Nut-Punch of the Week, March 15-19, '10

Western society takes a pretty interesting view of our entertainment product. Largely, this is an offshoot of the relative wealth of our society; in a nation where basic needs are more or less met for most, other concerns take on undue, and perhaps even inappropriate importance. In America, we live and die by our football teams, wait for new video game releases with bated breath, and gather in gigantic numbers to watch categorical sub-sets of the industry congratulate themselves at annual awards shows. Which is silly, when you think about it. I mean, entertainment truly is a luxury, a distraction provided to people who don't need to worry about where their next meal is coming from, or whether their children will be killed by a drug gang or federal storm trooper today. All in all, to a refugee in Haiti, who survived years of governmental neglect, crap agriculture and a devastating earthquake only to experience the "privelege" of dying in inches from malnutrition, I'll bet the Grammys seem pretty fucking stupid.

And no, I don't imagine it even matters if Wyclef Jean is up for any, or not.

"That's fuckin' COLD, man."

That said, there are times when entertainment-industry stories take on a certain gravitas, because they run a little deeper than that. Certain events touch on concerns far less superficial than which guy is putting his penis where it shouldn't belong, what shows aren't getting picked up next year, or whom Cameron Diaz is wearing on the red carpet. And that's largely because there are bigger themes at play than simple Hollywood machinations. Themes of courage, fairness, betrayal, and honor.

One such story is the recent late-night wars. I can't remember the last time any non-hard-news story domiated as many news cycles as that whole mess. Sniping, calculated treachery, back-room deals and back-handed slaps were nearly daily headline-makers. And through it all, most of the major players (as well as the minor ones) still had to go on the air and do a show every night. It was equal parts political theatre, Shakesperean drama, and schadenfreude, so of course, it was irresistible. And while much is still unknown about how it all happened, most people whose cardiac tissue and cerebral cortex have more than a cordial, passing relationship agree that one guy was pretty much the villain of the piece...

Jay Leno.

Throughout the whole fiasco, Jay Leno's name kept popping up as the target of ire for frustrated late-night fans. It wasn't hard to see why. And, being as what seems like billions of inches of type have been dedicated to the specific reasons thereof, I'm loath to waste mine or anyone's time re-hashing them (suffice it to say that the general public tends not to have a whole lot of appreciation for whining millionaires who act powerless even as they actively bully people who are supposed to be their friends). Regardless of who was most at fault, Leno is still the public face of NBC late night. And the knowledge that he still took a very large, active role in deposing rightful "Tonight Show" host Conan O'Brien is tough to dismiss. When the dust settled, he came off a bloated, egotistical, overpaid bully who whined and wailed until he got his way, and was thus rewarded for his bad behavior as surely as a kid in a grocery store who pitches a bitch over a candy bar.

"Yes, please. By all means, tell me more about how YOU'RE the real victim."

But of course, there's always two sides to every story. Surely, Conan had it coming on SOME level, right? Well, no. At least, it sure as hell doesn't SEEM like it. Even though nobody is innocent (especially not in show business) for his part, Conan O'Brien handled the whole thing with a hell of a lot more class, grace and dignity as could be reasonably expected of anyone in his position. Especially when the position in question happens to be, "bent over and boned up the bone-dry dirtstar every night on national television." Sure, he poked fun at the whole thing just as much as anyone else, but being as his self-deprecating streak was a mile wide already, this didn't really come as a surprise to anyone. Or at least, it shouldn't have.

Still, I imagine taking the piss out of yourself is a lot easier when every single other late night host rallies to your side in their monologues. Not to mention the spontaneous shows of fan support in the form of organized rallies. In the rain.

"We're with Coco! Also, we have very damp underwear!"

