I’ll make this brief, as I am on somewhat of a tight schedule today, but it is something I just couldn’t ignore. I have come to the conclusion that Jewel is not particularly good at anything she does.

Let’s rewind to about ’96 when this Eskimo chick debuted. She had her little guitar, trying to convey the image of the “young but thoughtful prodigette with a pseudo-Dylan folk feel.” Yeah, yeah, all that’s well and good and the album wasn’t bad for what it was. But she wasn’t really anything special. C’mon, let’s be honest here.

Then it was her book of *ahem* poetry, in which she tried to come off like the “pensive young jack-of-all-trades with a Jim Morrison flare for writing sans the morbid undertones.” Needless to say her book was panned and completely torn apart. Why? Because it was bad. See, and no one wants to read bad stuff. Except for Danielle Steele enthusiasts. Moving along…

Then just a couple years ago she tried to swim headfirst into the mainstream with her second album in which it was time for the “thoughtful but fun-loving, care-free folk-rock-pop singer/songwriter.” It’s just a pity that Sheryl Crow beat her to the punch nearly ten years earlier, and Michelle Branch perfected the technique that same year. This poor Alaskan just can’t get it right.

And just this year, Jewel has further tarnished her name by regressing even further into a full-blown pop tart a la Britney Christina Moore Simpson. You get the idea. Dancing around half-naked to recycled pop beats while getting washed down with a fire hose. Now her purpose in making this video was to “address the commercialism of society.”

Y’know, Neil Young did that back in ’89 with his video for “This Note’s For You,” and he didn’t have to dance like the New Kids to do it. He did it the only way he knew how: by sticking to his guns and offering biting lyrics that chewed away at the phony shell of MTV, Pepsi, Budweiser and your mom. If Jewel is trying to do the same, then she’s being completely counterproductive by altering her musical style from a more rootsy element to the overblown pomposity of pop music. I suppose it could be thought of as “fighting fire with fire,” but I’d think it’s more sensible to douse the blaze than to make it bigger. And again, she can’t even get this genre right.

I guess what I’m saying is, Jewel, you’re not good for much, except maybe serving as decent eye candy from the mouth down. Get some of those invisible braces and hole up in the igloo for a few months until they straighten out that snaggletooth.

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.

Bah, I say. Bah, bah, bah, and more bah. To what? I’m glad you asked.

TV. TV and I have been on very poor terms over the last few months. Why? Because TV used to pamper me, relieve me through entertainment. TV used to console me after those long days slaving away on the plantation for The Man. Well TV has failed to be entertaining. I mean, without digital cable, I get over 80 channels. The only shows I really ache to watch are South Park, The Simpsons, CSI, Smallville, and The Sopranos. That’s a really small sample given the current number of programs on network, cable, and premium cable. The reason for the tension is quite simple: TV, like any other form of mass media, has given into trends.

These reality shows… man, we can’t find bin Laden, but we can churn out those reality show concepts, can’t we? Who watches these fucking things? Who is actually entertained by them? Now let me say, I have a lot fewer complaints about talent-based shows like American Idol. I’m not thrilled with the fact that the show tries to put strict labels on people and consciously attempts to guide them on their “style,” but to be honest, some of these folks can really sing, and I can appreciate that. I bitch a lot about style over substance, sure, and there is something to that argument. But at the end of the day, good tunes is good tunes, no two ways about it. I’m getting soft in my old age. But back to the topic, those types of reality shows I really don’t mind. Even the “get eighteen divergent personalities and stick ‘em in a house for eight months” type shows don’t bug me as much, because the people onscreen deserve massive amounts of drama if they’re stupid enough to showcase their private lives to the world. It’s called karma.

No, see I’m talking about this new crop of shows that involves marriage. You know… The Bachelor(ette), Joe Millionaire, Married By America, Mr. Personality, and on and on down the line. They disgust me. They offend me as a human being. I’m offended by the fact that lowlife TV execs are anxious to toy with people’s emotions, and I’m baffled by the fact that people actually want to participate, thinking they’re gonna meet a legitimate lifemate on these fuckers.

