Fuck 50 Cent.
Yeah, I said it. I know he’s a physically rock solid, tried and true O.G. But you know what? He is a completely untalented physically rock solid, tried and true O.G.
Now, as many of you know, hip hop is not my forte when it comes to my musical preferences. However, my tastes do vary more so than the moods of a bipolar penguin with seasonal affective disorder and a one-way ticket to Bermuda, so I actually do have some block-rockin’ beatz on Kilgore.
Kilgore is my new iPod. Devastator had to be put to bed.
Devastator was my first iPod, in case you didn’t pick up on that.
If people can name their cars, computers and cocks, I can name my iPod, dammit.
As I was saying, I do like some hip hop, and I have my few favorite artists that I’ll gravitate to. I’ll always appreciate trendsetters from the early days like Run DMC and to a lesser extent, the Beastie Boys. I’ll always appreciate the raw and complex social commentary offered up by the likes of Public Enemy and Tupac Shakur. I can even appreciate the lyrical abilities of cats like Biggie Smalls and Eminem.
But 50 Cent doesn’t have an ounce of skill (or skillz) in his million dollar body when it comes to rap. The most memorable part of his debut affair, Get Rich Or Die Tryin’ was the downbeat to “In Da Club.”
And that’s it. Seriously, that’s the only part of that entire album that I find listenable/tolerable. He doesn’t rhyme with the proficiency of an Eminem or the fire of a Tupac. In fact, most of his songs sound the friggin’ same to me simply because of that dull, monotone voice of his that never seems to change it’s tone.
And yet, the man has still somehow managed to pop up everywhere. Since his release of The Massacre earlier this year (which, to my understanding, is aptly named since the album is massacring a potential art form), he has managed to cross over into nearly every other branch of mediart (my term) save for literature. Not surprising since I doubt a book would cater to most of his audience. But he has managed to parlay Get Rich into a lackluster cinematic hack that many consider to be a rip on Eminem’s 8 Mile. And if it is not a full rip, it is, at the very least, attempting to recreate the success of said movie.
Then there was the mind-blowing atrocity that sparked this post in the first place… the man released a video game bearing his name, voice, music and image. 50 Cent: Bulletproof recently hit the shelves. Like everything else Mr. Jackson has done, it tries to dovetail off of a precedent already set… in this case, the freeform, ultra-violent, socially bankrupt phenomenon in gaming started by the popular GTA series. I suppose it’s no surprise that with San Andreas being as huge a success as it was, developers everywhere have tried to cash in on the whole “gangsta” image perpetuated by the game’s early 1990’s setting. That being said, based on the reviews, this came appears to fail miserably. As a “passable” affair, this game should be a rental at best.
Imagine my horror when I found it to be the number one selling game at one of my local game stores. And that seems to be the norm everywhere.
Why? Why is this the number one game in the nation? Can it really be just because 50’s face is plastered all over it? Is he really that dominant a force in the hip hop world? Doesn’t a lack of talent stand for anything in this sick, sad world anymore?
Here’s the thing about hardcore gamers, folks… they are loyal to the bone, but in smaller droves than the average moron. However, word travels fast in the gaming world, and hits and misses are oftentimes quickly dignified as such, sometimes even before the plastic wrap is torn off the case. So if this game really is as piss-poor as we are being led to believe, then there really is no hope for humanity, and style has officially slain substance.
Look, here’s the bottom line… 50 made it for two reasons. One, he has a great look. He’s in great physical shape, which is huge with the ladies, and his thugged out threads only endears him to would-be gangbangers. Two, he is a legitimate tough guy. You don’t get shot nine times and survive without earning yourself some serious street respect (or “cred,” if you will).
But he is not talented.
He never was talented.
Please for the love of God, just go away, 50… You don’t know how bad “Candy Shop” makes me want to go to the liquor shop.
If Eazy E were alive, this prick would’ve been waxed a long time ago. And music would be in a better place for it.
When I told my buddy Vas about this post, his reaction was downright emphatic. Being a budding filmmaker himself, he was quite enthralled with my decision to lambaste Mr. Cent. In fact, I believe his exact words were: “I hope anyone that sees his movie dies. I hope that they die, and that their children contract Chlamydia and then burn in hell for being the offspring of such people. And I want this all to happen in the theater as they watch the last five minutes of his movie.”
I couldn’t have put it better myself. And that’s my 2 cents on 50. I want my change back now, motherfucker.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
11/28/2005
11/27/2005
The Landshark and I have a special kinship… our birthdays are a mere eight days apart. Now while I may have just hit my quarter-century mark, the dear li’l Landshark is but a wee tyke still, though growing rapidly as he just turned 3.
*Sniff* Gosh, they grow up quick, don’t they? I can remember it like it was yesterday… a small, modest post about the pending horrors to come. And of course, at that time, I had far much more time to devote to my blog practice. Though the times have changed and this li’l fella has taken to walking on his own, I still dote over it like a good parent… or a good parent that has a career, deadlines, planes to catch and leaves the care of his or her children to the beloved nanny Consuela.
Except I don’t know where my nanny is half the time. The little bastard has gotten into my hooch three times in the last week. Consuela, where the fuck are you?
Anyway, I still remember those precious few posts… the one regarding violence in video games, the ongoing rants about the grad school experience, the very first full post about Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez.