Nevertheless...when the whole dance had gone and played out, Jay Leno was the victor, and returned as host of "The Tonight Show." This, despite the fact that Conan's ratings were no worse than Jay's had been in the same time period years ago (due mostly to Conan's lead-in having been Leno's shitty prime-time show), and that most of the affiliates wanted to keep O'Brien. Hell, even Oprah's famously-tolerant soccer-mom audience was 96% on the side of Conan during a poll taken while Leno was in her studio.

But, as is the case with many things, Leno's victory was the definition of "Pyrrhic." Because while he may have gotten his tired little show back, the massive upswell of goodwill towards Conan O'Brien has only grown exponentially in the months since.

"Greetings, my subjects. How it is?"

To begin with, Conan's contract negotiations dragged on for what seemed like weeks as he finagled his exit. And while NBC tried to paint him as a greedy-grabber who was just trying to squeeze as much money out of the network as possible, the truth soon came to light. Yes, he was shaking them down for more money, but the money in question wasn't for himself. It was for severance packages for his staff, all of whom had packed up their families and moved from New York to L.A. when the show did, and would be left without jobs if the show went "poof." Whoops. Point Conan.

Then, when his final show rolled around, Conan's composure of conduct was stunning. He actually thanked NBC for havng provided him a "home," paid endless amounts of respect to his predecessors on the legendary show (including Leno), and practically begged his devout not to succumb to petty cynicism. Plus, rather than paint himself as a victim (as Leno had done endlessly in the weeks previous), O'Brien expressed his joy at how lucky he'd been to have achieved his dream of hosting "The Tonight Show," however briefly. The over-arching message of his entire abbreviated tenure was summarized when he said, "If you work really hard and you're kind, amazing things will happen." Out of anyone else's mouth, it would have sounded like just so much glad-handing bullshittery. But by then, Conan had secured his earnestness credentials, and we knew we could take his sincerity to the proverbial bank (which would then no doubt waste it trading melancholy derivatives, and shame-default swaps).

Meanwhile, the damage to Leno's hard-working "nice-guy" image was taking more of a P.R. hit than even having a fucking airline hangar brimming with million-dollar cars could have dealt him.

"I'm just a regular guy. Really. I'm not kidding. Shut up."

"So," you may be asking. "This is all old news. Why give Leno a knock to the nuggets NOW? He's had it coming for ages." And, you'd be right. You're always right. Plus, you're attractivem smart, and you smell good. Hold me. No? Well, okay. Can't blame me for trying though, right?

The reason why I'm saying this now? Because, even in "defeat", Conan O'Brien CONTINUES (simply by virtue of being the better person) to passively make Jay Leno look like a gigantic yawning asshole-chasm in comparison. To wit: the most potent salvo of the entire shakeup may have come as late in the game as this week. See, in order to stay busy, as well as to bring his particular brand of quirky entertainment to the masses in SOME form, Conan has decided to go on tour. Yep. He's taking his show on the road.

Ladies and gentlemen...May I present to you: The Face of Win.

In the recently-announced "Legally Prohibited From Being Funny on Television Tour" (a reference to a caveat of NBC's contract negotiations wherein O'Brien can't appear in a competing show on a rival network until at least September), Conan is doing a 30-day set of stops at large theatres all over the country. The announcement was fast. The tickets sold out within minutes. And people don't even know what he's going to be DOING. Stand-up? Interviews? Music? Probably. Who cares? People want to see him. It doesn't matter what he'll be doing, folks want to throw him their support regardless. They want to see him in person, and to serve up a heapin' helpin' of applause to a guy who made "losing" look like not such a death sentence...And to do so better than anyone since Al Gore.

Only...as it turns out, the fans won't be supporting Conan, exactly. At least, not financially. See, the whole reason he's doing this? It's to support his staff. Yep. When he hits the road, he'll be taking along 40 members of the former "Late Show / Tonight Show" staff on the road with him (including sidekick Andy Richter, and reportedly, the Max Weinberg Seven). He's doing it in order to keep them gainfully employed for the summer, hoping he'll have a deal in place to return to television come Fall, when he'll be able to give them their old jobs once again. Even though his NBC exit was held up because he refused to budge until the network ponied up an additional $12 million-plus for his staffers severance, he's STILL doing this tour so that they won't have any unfortunate gaps in their résumés to explain away later. Not that I'm guessing a single one of them would ever need a résumé again. Would YOU ever leave your job where your boss had done all of that going-to-bat on your behalf?