You dolts.

You don’t meet your husband or wife after ten weeks of filming. Your courtship doesn’t normally involve a cameraman… unless you’re getting someone to videotape “Whips and Chains Night.”

(Note to self: review video collection and destroy all pertinent evidence of “Whips and Chains Night.”)

Y’know, now that I think about it, the old “note to self” technique really doesn’t work well on a web journal. I’ll have to rethink my strategy. *Ahem* Moving along…

Point is, point is, love doesn’t work that way. Granted, I really don’t know what love is, but I’m convinced it doesn’t work that way, and I’m sure most reasonably intelligent people would agree with me. It takes time. It might even start out as hate, or disinterest. It grows over time like a child, or a flower. It takes on a shape and life of its own and exists as a mutual bond between two people. It doesn’t just bloom over the promise of a few million dollars and an all-expenses-paid wedding.

I love the current campaign on Comedy Central, the one where they advertise fake reality shows so absurd you can’t help but bust a gut. I was especially fond of the South Park episode which suggests that the planet Earth is actually one big reality show. And I love Howard Stern’s idea for a show in which deprived orphans vie for the affection of a rich couple who will adopt one child only. Why? Because it’s only a matter of time before these executives run out of ideas and start taking these suggestions seriously.

Maybe I’m morose, but entropy fascinates me. Not from a cultural or international standpoint, but in terms of the entertainment industry, it’s a riot. It shows just how shallow and desperate Hollywood is. I mean, c’mon. Watch E! once in awhile. You’ll see more assholes than a Turkish customs agent. Celebrities are so phony that we enjoy watching them derail on the road to success. Likewise, I enjoy watching the products of tired, worn-out, hackneyed imaginations. I mean, not actually watching the products themselves, I couldn’t live with myself, then. What I’m talking about is seeing what kind of cockamamie concoction awaits on the horizon. People compare these shows to train wrecks, but is it really as fun if you can see the train coming from a mile away? If I know that both drivers are loaded on Jim Beam and crank, I’m not gonna stick around to watch what happens, I’m going to be afraid that I’ll get caught in the crash somehow and I’m gonna make a beeline for the mountains. Similarly, I refuse to watch these shows partly because I’m human, and I fear that I would get sucked into the increasingly vacuous black hole called modern television. I theorize that most people watch these shows just to keep up on water cooler talk at the office. Personally, I’d rather be talking about hockey or golf, but that’s me.

But in all honesty, reality shows help me in a way. They don’t make me feel better about myself by watching the nimrods who grace the screen, pining for their fifteen minutes. They make me feel better by listening to the nimrods who organize their week around the latest flavor of the month. God, people are stupid. Get some cash together and go to a spa or something. Just do something with yourself if you’re that wrapped up in a stupid show about stupid people that isn’t a sitcom. Makes me feel better about my pending social life.

However, the aspect of these reality shows that gets me more than anything is how executives and producers and writers all thumb their noses at marriage. I was brought up to believe that marriage is a sacred bond, and despite the cardboard cutout souls gracing my TV screen, I still believe it to be so. I can’t believe that some people actually don’t mind having their private lives shown to a nationwide audience once a week for an hour at a time. When did common sense die, why didn’t I read the obituary and why wasn’t I informed about the funeral?

I would never agree to have my marriage broadcast on network TV. If my marriage is gonna be viewed by millions, then those millions have to pay $200 a head just like everyone else in attendance. No one’s getting off light, here. I’ve got honeymoon bills to pay, and that wedding singer ain’t cheap. So cough up the cash, America, Ricky and Mrs. Ricky wanna go to Aruba.

But seriously, folks, get with it, alright? These shows are pathetic, and if you watch them, I feel you’re made more pathetic. Don’t give into the drug. Because that’s what these shows are, they are drugs. They create addicts and breed morons. However, I like the fact that they make it easier to weed out the morons. ‘Cause I don’t want morons at my wedding. And neither would Mrs. Ricky.

