is, “I don’t know how to teach a cwass” (that is not a typo, remember the Fudd connection).
Speaking of my other class, that brings me to “Prof. Costanza,” so codenamed for his striking resemblance to the Seinfeld character of the same name. Now I like Costanza. He’s a great guy, funny as hell, makes class engaging, and doesn’t expect too much of us. In fact, dare I say he is the ideal graduate professor for the students who work fulltime. My one and only gripe with him is the way he grades. More accurately, the way he writes the grades. Let’s say you pull an A-minus on an exam. Normal professor would write “A-,” right? Well, Costanza writes “-A.” Now, color me curious, but doesn’t that read an awful lot like “Negative A?” I sure thought so. You can understand my mild confusion when I got back two papers and one read “-A” while the other read “A.” I remember thinking, “Is this bad? I mean, if that’s a negative A, then these two papers cancel out to make a big fat zero. That means I need to pull a total of 180 on my next paper just to break even, a 270 if I wanna maintain the ‘A’ average. I don’t know if this is possible!” All kidding aside, Costanza is still a cool cat, and he ranks rock bottom on the list of offenders.
Let’s move onto “The Brazilian,” so codenamed for his homeland. This guy differs from the previous entries in that he is a student. The Brazilian is quite simply the Biff Loman of UNH’s MBA program. Lazy, contradictory, hypocritical, maybe a little dense, and undeniably useless. I’ve had the Brazilian in a few classes so far, the first of which being a Management 601 class (remember, that 601 means it’s a “for starters” course). Now this class was taught by “Prof. Anti-Rudy.” I call him this because he had the designation of being a former member of Notre Dame’s football team. During the course of the class, Anti-Rudy used Notre Dame’s stratified hierarchy of the team to explain certain breakdowns in a company or firm. It was actually a pretty sound analogy. Whilst explaining the locker/jersey designation system (which, if you know anyone who played for the Fighting Irish, ask them about it. It’s pretty trippy and very cool coffee table knowledge), he went off on a tangent and completely deflated the myth of the film Rudy. Though crushing those treasured images of Sam Gamgee getting carried off the football field on everyone’s shoulders, I felt better in knowing the truth of the matter.
Now Anti-Rudy’s class was pretty durn easy. Dirt simple, if I may say so. We had two exams, and on the first one, I didn’t study a lick (notice a trend here? Please folks, don’t send this link to my momma), and managed to pull an 84. Not bad, not bad. Most folks pulled in the high 90’s (for the record, I pulled an A in the course overall. My momma already knows that, so save your strength). The Brazilian failed. I’m sorry, but you have to be blind, deaf, dumb, mute, retarded, crippled, drooling and pooping yourself to fail this exam. Why? Because Prof. Anti-Rudy gave us the questions two bloody weeks in advance. It was impossible to fail. So what does the Brazilian do to cover his ass? Well, he essentially sets up camp outside Anti-Rudy’s office and bugs him following every frickin’ lesson, hoping his class participation grade will make up the difference. Overcompensating much? You bet. The frosting on this cake of shame is the fact that he stated, and I quote, “I don’t think [Anti-Rudy] is that smart.”
Y’know, I’d be hard-pressed to label anyone as brilliant. But after three full months of Management with Anti-Rudy, I can wholeheartedly state that he is, in a business and socially aware sense, one of the most brilliant men I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. To that end, I think the Brazilian ought to be ashamed of himself for concocting such a ludicrous excuse. And all just to cover for his own incompetence/laziness.
Oh, did I mention the Brazilian got a 65 on that aforementioned Finance exam? Now I didn’t study and I got a bleeding 76. That’s not to say I’m any sort of standard that other students should be compared to, but still. My friend forgot his calculator and pulled a 77. Yet the Brazilian just can’t manage to reach the level that everyone else around him is already at. And believe me, he ain’t exactly in a rush to reach that point, either. This guy speaks perfect English, doesn’t work, has all the time in the world on his hands, and still blows it every single time. I mean, this guy took a week off from class because an acquaintance flew to New York City. Now I understand and appreciate the value of friendship, but unless that person is terminally ill, there’s no reason the Brazilian had to take himself out of the picture for a week, thereby allowing himself to stumble back a few rungs. It’s called “priorities,” Pele. Get some.