Let me just go ahead and back up the truck bringing in the answer to that.

To me, the tired chestnut of "he who laughs last" has rarely been so richly embodied. Leno got back his doddering, unfunny show, sure. Good for you, man. Way to score. However, even though Conan got the rug yanked out from under him through no fault of his own, he's come up with the far greater prize package. Included: the adoration of the masses, millions of dollars for not working (but being cool enough to go back to work anyway), bringing your show in front of live audiences, seeing the country, helping the people who support you, and STILL likely getting to take Leno to the hole and dunk on his ass by the time the leaves that are just now budding start to turn. Not to mention that he's got a fucking metric SHIT-ton of the one commodity that even the richest people can't buy, the one thing n the world that must truly be earned: Respect.

And how's Leno doing in that regard nowadays? Well, as it turns out, not only total fucking idiots from Alaska have been writing things on their hands lately.

They both look smug. Only one of them deserves to.

I mean, c'mon. There's "he who laughs last," and then there's "he who gets laughed AT." Of course, I guess where Leno is concerned, any laughs at all are welcome.

StyleWatch! Who Wore It Better?

Did I Eat That? - Kool-Aid Pickle Edition

As you may know, I consider myself a connoisseur of all foods obscure and odd. So when I accidentally came across a website mentioning Kool-Aid pickles I knew had to make a batch and try them out for myself. It easily satisfied three of the twenty "Did I Eat That?" criteria - Criteria #3 At first glance this food item immediately disturbs notions previously created by my taste buds, Criteria #7 Food item is Southern in origin, and last but not least Criteria #15 Food item combines two separately delightful flavors in a way I would never have imagined on my own.

So one doubly potent batch of Tropical Punch Kool-Aid and one container of B&G New York Style Deli Pickles combination (and roughly two weeks) later there I was, staring down the crimson cuke. And then, a few bites later, it was all gone. What happened in between was a sweet, sour, salty, spicy, fruity experience that pregnant woman all over the country would be sending their husbands to K-Mart for. I must admit, though I was excited to try this creation, I didn't think I'd actually like them. But gosh darnit I do and I'm not entirely sure why. I don't think my tongue would actively seek out this treat on its' own, once I crammed the punched-up pickle in my mouth it begrudgingly accepted and then totally caved and gave into complete enjoyment.

Result:
The Kool-Aid pickle gets a solid 3 Tongues Out of a possible 5 tongues. I don't think I'd go out of my way eat this again, but they were a treat worth trying.

Radvertising

In recent years, advertising has gotten a bad rap for being invasive, exploitative, and annoying. Even so, a good ad still has the power to make you think...and hopefully to buy whatever it is they're selling.

F'rinstance, this print piece for German hat shop Hut Weber is one of my new faves (click the crop for full-size version):

Limerick Movie Reviews: Box Office Top 5, 03/01 - 03/05

"Alice in Wonderland"

Instead of like being on acid,
This flick is surprisingly placid.
It's trite, and it's bland.
I don't understand...
Has Burton gone mentally flaccid?

"Brooklyn's Finest"

I'm feeling a little perplexed.
Is Tinseltown going off-text?
A film about COPS?
They've pulled out the stops!
Will shows about doctors come next?

"Shutter Island"

A home for the creepy insane,
Is hoping the Feds can explain:
Of all of their nutters
The Island of Shutters
Had one that it couldn't contain.

"Cop Out"

Although I have heard this is neat,
My screening is yet incomplete.
I sit down and try?
The usher comes by,
And says I'm too fat for my seat.