But there is one shimmering light, one last hope for the future in the vast televised wasteland of America circa 2003 A.D.

Monster Garage.

What a bloody brilliant show. Tattooed metalhead greasemonkeys pining for money and tools by taking automobiles and transforming them into mechanical hybrid monstrosities. Where else could you watch a P.T. Cruiser get converted into a woodchipper? That’s just genius. Hell, if they could make a Harley Davidson/lawnmower crossbreed, I just might actually get around to cutting the grass on a weekly basis. And I must say, it’s a beautiful thing to watch a Chevy Suburban slowly become a mobile wedding chapel. Brought a tear to my eye. Hell, while we’re at it, let’s call up those dickheads at Fox and get a cross-promotional deal going? Mr. Personality and that shallow gold-digging bride-to-be of his could get married in that Suburban wedding chapel! And I’m sure the good Reverend Jesse James would be happy to preside over the ceremonies. Provided he gets to remove the groom’s mask with his beloved plasma cutter.

Now that’s great TV, people.

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.

Bad habits.

We all got ‘em. No one is exempt. Maybe you chew your nails. Maybe you pick your nose. Maybe you breathe through your nose. Maybe you breathe through your nose while you’re picking it. Whatever. We’re human, imperfect beings in God’s eyes. I’m sure He understands, and we ought to understand one another’s habits, too. But I have a habit that is really beginning to concern me. I’m sad to say it consumes my thoughts night and day. Now some might say I share too much on this blog… y’know, about my pantlessness and all… but I really gotta write about this.

I aim for urinal cakes when using public restrooms.

I can’t help it! It’s just there, begging to be saturated. Those oversized pink breath mints are just waiting out in the open, hoping to fulfill their purpose by absorbing a steady stream of wee-wee, keeping the urinal that houses it nice and clean. Well y’know what? I just want to see to it that these courageous li’l suckers get to realize that dream!

Does that make me a bad person? I mean, am I really a horrible human being just because I envision a bullseye whilst relieving myself? Am I a poor individual because I revel in watching the little pink nuggets break off from the mother cake and dissipate as they flow down the drain? And for the record, I don’t go for distance, so should you ever happen to come across me in a public restroom, rest assured I won’t be five feet away from the urinal playing firefighter. I will be in the standard “against the wall” position. The only difference is I’ll be trying to have a little fun while I’m doing my business.

Y’know, say what you will, but this so-called “public restroom etiquette” is overrated to begin with. Guys, why do we feel obligated to look straight ahead at the wall when another guy takes the urinal next to us? Are we that sensitive about the size of our hwangs? Just deal with it, OK? And if you catch a glimpse of some other guy’s hwang, big deal. It’s not like you offered to help him. It’s not like you tried to get in on his urinal and cross the streams. And unless you get a semi, there’s no shame. It’s called peripheral vision, it happens.

We need to loosen up a little! Dare I say, we need to have fun in the restroom. In fact, now that I think about it, there really should be more to do in public restrooms. For guys, anyway. I mean, it’s already a major social scene for girls, why can’t it be the same way for guys?

I wanna see full amenities. I’m talking beyond just condom machines or trendy Muzak stations. There oughta be a dartboard in some of these things. What if you’re in one of these fancy hotels or restaurants, the kind where there’s a “restroom caddy” that sits in there and keeps the towels fresh and the breathmints coming. What if all you have to tip him is a twenty and he can’t break it? Solution: ATM machine that dolls out singles. Better yet, a change machine. You’ll need some quarters for the pinball machine. Or the jukebox. Or the built-in video games on the inside of the stall doors. What more beautiful thing is there than playing three rounds of Soul Caliber II before wiping? And since we’re in the midst of the Triple Crown hunt, there should be an Off Track Betting outlet in all public restrooms. Not all of us can drive to Mohegan to plunk down some change on Funny Cide. And I’ll tell ya, if there were OTBs in restrooms, I’d have won $1,400 on Sarava during Belmont Downs last year. Besides fellas, you’ll need the money that fine horse earned you for the roulette wheel. See? Public restrooms can be fun after all.