But to me, the most absurd moment came in the Marketing Management class that we co-attend. After studying a case on McDonald’s, the Brazilian went off on a sedated tirade regarding the evils of McDonald’s and junk food. Once again, I must quote verbatim: “I’m from Brazil, I don’t eat junk food. I eat salads and stuff, I hate junk food.” It should be duly noted that this statement was uttered while he was munching on a handful of M&M’s. It should also be noted that in this particular class, he is only now handing in assignments that were due upwards of a month ago. Y’know, I’m glad that there are other more diligent students in the MBA program from his home country, because if it were only him, that entire ‘berg would develop a pretty lousy rep.
But friends, this is just the tip of the MBA iceberg. Fudd, Foreyample and the Brazilian aren’t major headaches. They’re pesky annoyances who won’t go away. However, much greater evils lie within. For those of you considering continuing your education, I must warn you that the following two cases are ugly, frightening, brutal, and completely true. I suggest you read at your own risk. You may want to consider going to another website or completely closing your browser. But as for me, I am compelled to press on unwaveringly.
In terms of instructors, this next subject is sitting pretty atop the Everest of academic offenders, people. I call him “Prof. Bridgework.” I’ve codenamed as such for the dental procedures that he so desperately needs. Actually, bridgework is on the low end of things. This guy needs a complete top-to-bottom renovation of his chompers that I don’t think even the greatest Michelangelo of dentistry could pull off. And even though his teeth leave much to be desired, that’s the least of his shortcomings.
Prof. Bridgework is by far the worst professor I have ever encountered. Ever. In my 22 years of life on this pebble, 18 of which have involved some form of educational institution, he is the bottom of the barrel. If that doesn’t say something, I don’t know what does. I can say this with a clear conscience because no matter how you dissect it, this guy has no frickin’ clue what he’s doing. Lemme set the stage for you: Prof. Bridgework’s Product Management class did not require a book. Come again? How is such a thing possible at the graduate level? Instead of reading chapters, we “learned” through selected articles and class presentations by fellow students (who were clustered in groups of four or five people). OK, now don’t get me wrong, I’ve nothing against my MBA brethren, but they’re here to learn through example, not teach the class for the professor. If Big Daddy doesn’t know how to tie his own shoes, and he teaches me how he learned, I’m gonna go through life wearing shoes that aren’t properly tied. Silly example, but I think it serves this case well.
And believe me, that’s just scratching the surface. This cat’s got a list of offenses as long as your arm. How about the fact that this guy couldn’t even come up with a competent grading policy? Or the fact that he actually lost attendance sheets and incorrectly recorded many people as missing classes for which they were present? Or the fact that in lieu of the evaluation sheets we all filled out, he went into the current trimester telling his present class that at the end of the term, he wanted them to give him a glowing review at the end of the term? Need I go on any further? I think I’ve made my point. I could go on, believe me. Hell, I could probably write a doctoral thesis on this craptacular guy if I were so inclined. But the bottom line will never change, not one iota. They broke the mold with this guy, and I thank God in my nightly prayers for that fact.
Our final genetic defective on our yellow brick road of madness is “Dolly.” I chose this codename because “Illegally Blonde” takes much longer to type. Dolly was in our group for Bridgework’s class, and she wasn’t a bad gal. In fact, from the get-go, she seemed just fine to me. Before I go any further, it should be so stated that Bridgework’s class required a term-long project which would be presented on the last day of class. So it goes without saying that we worked on this bastard all term long, and then, two days, two fraggin’ days before the due date, with two fraggin’ hours before we were to meet and bring the paper/presentation together, Dolly sent an e-mail to myself, our teammates and Bridgework stating that she had been sick since Tuesday (this was on a Sunday, mind you), which is why she missed class. She went on to state that she was taking an Incomplete in the course and transferring back to her alma mater to continue her graduate studies.
Come again?