“Bennifer.” That’s the term. I had almost shut that entire ordeal out of my head for the last few years until staying home for Thanksgiving this past week, and flipping through the vast wasteland I call television, and in passing heard the term reiterated on one of those confounded top 100 lists that E! and VH1 feel compelled to milk to the never-mind. From what I could gather, it was something exceptionally lame like the top 100 “power couples” or “celebrity breakups” or something to that effect.
When I heard the term, it brought back all those horrid memories of 2003 and the sheer over-saturation of that confounded excuse for a “romance.”
But it didn’t end with “Bennifer.” I was then inundated with the apparent new “compound pet names” for these celebrity “couples” (yes, I parenthesize that, because if you can really qualify these sad human beings as “couples,” you need to redefine your concept of the term “relationship”).
First, there was “Brangelina,” obviously referring to Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. Then there was the atrocious “Tomkat,” in reference to Scientology’s favorite thetans, Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes.
I would love to get my mitts on the ruddy dirt rag reporter that coined any one of the above three names, simply because the pretentiousness and irritation factor in them are off the bloody charts right now. Granted, I have a deep-seated loathing for all celebrities except Christopher Walken and Edward Norton. That being said, I do consider most of them to be something less than human… every time I have seen them interviewed, my bullshit detector has blown a damn gasket. So, seeing as how we have now determined that most celebrities are less than human, I suppose it could be argued that amalgamating their names might be a way of dehumanizing them even more.
That may be true on most days, but here, I have to take issue.
These terms are not meant to degrade, and they really should. Even though these pairings tend to share a common brain that is a tenth the size of their combined egos, that doesn’t mean they should share a common name as well. The designation of a group of two or more people by a pet name typically is done to aggrandize them, not demean them. A good example would be the Rat Pack. Granted, at face value this may not seem like the most shimmering of names… nonetheless, at the end of the day, it became synonymous with talent and savoir-faire, and it became a term that the unit embraced.
The same can be said for these pairings. They embrace the term bestowed upon them by the media, and in turn revel in the absolutely needless attention it seems to garner them. Not for nothing, but if somewhere down the line, some nitwit ever refers to my wife and I by a common name, he can fully expect a high heel up his rectum (or possibly to his gumdrops) and a Deer Stag in the mush.
It’s been a while since I’ve had a good rant on celebrities, the world they live in and the abhorrent façade they call life. Truthfully, it feels pretty good. Again, I always look to out the overrated and overexposed with this baby blog of mine, and the truth is, these names are just absurd to begin with… but they have now risen to the next level we call “overkill.” I’m surprised that some clever asshole never came up with “Jessnicka” or “Kevitney.” I suppose I should also be thankful.
And dear reader, at this time of year, we should give thanks. I suppose that in reviewing this circuitously Zen post that harkens back to the early days and the irritants that caused me to light the fire here, I can at least be thankful that most, if not all of these celebrities will live boorishly empty lives that will end in substance abuse, scandal, divorce, bankruptcy, and God willing, leprosy. If these useless actors and actresses really want to make a go of their 15 minutes and engage the public via the sickening fascination with celebrities that most of us have coupled with the cleverness of a compound term, then I can take tremendous comfort in knowing that they’ll be getting a nice Karmic raping somewhere down the line.
Who says they live better than us?
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
*Sniff* Gosh, they grow up quick, don’t they? I can remember it like it was yesterday… a small, modest post about the pending horrors to come. And of course, at that time, I had far much more time to devote to my blog practice. Though the times have changed and this li’l fella has taken to walking on his own, I still dote over it like a good parent… or a good parent that has a career, deadlines, planes to catch and leaves the care of his or her children to the beloved nanny Consuela.
Except I don’t know where my nanny is half the time. The little bastard has gotten into my hooch three times in the last week. Consuela, where the fuck are you?
Anyway, I still remember those precious few posts… the one regarding violence in video games, the ongoing rants about the grad school experience, the very first full post about Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez.
“Bennifer.” That’s the term. I had almost shut that entire ordeal out of my head for the last few years until staying home for Thanksgiving this past week, and flipping through the vast wasteland I call television, and in passing heard the term reiterated on one of those confounded top 100 lists that E! and VH1 feel compelled to milk to the never-mind. From what I could gather, it was something exceptionally lame like the top 100 “power couples” or “celebrity breakups” or something to that effect.
When I heard the term, it brought back all those horrid memories of 2003 and the sheer over-saturation of that confounded excuse for a “romance.”
But it didn’t end with “Bennifer.” I was then inundated with the apparent new “compound pet names” for these celebrity “couples” (yes, I parenthesize that, because if you can really qualify these sad human beings as “couples,” you need to redefine your concept of the term “relationship”).
First, there was “Brangelina,” obviously referring to Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. Then there was the atrocious “Tomkat,” in reference to Scientology’s favorite thetans, Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes.
I would love to get my mitts on the ruddy dirt rag reporter that coined any one of the above three names, simply because the pretentiousness and irritation factor in them are off the bloody charts right now. Granted, I have a deep-seated loathing for all celebrities except Christopher Walken and Edward Norton. That being said, I do consider most of them to be something less than human… every time I have seen them interviewed, my bullshit detector has blown a damn gasket. So, seeing as how we have now determined that most celebrities are less than human, I suppose it could be argued that amalgamating their names might be a way of dehumanizing them even more.