Just don’t cross the streams. Aim for your own urinal cake.

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.

It would appear that my return to the blog world has been an unmitigated success. Or at least Zakk Wylde appears to agree. In a recent interview, the Lord High Brewmaster of the Black Label Society offered his two cents on the Dixie Chicks and others who have spoken out on the war.

I would say Zakk copied my idea, but I respect and fear him far too much to do so. So instead I'll just say thanks, Zakk. You're a real American and a true patriot!

Goodnight and have a brewtal tomorrow.

So it’s been awhile since I’ve graced you with my presence. What can I say? It’s a busy life, y’know? Wake up, eat, work out, bathe, work, study, poop, class, poop again, leave class while pooping, drive home, hold Viking Funeral for the goldfish, watch the latest installment of "Strong Bad's E-mail," sleep, poop, wake up, clean the bed, repeat process one more time with feeling.

So… what’s been new since my hiatus? Well, I finally found the pants that I wasn’t wearing, America is restructuring Iraq (I smell Iraqi Girls Gone Wild), geared up for Phoenix this summer (if anyone knows where to get hot rock massages in Arizona, make no haste in telling me), Matthias and I are booked up for Ozzfest and Lollapalooza, I’m booked solely for Aerosmith and Kiss, might be going to Bon Jovi, Metallica is cooler than shit again, everything seems good in the world. What else has been going on? Or going down? Or going around? Besides SARS… ah, yes…

The Dixie Chicks.

Y’know, it never fails to astound me how obnoxious and ignorant musicians can be at times. Now I know, in one of my last posts I wrote that no one deserves to be blackballed or censored, and I stand by that. I’m not necessarily cool with the fact that these chicks have been shit-hammered as much as they have been.

However… I believe that there’s something to be said for discretion, something the lead singer severely lacked in her comments about our Commander-in-Chief.

Now you’ll have to bear with me, I don’t care enough about the Dixie Chicks to know their real names, nor would I give them the satisfaction to begin with. So what’s say we develop supercool aliases for them using the ever-popular “Spice Girl Nomenclature System.”

The tiny lead singer with the worthless opinions will from here on in be known as “Pygmy Chick.”

The brunette who was pregnant in the video for that horrible Stevie Nicks cover can be known as “Barefoot Chick.”

And the blonde one that no one cares about who plays the mandolin will be known as “Skullfucker Chick.” Just because “Mandolin Chick” is a little too obvious.

So, Pygmy’s comments. This seems to be the central issue here. Now I understand that you’re from Texas, Pygmy. Guess what, so is Whale Nicole Smith. Do you see her spouting off political opinions left and right? Granted, Whale Nicole is far too doped up on vicodin, percosets, valium, NyQuil, Elmer’s glue, hog fat, Ben & Jerry’s, Screaming Yellow Zonkers, McRib sandwiches, Krispy Kreme doughnuts and human flesh to really be coherent enough to develop such detailed opinions, let alone offer them.

Anyway, point is, point is that Whale Nicole Smith may be from Texas, but that does not necessarily make her a representative from that state. Likewise, Pygmy, Barefoot and Skullfucker aren’t representatives, either. I’m sure they’re proud of their Texan heritage, as most Texans are. Hell, just ask the Von Erichs… if you can find a living one. Nevertheless, pride does not mean that they speak for all of their fellow state-dwellers. To quote the almighty Larry Flynt, “opinions are like assholes, everyone’s got one.” Turns out that a lot of people who like to openly flaunt their opinions are assholes to begin with.