I literally could not believe what I was reading. How does a person just drop everything two days before the end of it all, leaving three other people hanging in limbo like that? Why, why, why, why, why? Granted, her job probably paid for her education at UNH, so she didn’t have to worry about quitting the course and essentially wasting $1,500. Furthermore, I can make an educated guess that the credit may have been nontransferable. But you know, there’s something to be said for common courtesy and this blonde tart was severely lacking that in her “resignation.” She didn’t even bother doing her portion of the work and sending it to us. Instead, we had to compensate for her departure. Thankfully, we rocked the final project, but it was not without an immense load of undue stress courtesy of Dolly. I liked Dolly from the start, even though I knew she was a little left of center, but I never in my wildest dreams thought she’d pull a stunt like this. In comparison to the others listed in this entry, she erred less on a quantitative scale. But qualitatively, she quite simply “Hulk-Smashed” the competition.
Folks, we all know what school was like. From elementary through high school right on up to college (for those of you who attend/have completed college, that is). With each progression, we, as sensible, reasonable humanoids seem to encounter the most bizarre mix of characters we could possibly imagine. And it seems that with each step forward, this collective gets stranger and stranger. Well I’ve got news for you, if UNH is to be used as any sort of accurate sample, grad school definitely holds the twisted crown for possessing the most bizarre, imbecilic, socially challenged group of amoebas than any other level of academia.
And if that statement is true, it gives me the jibblies to think of the anomalies out there in the real world.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
I’ve already gone into great detail about Prof. Kotter, Jar Jar and Tony Lemons. Well gear up, here’s another batch of cerebrally challenged “special cases” that I have encountered in my first year of graduate school.
Let’s start with the minor offenders. First on the hit list is “Prof. Fudd.” Fudd is so codenamed because he is not only follicly challenged, but also possesses a mild speech impediment that is frighteningly similar to his Warner Bros. namesake. Now Fudd teaches Finance, and knows his stuff. However, he doesn’t really know how to teach it. I had a similar case with a Statistics professor codenamed “Foreyample” (see, because of his thick Chinese accent, whenever he said “for example,” it came out as “foreyample.” That’s not to make light of the language barrier or his ethnicity, but merely to acknowledge the fact that he uttered this maligned expression so damned much, it became emblazoned in my mind for all eternity). Smart enough guy, just not a great teacher.
The proof is in the proverbial pudding when you take into account that on the mid-term, the class average was a whopping 79 (which, according to some students who claim to have approached Fudd personally, may be overstated. It might actually be a 72. Either way, that sucks). I, myself, pulled a 76. Considering I know nothing of finance, didn’t study a lick, and the fact that numbers hurt my head, I can rest easy with that. With an almost guaranteed A-/A in my only other class this term, I can assume I will pull at least a 3.0 this term. But you know, for a 601 course (which, it should be so stated, at the graduate level is the equivalent of a 101 undergrad course), that just says something about his teaching. What is says is, “I don’t know how to teach a cwass” (that is not a typo, remember the Fudd connection).
Speaking of my other class, that brings me to “Prof. Costanza,” so codenamed for his striking resemblance to the Seinfeld character of the same name. Now I like Costanza. He’s a great guy, funny as hell, makes class engaging, and doesn’t expect too much of us. In fact, dare I say he is the ideal graduate professor for the students who work fulltime. My one and only gripe with him is the way he grades. More accurately, the way he writes the grades. Let’s say you pull an A-minus on an exam. Normal professor would write “A-,” right? Well, Costanza writes “-A.” Now, color me curious, but doesn’t that read an awful lot like “Negative A?” I sure thought so. You can understand my mild confusion when I got back two papers and one read “-A” while the other read “A.” I remember thinking, “Is this bad? I mean, if that’s a negative A, then these two papers cancel out to make a big fat zero. That means I need to pull a total of 180 on my next paper just to break even, a 270 if I wanna maintain the ‘A’ average. I don’t know if this is possible!” All kidding aside, Costanza is still a cool cat, and he ranks rock bottom on the list of offenders.