That may be true on most days, but here, I have to take issue.
These terms are not meant to degrade, and they really should. Even though these pairings tend to share a common brain that is a tenth the size of their combined egos, that doesn’t mean they should share a common name as well. The designation of a group of two or more people by a pet name typically is done to aggrandize them, not demean them. A good example would be the Rat Pack. Granted, at face value this may not seem like the most shimmering of names… nonetheless, at the end of the day, it became synonymous with talent and savoir-faire, and it became a term that the unit embraced.
The same can be said for these pairings. They embrace the term bestowed upon them by the media, and in turn revel in the absolutely needless attention it seems to garner them. Not for nothing, but if somewhere down the line, some nitwit ever refers to my wife and I by a common name, he can fully expect a high heel up his rectum (or possibly to his gumdrops) and a Deer Stag in the mush.
It’s been a while since I’ve had a good rant on celebrities, the world they live in and the abhorrent façade they call life. Truthfully, it feels pretty good. Again, I always look to out the overrated and overexposed with this baby blog of mine, and the truth is, these names are just absurd to begin with… but they have now risen to the next level we call “overkill.” I’m surprised that some clever asshole never came up with “Jessnicka” or “Kevitney.” I suppose I should also be thankful.
And dear reader, at this time of year, we should give thanks. I suppose that in reviewing this circuitously Zen post that harkens back to the early days and the irritants that caused me to light the fire here, I can at least be thankful that most, if not all of these celebrities will live boorishly empty lives that will end in substance abuse, scandal, divorce, bankruptcy, and God willing, leprosy. If these useless actors and actresses really want to make a go of their 15 minutes and engage the public via the sickening fascination with celebrities that most of us have coupled with the cleverness of a compound term, then I can take tremendous comfort in knowing that they’ll be getting a nice Karmic raping somewhere down the line.
Who says they live better than us?
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
11/17/2005
Dunkin Donuts has gotta be the end-all be-all paradox of the universe.
Now, when it comes to vendors of caffeinated stimulants, most of my fellow man would be quick to go for Starbucks’s jugular. Now granted, I’m down with the whole anti-corporate thing anyway… and I could never justify paying $3.50 for a small cup of coffee. Be that as it may, Dunkin Donuts just boggles my mind from top to bottom, inside and out, and everywhere in between.
First off, in case you haven’t noticed, their coffee is nothing spectacular. I mean, it’s OK, but it’s not like I go on a massive killing spree if I don’t get my daily fix. It’s overly flavored, much too sweet at times, and just plain “eh” for the most part. And yet people literally go berserk for it. They stop in every morning for the first cup o’ the day, and they see no problem shelling out over $3 for a large cup. Folks, it’s coffee, not cabernet. If you’re paying anything over $1.69, you’re throwing your money away.
To boot, the people that work at Dunkin Donuts have got to be about as capable as a comatose amputee octogenarian with a colostomy bag. Yes, it really is that fuckin’ bad, don’t you dare deny it. When was the last time you walked into a Dunkin Donuts, ordered something, and walked out with exactly what you wanted? The ratio has gotta be about 30 percent, I believe.
In relaying this to a close friend, it was less than 24 hours after our conversation that the Dunkin Donuts customer service curse touched her life. Take it away, Jules:
"I just wanted to share my unpleasant Dunkin’ Donuts experience with you this morning. This is the second time that this has happened to me. My typical order (which I treat myself to once or twice a week) is a small, iced vanilla latte with soy milk and a toasted whole wheat bagel with strawberry jam (the healthiest you can get). Not only was I overcharged (not the first time) and the cashier wouldn’t adjust the price, but I was given strawberry cream cheese instead of strawberry jam. I had to resort to the same measure I took the first time it happened – I had to take a handful of napkins and pull several globs of cream cheese off before I could even eat it. And not all DD locations have soy milk, which is why I must make absolute last resorts to Starbucks, other trendy places, or a sidewalk vendor (who usually doesn’t have it either, and in that case a small dribble of skim milk is added)."
Folks, tell me you haven’t had this experience before, or something akin to it. I can count at least 12 times in the last year that I have been overcharged at this establishment.
And I still go back! We all do, not a one of us is innocent on this course, ladies and gentlemen. What is it about this franchise that compels us, as if we were lambs of the slaughter, to waste twenty minutes every morning in line at the drive-through (I refused to write “thru.” Ever), arguing with the cashier over what we ordered and how much we were charged?
Fuck Stonehenge, this is the real mystery of a lifetime.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
Now, when it comes to vendors of caffeinated stimulants, most of my fellow man would be quick to go for Starbucks’s jugular. Now granted, I’m down with the whole anti-corporate thing anyway… and I could never justify paying $3.50 for a small cup of coffee. Be that as it may, Dunkin Donuts just boggles my mind from top to bottom, inside and out, and everywhere in between.
First off, in case you haven’t noticed, their coffee is nothing spectacular. I mean, it’s OK, but it’s not like I go on a massive killing spree if I don’t get my daily fix. It’s overly flavored, much too sweet at times, and just plain “eh” for the most part. And yet people literally go berserk for it. They stop in every morning for the first cup o’ the day, and they see no problem shelling out over $3 for a large cup. Folks, it’s coffee, not cabernet. If you’re paying anything over $1.69, you’re throwing your money away.