"Avatar"

I wish that this movie would die.
I'd sure like to bid it good-bye.
Not even the shocker:
"Best Picture - Hurt Locker"
Has kept it from placing this high.

This Day in SPORTS! History

1975

The St. Louis Cardinals place Rich Folkers on the 30-day Disabled List after the veteran lefty aggravates a slipped disc in his back during a Topps baseball card photo shoot.

(Above) Rich Folkers' 1975 Topps baseball card. 2 hours after posing for the card, a groundskeeper would find Folkers still on the field and in this exact same position.

From the Diary of a (Kinda) Mad (Half) Black Guy: Shut up Torii Hunter

Oh Mr. Torii Hunter when will you learn to quiet that mouth of yours? As easy as it is to be a fan of your amazing play in the field it is getting equally difficuly to hear you whine and cry at every given oppurtunity. Whether you're complaining about "unfair" amounts of coverage given to big market teams, calling your teammates out for milking injuries, or telling the loyal fans of Minnesota that supported you for years that you thought New York fans were smarter than them, your ability to say the most inane things has slowly ceased to amaze me. Until now. Please read the following comments Hunter let loose during a recent interview -

"People see dark faces out there, and the perception is that they're African American. They're not us. They're impostors.Even people I know come up and say, 'Hey, what color is Vladimir Guerrero? Is he a black player?' I say, 'Come on, he's Dominican. He's not black. As African-American players, we have a theory that baseball can go get an imitator and pass them off as us. It's like they had to get some kind of dark faces, so they go to the Dominican or Venezuela because you can get them cheaper. It's like, 'Why should I get this kid from the South Side of Chicago and have Scott Boras represent him and pay him $5 million when you can get a Dominican guy for a bag of chips?'... I'm telling you, it's sad."

No, no, no, no Torii. What is sad is that because you can hit a baseball and cover center field as good as anyone in the bigs you get to assume the role of someone with an opinion that actually matters. Even more unfortunate is the fact that you could not have been more woefully wrong and ignorant in your statement, as you assert your ability to speak for all African-American players. Allow me to debunk your "facts" please.

1. "The perception is that they're African-American." - Qwhhaa? You mean to tell me that you think the majority of America thinks that guys with names like Soriano, Sosa, and Ortiz are African-American? Maybe I'm a bit behind the times but I believe it's pretty common knowledge that these guys are not. Though I must admit, I was pretty darn surprised to find out that Bernie Williams hailed from Puerto Rico. He might have been a plant. I'll give you that much.

2. "What color is Vladimir Guerrero? Is he a black player?" - Yes he is Torii. Many occupants of the Caribbean Islands descend from the very same African slave trade that you do. They are black Torri, just like you. Well no, not just like. They don't all have overblown inferiority complexes.

3. "It's like they had to get some kind of dark faces, so they go to the Dominican or Venezuela because you can get them cheaper." - Really Torii?
David Ortiz - $13mil per
Manny Ramirez - $20mil per
Vladimir Guerrero - $15mil per
That's a lot of effin potato chips buddy...

Look Torii Hunter, you're an idiot. I know it, you might not know it, but now a whole lot more people know it. So do us all a favor and shut up before I get even more (kinda) mad.

Monday Morning President with Blaine Fridley

Where an underachieving, 2.9 GPA-havin' 2nd-tier state university graduate takes on the Harvard-educated leader of the Free World.

Welcome to the inaugural edition of Monday Morning President! I realize it is not Monday. And as I type, "morning" is quickly fading. But I just recently returned from an extended Caribbean holiday, bitches... every fucking day this week feels like Monday morning. So, like... shit, man. Mellow your criticizzy a tad will you?

OK. Let's get right into it:

Several weeks ago, while touring a Maryland training facility for energy jobs, President Obama announced 8.3 billion in federal loan guarantees to build a nuclear power plant in Georgia. It would be the first such plant built in the country in over three decades.