Let’s move onto “The Brazilian,” so codenamed for his homeland. This guy differs from the previous entries in that he is a student. The Brazilian is quite simply the Biff Loman of UNH’s MBA program. Lazy, contradictory, hypocritical, maybe a little dense, and undeniably useless. I’ve had the Brazilian in a few classes so far, the first of which being a Management 601 class (remember, that 601 means it’s a “for starters” course). Now this class was taught by “Prof. Anti-Rudy.” I call him this because he had the designation of being a former member of Notre Dame’s football team. During the course of the class, Anti-Rudy used Notre Dame’s stratified hierarchy of the team to explain certain breakdowns in a company or firm. It was actually a pretty sound analogy. Whilst explaining the locker/jersey designation system (which, if you know anyone who played for the Fighting Irish, ask them about it. It’s pretty trippy and very cool coffee table knowledge), he went off on a tangent and completely deflated the myth of the film Rudy. Though crushing those treasured images of Sam Gamgee getting carried off the football field on everyone’s shoulders, I felt better in knowing the truth of the matter.
Now Anti-Rudy’s class was pretty durn easy. Dirt simple, if I may say so. We had two exams, and on the first one, I didn’t study a lick (notice a trend here? Please folks, don’t send this link to my momma), and managed to pull an 84. Not bad, not bad. Most folks pulled in the high 90’s (for the record, I pulled an A in the course overall. My momma already knows that, so save your strength). The Brazilian failed. I’m sorry, but you have to be blind, deaf, dumb, mute, retarded, crippled, drooling and pooping yourself to fail this exam. Why? Because Prof. Anti-Rudy gave us the questions two bloody weeks in advance. It was impossible to fail. So what does the Brazilian do to cover his ass? Well, he essentially sets up camp outside Anti-Rudy’s office and bugs him following every frickin’ lesson, hoping his class participation grade will make up the difference. Overcompensating much? You bet. The frosting on this cake of shame is the fact that he stated, and I quote, “I don’t think [Anti-Rudy] is that smart.”
Y’know, I’d be hard-pressed to label anyone as brilliant. But after three full months of Management with Anti-Rudy, I can wholeheartedly state that he is, in a business and socially aware sense, one of the most brilliant men I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting. To that end, I think the Brazilian ought to be ashamed of himself for concocting such a ludicrous excuse. And all just to cover for his own incompetence/laziness.
Oh, did I mention the Brazilian got a 65 on that aforementioned Finance exam? Now I didn’t study and I got a bleeding 76. That’s not to say I’m any sort of standard that other students should be compared to, but still. My friend forgot his calculator and pulled a 77. Yet the Brazilian just can’t manage to reach the level that everyone else around him is already at. And believe me, he ain’t exactly in a rush to reach that point, either. This guy speaks perfect English, doesn’t work, has all the time in the world on his hands, and still blows it every single time. I mean, this guy took a week off from class because an acquaintance flew to New York City. Now I understand and appreciate the value of friendship, but unless that person is terminally ill, there’s no reason the Brazilian had to take himself out of the picture for a week, thereby allowing himself to stumble back a few rungs. It’s called “priorities,” Pele. Get some.
But to me, the most absurd moment came in the Marketing Management class that we co-attend. After studying a case on McDonald’s, the Brazilian went off on a sedated tirade regarding the evils of McDonald’s and junk food. Once again, I must quote verbatim: “I’m from Brazil, I don’t eat junk food. I eat salads and stuff, I hate junk food.” It should be duly noted that this statement was uttered while he was munching on a handful of M&M’s. It should also be noted that in this particular class, he is only now handing in assignments that were due upwards of a month ago. Y’know, I’m glad that there are other more diligent students in the MBA program from his home country, because if it were only him, that entire ‘berg would develop a pretty lousy rep.
But friends, this is just the tip of the MBA iceberg. Fudd, Foreyample and the Brazilian aren’t major headaches. They’re pesky annoyances who won’t go away. However, much greater evils lie within. For those of you considering continuing your education, I must warn you that the following two cases are ugly, frightening, brutal, and completely true. I suggest you read at your own risk. You may want to consider going to another website or completely closing your browser. But as for me, I am compelled to press on unwaveringly.
In terms of instructors, this next subject is sitting pretty atop the Everest of academic offenders, people. I call him “Prof. Bridgework.” I’ve codenamed as such for the dental procedures that he so desperately needs. Actually, bridgework is on the low end of things. This guy needs a complete top-to-bottom renovation of his chompers that I don’t think even the greatest Michelangelo of dentistry could pull off. And even though his teeth leave much to be desired, that’s the least of his shortcomings.