To boot, the people that work at Dunkin Donuts have got to be about as capable as a comatose amputee octogenarian with a colostomy bag. Yes, it really is that fuckin’ bad, don’t you dare deny it. When was the last time you walked into a Dunkin Donuts, ordered something, and walked out with exactly what you wanted? The ratio has gotta be about 30 percent, I believe.
In relaying this to a close friend, it was less than 24 hours after our conversation that the Dunkin Donuts customer service curse touched her life. Take it away, Jules:
"I just wanted to share my unpleasant Dunkin’ Donuts experience with you this morning. This is the second time that this has happened to me. My typical order (which I treat myself to once or twice a week) is a small, iced vanilla latte with soy milk and a toasted whole wheat bagel with strawberry jam (the healthiest you can get). Not only was I overcharged (not the first time) and the cashier wouldn’t adjust the price, but I was given strawberry cream cheese instead of strawberry jam. I had to resort to the same measure I took the first time it happened – I had to take a handful of napkins and pull several globs of cream cheese off before I could even eat it. And not all DD locations have soy milk, which is why I must make absolute last resorts to Starbucks, other trendy places, or a sidewalk vendor (who usually doesn’t have it either, and in that case a small dribble of skim milk is added)."
Folks, tell me you haven’t had this experience before, or something akin to it. I can count at least 12 times in the last year that I have been overcharged at this establishment.
And I still go back! We all do, not a one of us is innocent on this course, ladies and gentlemen. What is it about this franchise that compels us, as if we were lambs of the slaughter, to waste twenty minutes every morning in line at the drive-through (I refused to write “thru.” Ever), arguing with the cashier over what we ordered and how much we were charged?
Fuck Stonehenge, this is the real mystery of a lifetime.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
11/08/2005
At what point does exposure in the public eye go to a person’s head? When does the line begin to blur between perception and reality for a human being? When do these individuals begin to believe the hype?
I have to wonder about this, because as I’m sure some of you know, my role in the Sons of Pericles requires a certain amount of public exposure in the Hellenic community. So I suppose that as a designated “leader,” this topic is of concern to me. Obviously it’d be nice if I could always “keep it real,” so to speak, and not let the compliments that I receive regularly go to my head. ‘Cause that’s the point where I, or anyone else in said position, stands to lose focus, drop the ball on the big picture, and just go into business for oneself.
I understand that this one is probably coming from way outta left field for a lot of people, so allow me to explain the impetus for this entry in the Inspector’s Notebook…
Some of you may know me to be/have been a fan of pro wrestling. I use the quasi-past tense here because in recent months, the overall product has failed to engage me as it once did. To accelerate this disenchantment, I refuse to get cable in my new place for some time because I rarely have time to watch TV as it is, would rather use my spare time to partake in more creative activities, and quite frankly just am not home enough to really take advantage of it. So if I can save a few bucks a month that will go towards towering gas prices and my gym membership, so be it. Very little on TV is actually worth watching these days to begin with, but that’s a topic for a different post altogether.
The one aspect of wrestling over the past year that I have truly enjoyed is the inception of the WWE’s DVD library. For those of you who are not aware, many of the special releases are more documentary-based now, focusing on the careers of various wrestlers (Chris Benoit, Ric Flair, Eddie Guerrero, Rob Van Dam, the Road Warriors, etc.), or particular milestones in wrestling history (ECW, the “Monday Night Wars,” and the like). I find these DVD’s to be highly entertaining and informative, as it offers the more… shall we say, “enlightened” fan a deeper look into the inner workings of the business (a fascinating case study in and of itself).
Which brings me to a case study of a different sort: a psychological case study embodied in the man who wrestled as the Ultimate Warrior back in the 80’s and 90’s when it was still known as the World Wrestling Federation (WWF). Recently, a DVD entitled The Self-Destruction Of The Ultimate Warrior hit the shelves, and I had to buy it for a variety of reasons going far beyond my appreciation for the documentary aspect of this series.
First off, it brings me back to the guy that captured my attention as a 9-year-old kid way back when. For the uninitiated, the Warrior was a hulking mass of bodybuilder-turned-pro wrestler renowned for his great intensity, unique persona, and extremely limited in-ring ability. The man was distinguished by his long hair, multi-colored face paint and tassels, and his seemingly incoherent ramblings (more on that in a bit). The Warrior’s entrance was famous as his music blared through the arenas with a pulse-pounding guitar chord and heavy backbeat that saw the man sprint down to the ring, pumping his fists through the air and shaking the ropes like a savage convict behind bars. He looked like a comic book character come to life. Somewhere between He-Man and the Mighty Thor, there lay the character for the Ultimate Warrior. He resembled a postmodern barbarian with a dose of Native American influence that would go on about his destiny, the sacrifices he had made, and the power bestowed upon him by the gods above.
Yeah, the guy was out there.
But he got noticed, and to make a long story short, he went onto become the first man in years to cleanly pin Hulk Hogan at WrestleMania VI to become the WWF World Heavyweight Champion. It was a milestone since both guys were fan favorites, but also since Hulk Hogan was “the man” so to speak. It’s like when Guns N’ Roses opened for Aerosmith on the 1987 tour that saw GN'R supporting Appetite For Destruction and Aerosmith supporting Permanent Vacation. People were coming to the show for Guns and then leaving before Steven Tyler and Company could take the stage. Again, more on that later.