The good news about the announcement?

This president pronounced "nuclear" correctly.
The bad news?

Well, aside from the fact that it's a backwards move at odds with the forward-thinking (but apparently poor listening ) "green voters" hugely responsible for Obama's election and the fact that it's a proven failed technology that's no safer or less expensive than it was 30 years ago, there really isn't any. Oh, and some may also find the fact that about a quarter of existing plants in the U.S. (built with the same technology that would be used for the new Georgia plant ) are leaking tritium slightly disconcerting.

Pssh. You ol' Nervous Nellies, you.

(Above) Seems fine.

Others still might even furrow a collective brow at the fact that Wall Street wouldn't invest its morning turd on nuclear energy (thus leaving taxpayers as the sole insurers of this highly volatile energy source as anti-nuclear activist Harvey Wasserman points out).

Obama has two words for those people:

"Come aaaahhhhn…"

So with virtually everybody against the development of nucul--damnit--nuclear energy, what in the fragglerockin' name of Zeus is Obama's motivation here?

I dunno.

Maybe these guys can tell you.

Hot Sh!t: Vampire Weekend - "Giving Up The Guns"

Let me get something out of the way right up-front...

...I fucking HATE Vampire Weekend. I really, really do.

As a matter of fact, I don't just hate them...I hate everything ABOUT them, as well as everything they stand for. From their floppy, collegiate-lad haircuts, to their inch-deep "sincerity," to their tendency to mistake blandness for ambiguity, they've found a myriad of ways to piss me right the hell off on a regular basis. Shit, I even hate their stupid, trendy little name. As a matter of fact, I've pretty much wanted to punch each of them in the throat since the very first time I saw them.

And when was that? Well, if I remember it right...it was on Saturday Night Live. They were the musical guest a few months back, at a time when they still weren't really on my radar yet. At least, not in any meaningful way. All I knew about them was that they were gaining popularity, and threatening to transition from Pitchfork-worshiped indie darlings into a full-blown underground sleeper hit. So, like all new music that makes its way to me via various media, I figured I'd gave them a fair shot. So I cleared my mind, turned up the sound, and opened my ears.

And I was almost immediately sorry I had.

For those who haven't heard them, I'll try to describe their sound, as it presented itself to me that fateful night:

Imagine, if you will, that you are a fancy Caucasian man with french cuffs and a crisp trouser-pleat. Also, you have a group of friends much like yourself: spoiled, unmotivated, bored with life, and demanding as all get out. Idle-rich little bourgeois trust-fund pieces of shit, the lot of you. And, you're all from CONNECTICUT to boot. You're also pretty sure that one of those guys is most likely mildly retarded, but you can never seem to remember which one. Hell, might even be YOU, for all you know. Doesn't really matter.

You all sorta play instruments (because your parents have been forcing you all to take various lessons of all kinds since you could walk), but this is really more of an on-paper sort o' deal. Usually, you all just sit around, smoke weed, and play video games.

Oh, and you LOOK exactly as deliciously punchable as all this, by the way.

However, one day, you get it into your head that you want to bring everyone together, and form a band!

So you start throwing it together, all half-ass and slapdash. No sense killing yourself, right? After all, you go to war with the band you have, even though it may not exactly be the band you want. Sure, the lead guitarist is really more of a mediocre cellist in truth, but that's okay. A lot of the tunings are relatively similar, and therefore mostly carry over. And hey, the tuning is a LOT similar between electric bass and upright, so the bassist will be just fine. And, well...a drummer is a drummer is a drummer, so no worries there, either. And you're the tallest one, so you get to sing! This'll be GREAT for our development as people!

And what actual SONGS shall you play? Glad you asked! Pass the hat, and everyone take a scrap, upon which is written a different genre. You each draw one, and whatever fate decides, that's what you'll do! Once you each have one, just throw a shitload of hyphens in between them, and then verbally explain to each other in as vague of terms as possible what your sound ought to be based on a limited grasp of the genres you wind up with.