Prof. Bridgework is by far the worst professor I have ever encountered. Ever. In my 22 years of life on this pebble, 18 of which have involved some form of educational institution, he is the bottom of the barrel. If that doesn’t say something, I don’t know what does. I can say this with a clear conscience because no matter how you dissect it, this guy has no frickin’ clue what he’s doing. Lemme set the stage for you: Prof. Bridgework’s Product Management class did not require a book. Come again? How is such a thing possible at the graduate level? Instead of reading chapters, we “learned” through selected articles and class presentations by fellow students (who were clustered in groups of four or five people). OK, now don’t get me wrong, I’ve nothing against my MBA brethren, but they’re here to learn through example, not teach the class for the professor. If Big Daddy doesn’t know how to tie his own shoes, and he teaches me how he learned, I’m gonna go through life wearing shoes that aren’t properly tied. Silly example, but I think it serves this case well.
And believe me, that’s just scratching the surface. This cat’s got a list of offenses as long as your arm. How about the fact that this guy couldn’t even come up with a competent grading policy? Or the fact that he actually lost attendance sheets and incorrectly recorded many people as missing classes for which they were present? Or the fact that in lieu of the evaluation sheets we all filled out, he went into the current trimester telling his present class that at the end of the term, he wanted them to give him a glowing review at the end of the term? Need I go on any further? I think I’ve made my point. I could go on, believe me. Hell, I could probably write a doctoral thesis on this craptacular guy if I were so inclined. But the bottom line will never change, not one iota. They broke the mold with this guy, and I thank God in my nightly prayers for that fact.
Our final genetic defective on our yellow brick road of madness is “Dolly.” I chose this codename because “Illegally Blonde” takes much longer to type. Dolly was in our group for Bridgework’s class, and she wasn’t a bad gal. In fact, from the get-go, she seemed just fine to me. Before I go any further, it should be so stated that Bridgework’s class required a term-long project which would be presented on the last day of class. So it goes without saying that we worked on this bastard all term long, and then, two days, two fraggin’ days before the due date, with two fraggin’ hours before we were to meet and bring the paper/presentation together, Dolly sent an e-mail to myself, our teammates and Bridgework stating that she had been sick since Tuesday (this was on a Sunday, mind you), which is why she missed class. She went on to state that she was taking an Incomplete in the course and transferring back to her alma mater to continue her graduate studies.
Come again?
I literally could not believe what I was reading. How does a person just drop everything two days before the end of it all, leaving three other people hanging in limbo like that? Why, why, why, why, why? Granted, her job probably paid for her education at UNH, so she didn’t have to worry about quitting the course and essentially wasting $1,500. Furthermore, I can make an educated guess that the credit may have been nontransferable. But you know, there’s something to be said for common courtesy and this blonde tart was severely lacking that in her “resignation.” She didn’t even bother doing her portion of the work and sending it to us. Instead, we had to compensate for her departure. Thankfully, we rocked the final project, but it was not without an immense load of undue stress courtesy of Dolly. I liked Dolly from the start, even though I knew she was a little left of center, but I never in my wildest dreams thought she’d pull a stunt like this. In comparison to the others listed in this entry, she erred less on a quantitative scale. But qualitatively, she quite simply “Hulk-Smashed” the competition.
Folks, we all know what school was like. From elementary through high school right on up to college (for those of you who attend/have completed college, that is). With each progression, we, as sensible, reasonable humanoids seem to encounter the most bizarre mix of characters we could possibly imagine. And it seems that with each step forward, this collective gets stranger and stranger. Well I’ve got news for you, if UNH is to be used as any sort of accurate sample, grad school definitely holds the twisted crown for possessing the most bizarre, imbecilic, socially challenged group of amoebas than any other level of academia.
And if that statement is true, it gives me the jibblies to think of the anomalies out there in the real world.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
6/11/2003
Y’know, it would figure that just as I put up a post regarding reality shows, a new travesty emerges.
I’ll admit, I’m slightly perturbed since, in my recent post regarding said reality programming, I elaborated that I didn’t mind these talent shows (again, for reference/posterity, I’m talking American Idol and Star Search). To summarize my reasoning for this tolerance, I do believe that there are some people with genuine talent on these shows, and furthermore, they do not go to the ridiculously embarrassing lengths of these other more extreme programs.