As I said, the Warrior was not much of an actual wrestler. He was sloppy, careless, couldn’t cut an interview to save his life, and relied too much on the character rather than learning a craft. But he still managed to rise to the top of the ladder despite the dominance of established guys like Hogan and Andre the Giant. So it was interesting to see this guy just explode out of nowhere. That is not common in the wrestling business; most competitors spend years working their way up the ladder. This guy just sped past everybody because of the character.
And ultimately (no pun intended), it would be the character that would both define and destroy the man behind the face paint: Jim Hellwig. Hellwig would come to believe his own hype, most would say… and resultant of that, he developed a massive ego in the business, and thought himself to be underpaid, underappreciated and underused. According to the DVD (which, it should be duly noted, does not feature Hellwig, as he declined to appear), his peers claim he had a bad attitude and thought a bit too highly of himself. He was fired three times from the WWF: once for refusing to work a major pay per view unless he was paid a substantial amount of money (on the very night of the show itself, no less), again for failing a drug test, and a third and final time for missing a series of shows. Hellwig disputes all these points to this day, but to me, if there are a dozen or more people supporting one story, and only one guy supporting another side of the story, I have to fall back on the majority, nine times out of ten.
But it goes way beyond all that. After his second departure from the WWF, Hellwig legally changed his name to “Warrior.” Not Jim Warrior or James Warrior Hellwig, just “Warrior.” This would be like if Cherilyn Sarkisian LaPierre legally changed her name to just “Cher.” Only much more bizarre.
Not only did he change his name, but he formulated his own philosophy based on the Ultimate Warrior character. See, since the Warrior always babbled incessantly about his destiny and the sacrifices he made, the man Jim Hellwig came to identify with the character he portrayed on TV. And because of his meteoric rise to the top of the wrestling profession, he came to accept the hype surrounding him that was only reinforced by the office and his fans. The line apparently began to blur for Hellwig, and he saw his irrational behavior as perfectly justified in keeping with the Warrior persona. In fact, he came to identify with the character so much that he sued the WWF in 1996 for the rights to the name. His rationale was that since he was now Warrior and not Jim Hellwig, and since many aspects of the character were formulated by him, he was the rightful owner of the intellectual property. This came in spite of the fact that Vince McMahon was the one who came up with the name and initial backbone of the character.
Hellwig (or “Warrior,” as he prefers, simply for the fact that I don’t want to get sued, either) went on to one more wrestling stint in WCW, which was a huge flop. He then began maintaining his own company (which is apparently a handful of close friends and his wife), posting long, rambling entries on his personal website, maintaining the precepts of his philosophy, and most recently speaking on the college circuit (specifically as it pertains to young conservatives). But Warrior has burned all of his bridges, it would seem: with the WWE, with the fans, and with the general public. He recently started a near-riot at UConn during one of his public speaking appearances.
The point of this bizarre history lesson is to illustrate how a life spent in the public eye can change a man’s view of himself, and not for the better. There’s a wrong and right way to take compliments and praise. This is definitely the wrong way.
But it’s not just my former childhood hero that has fallen victim to this syndrome. I have selected two other very public, very recognizable men who also fit the bill.
Submitted for your evaluation, one Mr. William Bailey, an Indiana native with big dreams to become a huge rock star. A well-schooled pianist and devout rock fan with an endearing love for Queen, Aerosmith and the Sex Pistols, Bailey struck out on his own with his buddy Jeff and hit up Hollywood. It wasn’t long before they got together with Saul, Mike and Steve, all of whom were in another very popular band frequenting the dives along L.A.’s Sunset Strip.
One thing led to another and it wasn’t long before William, Saul, Mike, Jeff and Steve were know as Axl, Slash, Duff, Izzy and… well, Steve. Guns N’ Roses.
Yeah, Indiana’s own William Bailey transformed himself into the charismatic yet unpredictable Axl Rose, rock n’ roll’s greatest frontman since Mick Jagger himself. As I mentioned before, when Guns opened for Aerosmith in ’87, many people were coming to check the opening act alone, leaving the headliners in the dirt come mainstage time.
As time went on, the videos got more and more grandiose, as did the stage productions and the songs. They went from the visceral, violent Appetite to the considerably more refined Illusions albums. Axl’s attitude, stage presence, temper, all went over-the-top. The down and dirty boys from L.A.’s Sunset Strip had become an over-the-top bombastic rock and roll production. Along with the bombast grew Axl’s ego, as he became even more temperamental, going so far as to storm offstage in fits of inexplicable rage and frustration. He went even further by no-showing several major shows, letting down the fans time and again.
His attitude got so out of hand that he not only alienated his fans, but his bandmates as well. Little by little, they began to bail on him, leaving him as the last original member of GN’R. Axl would go into exile for a number of years, making occasional appearances in public and onstage in the late 90’s, as well as reforming Guns.