All right...Whadda you got? "Imagine merry sea shanties mixed with fifties Afro-Cuban lounge music, except also new wave reggae!" AWESOME! Let's wind it up, tie a couple of pastel-colored, cable-knit douchebag sweaters around our necks, and ROCK!

(For the bold: See how much of THIS you can sit through, in case you'd rather experience the end result for yourself:)



Meh. Just...meh.

So, as I sat there and watched them for the first time, my overwhelming reaction was, "What in the holy living fuck is this even supposed to BE?!?" And it's not that I don't enjoy challenging music that can't be easily pigeonholed. But preciously twee, insubstantial little bounce-ditties sighed out by a bunch of douchelords in wing-tip golf shoes and polos? Guys who not only look like they still live at home, but who also refer to their parents as "Mumsy" and "Daddums" as they ask for the salt to be passed through clenched teeth? I think I'll fucking PASS, my friend.

"Behold - The CASIO!"

So, that's what I did - passed. Next!

Sadly, pass or not...as much as I would have LIKED to have never again seen Vampire Weekend after that, they were the proverbial bad penny what kept on turnin' up. In the intervening months, these here dainty dweeblets just got more and more inexplicably popular as I continued to try to ignore them. So duckin' them got progressively harder. And the occasions where I DID find myself exposed to them (and couldn't flinch away from their photographs or reflexively change the station fast enough), my initial assessment of their bizarro style was reinforced.

These guys are just plain odd...And not in an entertaining "Weird Al" Yankovic style, a geeky They Might be Giants style, or even in a charismatic Lady GaGa style. On the contrary, they seemed to be constructed entirely out of tweed, inaccessability, and condescension, scientifically-enhanced to be a mix of as many different incompatible elements as possible. Sort of like a motor-oil and duck-feather smoothie, blended with coffee grounds and mustard, then served in a chipped gravy tureen that's been soaking in bum urine for a week.

So, I officially filed them under: "I Don't Get It," and moved on with my life.

"Wait, if you're headed off into the sunset, can we come, too?"

Or, so I thought. Which brings us back up to this past weekend.

Last Saturday, I'm watching SNL again. Zach Galifinakis is hosting, and he's pretty funny and kinda unpredictable. The show seems to be cooking along just fine. But then, tragedy strikes. At one point, a commercial ends, and he introduces the musical guest.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome....Vampire Weekend!"

"Oh fuck," I think to myself. "It's those Docker-douches again. *(Heavy sigh.)* Fine. I'm STILL willing to give them the benefit of at least a couple of bars as a chance to redeem themselves. But so help me, if they start singing about sweaters, or the sea? I'm hitting the fast-forward button on this bitch faster than a greased burrito." And I swear to Henry Rollins I am not shitting you that I literally had that exact verbatim thought.

"Awww. Why won't you WUV us...?"

The song ("Cousins") starts. And, I shit you not, the VERY FIRST LINE of it is, "You found a sweater on the ocean floor." GAAAH! I think I may have actually retched from shock and disgust. I hit the FF> button on my DVR remote so hard, I'm pretty sure I sprained my skin. That'll teach me to tempt fate by envisioning worst-case scenarios in advance.

But then...something happened that was both awesome and infuriating in equal balance.

A little further along in the show, I had gotten up to take a leak (not yet the awesome, nor the infuriating part). Then, as I was coming back down the stairs and making my way over to the couch, I heard Zach Galifinakis say, "Once again...Vampire Weekend!" At this, I instinctively doubled my speed and lunged for the remote, so as not to have to be subjected to so much as another measure of one of their unique bastardpieces of avant-garbáge. And wouldn't you know it? The little bastard squirted out of my still-wet hands (from the sink, you freak...not the piss), and down into the inky abyss 'twixt the sofa cushions it went.

"Tee-hee! Good luck!"