To put it simply, they’re innocent fun for the most part.
However, the producers of Idol recently dealt a severe black eye to television and a major thumb of the nose to the intelligence of television audiences.
I’m talking American Juniors.
Folks, what are we doing? Why are we watching this and making these substandard excuses for human beings richer? Why? When will this nation cumulatively wake up and make a breakaway from the “cult of reality?”
Now granted, I haven’t watched any of these shows, so you’re liable to label me a hypocrite for lambasting the program without having actually viewed it. I’ll address my reasons for boycotting in a moment. Let’s get to my justifiable disdain first.
I’m sure some of these kids are talented. Hell, I’m sure many of them could, in the future, land major recording deals and become the next ubiquitous R&B diva. Good for them. They’ve been blessed with impressive talents and I say the parents should nurture those talents, not exploit them.
How many E! True Hollywood Stories will we have to endure before we realize that kids and show business just do not mix. C’mon people, you’ve seen the trend time and time again and yet you keep buying into it like hungry lambs. What is your major malfunction? Do you enjoy watching children being scarred for life, traumatized and doomed to an abnormal existence? Hell, why don’t you just buy a weekend package to the Neverland Valley Ranch and bring a digital video camera while you’re at it? Why don’t you hold a private viewing audience with Gary Glitter and Phil Giordano if you’re that anxious to watch children’s lives being systematically destroyed?
How many child actors actually come out of the business unscathed? For every Ron Howard or Kurt Russell, there’s dozens of Macauly Culkin’s, Jay North’s, Corey Haim’s, Danny Bonaduce’s, Leif Garrett’s, Corey Feldman’s, and the collective casts of Our Gang and Dif’rent Strokes. It’s far from a balanced scale, and you’re not helping matters. Ten’ll get you one that the Olsen Twins revert to porn when they hit the big 1-8. There’s even a website on the ‘Net counting down the days until said birthday. Cute li’l Haley Joel Osment is likely to develop a major heroin addiction and a penchant for transsexual hookers. And Frankie Muniz and Hillary Duff? Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen for the new millennium. Oh, you know it’s true. And that’s why you watch like a pack of insatiable jackals, just waiting for the next li’l kid to bottom out.
Shame on you.
Shame on you for only adding to the pain these kids already have thanks to their overbearing parents. We’ve all seen the commercial for Juniors with the maniacal Stage Mother. Guess what? That poor kid has to deal with that everyday of her life until she makes it big or dies trying. Meanwhile everyone else her age is playing Yu-Gi-Oh! and going on bike rides. Missing out on much?
Parents, if you even consider tossing your kid headfirst into show business, you oughta lose your parental privileges. As far as I’m concerned, being a Hollywood Mom or Dad is the equivalent to beating your kid on a nightly basis or engaging in some disgusting form of molestation. If you wanna nurture your kid’s talents, encourage him or her to practice daily. Praise them when they do well, support them when they struggle. Push them to go above and beyond, but don’t pull them into the 24K Cesspool we call Hollywood. Don’t live vicariously through them, just be proud of them for what they are, and a little proud of yourself knowing that you had just a small role in creating that talented little human. You give your children a great life and they will return it to you in spades.
Need proof that Hollywood Parents breed messed up kids? Go ahead and set your VCR the next time VH1’s Driven tackles either Britney Spears or Christina Aguilera. Just look at how emphatic their mothers were about their daughters’ careers, and then look at the end result. Then listen to the moms talk about how “proud” they are of their little girls. They’re not proud, they’re happy that they’re not gonna have to work for a few years and can live off of royalties since the clause in their daughters’ contracts names them as sole beneficiaries of all profits. I watch this and then wonder how people can ask me why I think some people deserve to die. Still not convinced? Then I got two words for ya, Jack:
Michael Jackson.
Look at how being a major child celebrity benefited that guy and made him a better person. Then look at your little seven-year-old playing the piano, or your eleven-year-old singing prodigy. Ask yourself if you want that same future for them. If you’ve got any morals whatsoever, you’ll make the right decision.