But it wasn’t the Guns we knew. Confident that his name and his name alone could sell the product, he rounded up a group of talented, albeit obscure and out-of-place musicians to recreate Guns N’ Roses. A boorishly mediocre performance at the 2002 MTV Video Music Awards (capped by Axl’s horrid howling) was followed by a brief American tour. Many critics claimed that this would be a make-or-break moment for Axl and his lot, seeing as how the long-awaited new GN’R album, Chinese Democracy, had been in development for nearly 10 years without nary a hint of radio airplay or promotion, and no release date in sight.
The tour went swimmingly for a few weeks… until the no-shows commenced again. 10 years later, nothing changed. Axl let the fans down, the tour was cancelled, and for all intents and purposes, he has not been heard from in the last three years.
It is interesting how the people who come to believe their own hype ultimately feel a certain amount of invincibility – as if the world owes them something, and they can fuck up however much they want and still get away with it.
This brings me to our Commander-In-Chief.
Republican friends, hold thy tongues. This is my blog, my right, no apologies. No one will ever be able to convince me that this man’s incompetence and utter disregard for anything but his own hide and his bank account are a figment of my imagination.
The difference here is that James Hellwig and William Bailey tried to convince the world that they were the Ultimate Warrior and Axl Rose. In this case, Dubya is trying to convince the world that he’s really George W. Bush.
See, Dubya is the man behind the mask. Dubya is the happy-go-lucky blueblood Texan who never gave a damn about anything but himself. However, the persona he attempts to emit, the persona of George W. Bush, is who he sees himself as: a caring, compassionate President with a sterling track record of defending the nation against terrorism and improving the economy.
Balderdash.
I’ve heard recently from Canadian friends that there are claims which state the Bush administration has actually stopped several terrorist attacks over the last few years. How convenient these reports are now being broadcast when his approval rating is at an all-time low.
Face it, the man is not presidential material, people. I bit my tongue during Katrina, but to see this phony photo op shots of him holding children and weeping turns my stomach. A few cute pictures do not make a solution.
And yet, even while I displace myself from the pulpit, it is hard to say that he doesn’t believe the shit he’s shoveling. I really believe that in his mind, he is one of the finest leaders this nation has ever seen, which is why he goes to the lengths he does to convince us. I believe that in his mind’s eye, he feels we really belong in Iraq, and that he has made all the right decisions since 2001 when he was inaugurated.
I am convinced he believes his own hype… and feels vindicated for all his misgivings. I’m sure he doesn’t even consider them to be misgivings… I think he truly believes himself to be a superior leader. And yet even his once most loyal supporters have begun to turn their backs on him in recent months following Katrina and his insistance that we stay in Iraq.
And I don’t want to make this just a political thing… I’ve seen it happen on the ground level… people I’ve worked with, dealt with on a daily basis, past friends, past girlfriends, I have seen the hype go to people’s heads. I have seen them buy into the notion that they are something spectacular. A compliment is not a license to boast or brandish like a trophy.
And I have seen the end result… people who were once fun, beautiful human beings turned ugly inside-out by virtue of their own egos. Sad as it may be, it is in part human nature. We can’t help but want to be more than we are… but to believe we are something that spectacular, that godlike and monolithic is absolutely absurd. I have made it my personal mission to never let my role go to my head no matter where my lot in life is. It’s one of the reasons that I have convinced myself I can never deal with the woes of celebrity. Why would I want to alienate myself that way? Why strip myself of my humanity for the sake of my own self-gratification?
Granted, I may be working my ass off for myself these days, but that is in an effort to grow more comfortable with myself… Not to go out with a “#1” tattooed on my forehead. Believe me, I’ve gotten a heap ton of compliments regarding my work with the Sons, my writing, and the like. The key is to not let that travel northward to my cranium where it can sit, grow, and fester like a sickness.
At the end of the day, I refuse to even believe my own hype. I’ve seen the damage that does.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
I have to wonder about this, because as I’m sure some of you know, my role in the Sons of Pericles requires a certain amount of public exposure in the Hellenic community. So I suppose that as a designated “leader,” this topic is of concern to me. Obviously it’d be nice if I could always “keep it real,” so to speak, and not let the compliments that I receive regularly go to my head. ‘Cause that’s the point where I, or anyone else in said position, stands to lose focus, drop the ball on the big picture, and just go into business for oneself.
I understand that this one is probably coming from way outta left field for a lot of people, so allow me to explain the impetus for this entry in the Inspector’s Notebook…
Some of you may know me to be/have been a fan of pro wrestling. I use the quasi-past tense here because in recent months, the overall product has failed to engage me as it once did. To accelerate this disenchantment, I refuse to get cable in my new place for some time because I rarely have time to watch TV as it is, would rather use my spare time to partake in more creative activities, and quite frankly just am not home enough to really take advantage of it. So if I can save a few bucks a month that will go towards towering gas prices and my gym membership, so be it. Very little on TV is actually worth watching these days to begin with, but that’s a topic for a different post altogether.
The one aspect of wrestling over the past year that I have truly enjoyed is the inception of the WWE’s DVD library. For those of you who are not aware, many of the special releases are more documentary-based now, focusing on the careers of various wrestlers (Chris Benoit, Ric Flair, Eddie Guerrero, Rob Van Dam, the Road Warriors, etc.), or particular milestones in wrestling history (ECW, the “Monday Night Wars,” and the like). I find these DVD’s to be highly entertaining and informative, as it offers the more… shall we say, “enlightened” fan a deeper look into the inner workings of the business (a fascinating case study in and of itself).