Now yeah, I’m biased. Celebrities piss me off. For every Bono, Steven Tyler or Danny Glover, there’s a Sean Penn, Sheryl Crow or Susan Sarandon out there trying to pose as a concerned American citizen with an opinion that really holds water with the public. Spare me, won’t you? There are proper forums to express your opinions. Concerts, music videos and award shows are not these forums (Eddie Vedder, Madonna, Michael Moore, I hope you’re listening). These people think that because they make six figures per day, they can influence other peoples’ opinions. Guess what, doesn’t work that way. Susan Sarandon comes out and says she wants to see some concrete evidence that Iraq has weapons of mass destruction. I say Susan Sarandon needs to show me something that makes her a qualified commentator. Stick to your faggoty Banger Sisters and Thelma & Louise chick flicks and go back to amputating Tim Robbins’ spine and testicles. Don’t put on the “Saint Academy Award Winner” hat and try to play holier than thou with me or anyone else. You’re a celebrity, you’re pampered, you don’t live like 85% of the American population, therefore you’ve no right to tell us how to feel. This country engages in one erroneous war in which we had no business (Vietnam), and suddenly every celebrity thinks they can pull a Hanoi Jane without any backlash.

Sorry, that was a little tangential, but Sarandon pisses me off. I want to start a protest march outside her house with signs reading “No Blood For Sarandon.” Back to the Dixie Females.

So, Pygmy’s comments may have been honest from her point of view, and I’ll give her credit for having the balls (or being stupid enough) to express them so openly in an interview. But like I said, there’s something to be said for discretion. No one is bulletproof except for Superman, and bottom line is that the public controls your fate when you’re a celebrity. You have to know when not to say something political. Guys like Bono and Tom Morello can get away with that because they know what they’re talking about, and a good percentage of their respective fan bases have opinions that coincide with theirs, largely because of the nature of the music they generate. Pygmy fronts a three-piece female pop-country group that sings about being moms and weddings. Something tells me she’s not exactly the most qualified political commentator. Save it for the pros, honey.

Having said that, I do think that Pygmy’s comments were out of line. Straight out of line. I don’t need a reason why I should justify my ways. Damn, I love that song. Sorry for the tangential departures, but it’s been awhile. Since I could hold my head up high. And it’s been awhile… Crap. OK, back to the topic at hand, Pygmy was pretty stupid to say what she said, can we agree on that? If not, too bad, it’s true. Still, I’m not all for blackballing, censorship, or any of that. So even though I loathe their music and was happy that decreased airplay was a byproduct of said boycott, I don’t agree with the reasoning. I would never send death threats to Barefoot’s house because Pygmy was stupid. I would send death threats to Barefoot’s house because she, Pygmy and Skullfucker won’t stop making bad music.

Regardless, crushing CDs, sending death threats and mail bombs, banning airplay, protesting concerts, that does nothing than give these people more publicity than they deserve. I don’t wanna see these girls on the CNN.com homepage when I check the news in the morning. I don’t wanna see them in an exclusive interview with Diane Sawyer. And I certainly don’t wanna see them nude.

You know, if I realized boycotting celebrities led to nude photo shoots, I would’ve started a boycott against Punky Brewster reruns just to get a glimpse of Soleil Moon Frye in the flesh. Gad, she got hot. I feel dirty now. Must bathe… hold, please.

Alright, now that I’m pantless, let’s get back to work. I first saw this horrid visual image on CNN.com. Not the clearest image to be certain. And then I saw it in the local CVS. My hwang crawled inside my body and tried to hide. Which is why, now sitting here pantless, I am in mourning for my frightened hwang. And even if Thor resurfaces, I’m worried he will no longer be able to wield the power of mighty Mjolnir.

That’s right Dixie Cunts. In trying to make yourself look like serious, sensitive, legitimate artists, you may have slaughtered my sex drive forever. I may never get a hard-on again.

You thought you got a shit ton of death threats before, just wait.

Goodnight, and with the exception of Pygmy, Barefoot and Skullfucker, have a pleasant tomorrow.