So that’s the root of my American Juniors abstinence. It’s a matter of principle. Out of morality and common decency, I cannot bring myself to watch this show knowing that it’s liable to ruin some very young lives. When you get older, you make your bed, you sleep in it. If you make the dumb-ass decision to go on a reality program and broadcast your personal life to the masses, then it’s your own damn fault, and you should be a big enough person to deal with the consequences. If you can’t, too bad. You should’ve brought a cup before you ran out to the gridiron. But when you’re a kid, decision-making isn’t a major concern, and you don’t always know what’s best for you. That’s one of the reasons we have parents, but alas, parents are human like the rest of us, and henceforth can be deemed imperfect. Some are more imperfect than others, and might be liable to make severely flawed decisions that affect them and their loved ones, and I do believe that encouraging their kids to go into show business is one of those ill-fated decisions.
If you’ve ever seen VH1’s special Bubblegum Babylon, you’d be familiar with the story of The Partridge Family’s David Cassidy and his daughter Katie. If you’re not, allow me to summarize: Katie, at the age of 15 or 16, signed a recording contract much to the dismay of her quasi-estranged father. David, who it should be noted did not live with his daughter and wasn’t always around to care for her, had wanted her to hold off on any decisions of a show business-related nature until she was at least 18. While Keith Partridge might not be the best dad on the whole, I applaud David for his stance. He knows what it’s like firsthand, and you’d think that Katie’s mom would take that to heart. Of course, her reasons for pushing Katie are probably connected to her reasons for sleeping with David in the first place. She feels she leads a hollow, empty life and thirsts to get just a lick from the sugar cube called “Fame.” It’s funny to know that after all the shit David Cassidy’s done, he still turned out to be the more moral of the two.
Folks, I’d like to invite you in a mass boycott of American Juniors. If human life and morals mean anything to you, you’ll join our side. That way, when our Judgment Day comes and we gotta get rated, we can take solace in knowing that we’ll be riding the escalator going up while the creators, producers, and parents hop on board the one-way express elevator to the underworld. At the end of it all, we can smile, breathe a sigh of relief and say, “that’s one more for the good guys.”
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
I’ll admit, I’m slightly perturbed since, in my recent post regarding said reality programming, I elaborated that I didn’t mind these talent shows (again, for reference/posterity, I’m talking American Idol and Star Search). To summarize my reasoning for this tolerance, I do believe that there are some people with genuine talent on these shows, and furthermore, they do not go to the ridiculously embarrassing lengths of these other more extreme programs.
To put it simply, they’re innocent fun for the most part.
However, the producers of Idol recently dealt a severe black eye to television and a major thumb of the nose to the intelligence of television audiences.
I’m talking American Juniors.
Folks, what are we doing? Why are we watching this and making these substandard excuses for human beings richer? Why? When will this nation cumulatively wake up and make a breakaway from the “cult of reality?”
Now granted, I haven’t watched any of these shows, so you’re liable to label me a hypocrite for lambasting the program without having actually viewed it. I’ll address my reasons for boycotting in a moment. Let’s get to my justifiable disdain first.
I’m sure some of these kids are talented. Hell, I’m sure many of them could, in the future, land major recording deals and become the next ubiquitous R&B diva. Good for them. They’ve been blessed with impressive talents and I say the parents should nurture those talents, not exploit them.
How many E! True Hollywood Stories will we have to endure before we realize that kids and show business just do not mix. C’mon people, you’ve seen the trend time and time again and yet you keep buying into it like hungry lambs. What is your major malfunction? Do you enjoy watching children being scarred for life, traumatized and doomed to an abnormal existence? Hell, why don’t you just buy a weekend package to the Neverland Valley Ranch and bring a digital video camera while you’re at it? Why don’t you hold a private viewing audience with Gary Glitter and Phil Giordano if you’re that anxious to watch children’s lives being systematically destroyed?
How many child actors actually come out of the business unscathed? For every Ron Howard or Kurt Russell, there’s dozens of Macauly Culkin’s, Jay North’s, Corey Haim’s, Danny Bonaduce’s, Leif Garrett’s, Corey Feldman’s, and the collective casts of Our Gang and Dif’rent Strokes. It’s far from a balanced scale, and you’re not helping matters. Ten’ll get you one that the Olsen Twins revert to porn when they hit the big 1-8. There’s even a website on the ‘Net counting down the days until said birthday. Cute li’l Haley Joel Osment is likely to develop a major heroin addiction and a penchant for transsexual hookers. And Frankie Muniz and Hillary Duff? Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen for the new millennium. Oh, you know it’s true. And that’s why you watch like a pack of insatiable jackals, just waiting for the next li’l kid to bottom out.