Which brings me to a case study of a different sort: a psychological case study embodied in the man who wrestled as the Ultimate Warrior back in the 80’s and 90’s when it was still known as the World Wrestling Federation (WWF). Recently, a DVD entitled The Self-Destruction Of The Ultimate Warrior hit the shelves, and I had to buy it for a variety of reasons going far beyond my appreciation for the documentary aspect of this series.
First off, it brings me back to the guy that captured my attention as a 9-year-old kid way back when. For the uninitiated, the Warrior was a hulking mass of bodybuilder-turned-pro wrestler renowned for his great intensity, unique persona, and extremely limited in-ring ability. The man was distinguished by his long hair, multi-colored face paint and tassels, and his seemingly incoherent ramblings (more on that in a bit). The Warrior’s entrance was famous as his music blared through the arenas with a pulse-pounding guitar chord and heavy backbeat that saw the man sprint down to the ring, pumping his fists through the air and shaking the ropes like a savage convict behind bars. He looked like a comic book character come to life. Somewhere between He-Man and the Mighty Thor, there lay the character for the Ultimate Warrior. He resembled a postmodern barbarian with a dose of Native American influence that would go on about his destiny, the sacrifices he had made, and the power bestowed upon him by the gods above.
Yeah, the guy was out there.
But he got noticed, and to make a long story short, he went onto become the first man in years to cleanly pin Hulk Hogan at WrestleMania VI to become the WWF World Heavyweight Champion. It was a milestone since both guys were fan favorites, but also since Hulk Hogan was “the man” so to speak. It’s like when Guns N’ Roses opened for Aerosmith on the 1987 tour that saw GN'R supporting Appetite For Destruction and Aerosmith supporting Permanent Vacation. People were coming to the show for Guns and then leaving before Steven Tyler and Company could take the stage. Again, more on that later.
As I said, the Warrior was not much of an actual wrestler. He was sloppy, careless, couldn’t cut an interview to save his life, and relied too much on the character rather than learning a craft. But he still managed to rise to the top of the ladder despite the dominance of established guys like Hogan and Andre the Giant. So it was interesting to see this guy just explode out of nowhere. That is not common in the wrestling business; most competitors spend years working their way up the ladder. This guy just sped past everybody because of the character.
And ultimately (no pun intended), it would be the character that would both define and destroy the man behind the face paint: Jim Hellwig. Hellwig would come to believe his own hype, most would say… and resultant of that, he developed a massive ego in the business, and thought himself to be underpaid, underappreciated and underused. According to the DVD (which, it should be duly noted, does not feature Hellwig, as he declined to appear), his peers claim he had a bad attitude and thought a bit too highly of himself. He was fired three times from the WWF: once for refusing to work a major pay per view unless he was paid a substantial amount of money (on the very night of the show itself, no less), again for failing a drug test, and a third and final time for missing a series of shows. Hellwig disputes all these points to this day, but to me, if there are a dozen or more people supporting one story, and only one guy supporting another side of the story, I have to fall back on the majority, nine times out of ten.
But it goes way beyond all that. After his second departure from the WWF, Hellwig legally changed his name to “Warrior.” Not Jim Warrior or James Warrior Hellwig, just “Warrior.” This would be like if Cherilyn Sarkisian LaPierre legally changed her name to just “Cher.” Only much more bizarre.
Not only did he change his name, but he formulated his own philosophy based on the Ultimate Warrior character. See, since the Warrior always babbled incessantly about his destiny and the sacrifices he made, the man Jim Hellwig came to identify with the character he portrayed on TV. And because of his meteoric rise to the top of the wrestling profession, he came to accept the hype surrounding him that was only reinforced by the office and his fans. The line apparently began to blur for Hellwig, and he saw his irrational behavior as perfectly justified in keeping with the Warrior persona. In fact, he came to identify with the character so much that he sued the WWF in 1996 for the rights to the name. His rationale was that since he was now Warrior and not Jim Hellwig, and since many aspects of the character were formulated by him, he was the rightful owner of the intellectual property. This came in spite of the fact that Vince McMahon was the one who came up with the name and initial backbone of the character.
Hellwig (or “Warrior,” as he prefers, simply for the fact that I don’t want to get sued, either) went on to one more wrestling stint in WCW, which was a huge flop. He then began maintaining his own company (which is apparently a handful of close friends and his wife), posting long, rambling entries on his personal website, maintaining the precepts of his philosophy, and most recently speaking on the college circuit (specifically as it pertains to young conservatives). But Warrior has burned all of his bridges, it would seem: with the WWE, with the fans, and with the general public. He recently started a near-riot at UConn during one of his public speaking appearances.
The point of this bizarre history lesson is to illustrate how a life spent in the public eye can change a man’s view of himself, and not for the better. There’s a wrong and right way to take compliments and praise. This is definitely the wrong way.
But it’s not just my former childhood hero that has fallen victim to this syndrome. I have selected two other very public, very recognizable men who also fit the bill.
Submitted for your evaluation, one Mr. William Bailey, an Indiana native with big dreams to become a huge rock star. A well-schooled pianist and devout rock fan with an endearing love for Queen, Aerosmith and the Sex Pistols, Bailey struck out on his own with his buddy Jeff and hit up Hollywood. It wasn’t long before they got together with Saul, Mike and Steve, all of whom were in another very popular band frequenting the dives along L.A.’s Sunset Strip.
