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…

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.

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.

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.

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.