Shame on you.
Shame on you for only adding to the pain these kids already have thanks to their overbearing parents. We’ve all seen the commercial for Juniors with the maniacal Stage Mother. Guess what? That poor kid has to deal with that everyday of her life until she makes it big or dies trying. Meanwhile everyone else her age is playing Yu-Gi-Oh! and going on bike rides. Missing out on much?
Parents, if you even consider tossing your kid headfirst into show business, you oughta lose your parental privileges. As far as I’m concerned, being a Hollywood Mom or Dad is the equivalent to beating your kid on a nightly basis or engaging in some disgusting form of molestation. If you wanna nurture your kid’s talents, encourage him or her to practice daily. Praise them when they do well, support them when they struggle. Push them to go above and beyond, but don’t pull them into the 24K Cesspool we call Hollywood. Don’t live vicariously through them, just be proud of them for what they are, and a little proud of yourself knowing that you had just a small role in creating that talented little human. You give your children a great life and they will return it to you in spades.
Need proof that Hollywood Parents breed messed up kids? Go ahead and set your VCR the next time VH1’s Driven tackles either Britney Spears or Christina Aguilera. Just look at how emphatic their mothers were about their daughters’ careers, and then look at the end result. Then listen to the moms talk about how “proud” they are of their little girls. They’re not proud, they’re happy that they’re not gonna have to work for a few years and can live off of royalties since the clause in their daughters’ contracts names them as sole beneficiaries of all profits. I watch this and then wonder how people can ask me why I think some people deserve to die. Still not convinced? Then I got two words for ya, Jack:
Michael Jackson.
Look at how being a major child celebrity benefited that guy and made him a better person. Then look at your little seven-year-old playing the piano, or your eleven-year-old singing prodigy. Ask yourself if you want that same future for them. If you’ve got any morals whatsoever, you’ll make the right decision.
So that’s the root of my American Juniors abstinence. It’s a matter of principle. Out of morality and common decency, I cannot bring myself to watch this show knowing that it’s liable to ruin some very young lives. When you get older, you make your bed, you sleep in it. If you make the dumb-ass decision to go on a reality program and broadcast your personal life to the masses, then it’s your own damn fault, and you should be a big enough person to deal with the consequences. If you can’t, too bad. You should’ve brought a cup before you ran out to the gridiron. But when you’re a kid, decision-making isn’t a major concern, and you don’t always know what’s best for you. That’s one of the reasons we have parents, but alas, parents are human like the rest of us, and henceforth can be deemed imperfect. Some are more imperfect than others, and might be liable to make severely flawed decisions that affect them and their loved ones, and I do believe that encouraging their kids to go into show business is one of those ill-fated decisions.
If you’ve ever seen VH1’s special Bubblegum Babylon, you’d be familiar with the story of The Partridge Family’s David Cassidy and his daughter Katie. If you’re not, allow me to summarize: Katie, at the age of 15 or 16, signed a recording contract much to the dismay of her quasi-estranged father. David, who it should be noted did not live with his daughter and wasn’t always around to care for her, had wanted her to hold off on any decisions of a show business-related nature until she was at least 18. While Keith Partridge might not be the best dad on the whole, I applaud David for his stance. He knows what it’s like firsthand, and you’d think that Katie’s mom would take that to heart. Of course, her reasons for pushing Katie are probably connected to her reasons for sleeping with David in the first place. She feels she leads a hollow, empty life and thirsts to get just a lick from the sugar cube called “Fame.” It’s funny to know that after all the shit David Cassidy’s done, he still turned out to be the more moral of the two.
Folks, I’d like to invite you in a mass boycott of American Juniors. If human life and morals mean anything to you, you’ll join our side. That way, when our Judgment Day comes and we gotta get rated, we can take solace in knowing that we’ll be riding the escalator going up while the creators, producers, and parents hop on board the one-way express elevator to the underworld. At the end of it all, we can smile, breathe a sigh of relief and say, “that’s one more for the good guys.”
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
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