One thing led to another and it wasn’t long before William, Saul, Mike, Jeff and Steve were know as Axl, Slash, Duff, Izzy and… well, Steve. Guns N’ Roses.
Yeah, Indiana’s own William Bailey transformed himself into the charismatic yet unpredictable Axl Rose, rock n’ roll’s greatest frontman since Mick Jagger himself. As I mentioned before, when Guns opened for Aerosmith in ’87, many people were coming to check the opening act alone, leaving the headliners in the dirt come mainstage time.
As time went on, the videos got more and more grandiose, as did the stage productions and the songs. They went from the visceral, violent Appetite to the considerably more refined Illusions albums. Axl’s attitude, stage presence, temper, all went over-the-top. The down and dirty boys from L.A.’s Sunset Strip had become an over-the-top bombastic rock and roll production. Along with the bombast grew Axl’s ego, as he became even more temperamental, going so far as to storm offstage in fits of inexplicable rage and frustration. He went even further by no-showing several major shows, letting down the fans time and again.
His attitude got so out of hand that he not only alienated his fans, but his bandmates as well. Little by little, they began to bail on him, leaving him as the last original member of GN’R. Axl would go into exile for a number of years, making occasional appearances in public and onstage in the late 90’s, as well as reforming Guns.
But it wasn’t the Guns we knew. Confident that his name and his name alone could sell the product, he rounded up a group of talented, albeit obscure and out-of-place musicians to recreate Guns N’ Roses. A boorishly mediocre performance at the 2002 MTV Video Music Awards (capped by Axl’s horrid howling) was followed by a brief American tour. Many critics claimed that this would be a make-or-break moment for Axl and his lot, seeing as how the long-awaited new GN’R album, Chinese Democracy, had been in development for nearly 10 years without nary a hint of radio airplay or promotion, and no release date in sight.
The tour went swimmingly for a few weeks… until the no-shows commenced again. 10 years later, nothing changed. Axl let the fans down, the tour was cancelled, and for all intents and purposes, he has not been heard from in the last three years.
It is interesting how the people who come to believe their own hype ultimately feel a certain amount of invincibility – as if the world owes them something, and they can fuck up however much they want and still get away with it.
This brings me to our Commander-In-Chief.
Republican friends, hold thy tongues. This is my blog, my right, no apologies. No one will ever be able to convince me that this man’s incompetence and utter disregard for anything but his own hide and his bank account are a figment of my imagination.
The difference here is that James Hellwig and William Bailey tried to convince the world that they were the Ultimate Warrior and Axl Rose. In this case, Dubya is trying to convince the world that he’s really George W. Bush.
See, Dubya is the man behind the mask. Dubya is the happy-go-lucky blueblood Texan who never gave a damn about anything but himself. However, the persona he attempts to emit, the persona of George W. Bush, is who he sees himself as: a caring, compassionate President with a sterling track record of defending the nation against terrorism and improving the economy.
Balderdash.
I’ve heard recently from Canadian friends that there are claims which state the Bush administration has actually stopped several terrorist attacks over the last few years. How convenient these reports are now being broadcast when his approval rating is at an all-time low.
Face it, the man is not presidential material, people. I bit my tongue during Katrina, but to see this phony photo op shots of him holding children and weeping turns my stomach. A few cute pictures do not make a solution.
And yet, even while I displace myself from the pulpit, it is hard to say that he doesn’t believe the shit he’s shoveling. I really believe that in his mind, he is one of the finest leaders this nation has ever seen, which is why he goes to the lengths he does to convince us. I believe that in his mind’s eye, he feels we really belong in Iraq, and that he has made all the right decisions since 2001 when he was inaugurated.
I am convinced he believes his own hype… and feels vindicated for all his misgivings. I’m sure he doesn’t even consider them to be misgivings… I think he truly believes himself to be a superior leader. And yet even his once most loyal supporters have begun to turn their backs on him in recent months following Katrina and his insistance that we stay in Iraq.
And I don’t want to make this just a political thing… I’ve seen it happen on the ground level… people I’ve worked with, dealt with on a daily basis, past friends, past girlfriends, I have seen the hype go to people’s heads. I have seen them buy into the notion that they are something spectacular. A compliment is not a license to boast or brandish like a trophy.
And I have seen the end result… people who were once fun, beautiful human beings turned ugly inside-out by virtue of their own egos. Sad as it may be, it is in part human nature. We can’t help but want to be more than we are… but to believe we are something that spectacular, that godlike and monolithic is absolutely absurd. I have made it my personal mission to never let my role go to my head no matter where my lot in life is. It’s one of the reasons that I have convinced myself I can never deal with the woes of celebrity. Why would I want to alienate myself that way? Why strip myself of my humanity for the sake of my own self-gratification?
Granted, I may be working my ass off for myself these days, but that is in an effort to grow more comfortable with myself… Not to go out with a “#1” tattooed on my forehead. Believe me, I’ve gotten a heap ton of compliments regarding my work with the Sons, my writing, and the like. The key is to not let that travel northward to my cranium where it can sit, grow, and fester like a sickness.
At the end of the day, I refuse to even believe my own hype. I’ve seen the damage that does.
Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.
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