"Well, shit!" I blurted as I began to spelunk for it, cursing my misfortune. But...it was at that point that the awesome/infuriating thing happened.

See, their second song was good. REALLY good, actually. Stopped me in my tracks. And, as the introductory measures flew by, it seemed to be getting even better. So, thrown a bit by the band's sudden, unprecedented failure to suck, I temporarily abandoned my search-and-rescue mission for the remote, sat back, and did the unthinkable: I listened to a Vampire Weekend song all the way through.

And this is what I heard:



Yup...Out of nowhere and apropos of nothing, Vampire Weekend had all at once decided to hit on every cylinder. This performance of "Giving Up the Guns" is a multi-layered sundae of pure, candy-coated confection. The arrangement is a loving hómage to everything I like about sunny, mid-eighties synth-pop, while still managing to not sound dated. The instrumentation is precise, energetic and well-rehearsed without being mechanical. And lyrically, it's fantastic.

(History lesson: the words borrow heavy inspiration from a deliberately-regressive period in pre-war Japanese history, one where the natives made the conscious decision to excise encroaching colonialism, and return to more traditionally-feudal ways [literally, "giving up the guns" in favor of returning to swords]. Via deft symbolism, the band has paralleled aspects of this movement in order to convey the singer's similar wish to go back to a simpler time in his OWN life...one when things weren't so confusing. And it did so in a way that wasn't ham-fisted or pretentious.)

In short...Who the hell WERE these guys, and what had they done with Dracula's Holiday?

As I watched and listened to it play out, I don't think I closed my mouth for the whole five minutes. To say that I was pleasantly surprised would have been understatement on par with, "Hitler was sorta crabby." It's just so rare when a song hits me like that, especially thanks to a band I more or less actively hate on.

However, when it was over? I was in a weird spot. I mean...here was a band I had LONG ago dismissed as being little but fringe novelty. Passable-at-best if you're into that sort of thing, but nowhere near my personal cuppa, eh? But now, they had just spent a healthy couple of minutes completely and pleasantly shocking the shit out of me, and doing so by demonstrating a depth of skill and meaning, the likes of which I would scarcely have thought them capable. A least, not based on their track record with me to that point.

"Boo-yah, motherfuckers! HOOO-AH!

And thus: I find myself perched pointily upon the horns of dilemma. How can I honestly detest a band capable of creating such a careful, well-crafted number as this? And yet, I feel I must in light of the fact that the sum total of everything else I've ever heard from them sounded like Muzak coming out of a country-club men's shitter. How DARE they defy my expectations after having worked so hard to reinforce those same expectations prior to this? Who in the hell do they think they are? Where do they get off?

And...Whatever was I to do?

Eventually, pragmatism will always out. And that's why I've decided...I'm still not a fan of these turbo-'tards. Nope, not remotely. And that's okay. However, I reserve the right to really, really dig that individual song. So I really have no choice but to keep the chip firmly adhered to my shoulder-surface. I guess I can make it easier by telling myself that I'm doing it out of resentment; resentment based on the fact that that a band I loathe happens to be the one that does the song, rather than someone GOOD whom I actually enjoy. Thus, I'll hate them even more because they are capable of doing a really stellar tune once in a while, but seemingly choose not to. Obviously, I'm not going to try to hide the fact that this is over-rationalization at its worst. Even so, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

Y'know...It's hard work being an atheist hipster asshole a lot of days. But anything worth doing is worth doing correctly, I always say.

This Day in History

1876
The first successful voice transmission over Alexander Graham Bell's telephone took place in Boston as his assistant heard Bell say, "Mr. Watson, come here. I want you."

Later that day, Mr. Watson fielded another call from a heavy-breathing unidentified male (presumably Bell, though, despite being the sole possessor of the technology, he would later act surprised and deny it when confronted by his assistant) asking, "so... what are you wearing?"

1997
"Buffy the Vampire Slayer" debuted on the WB network. Could it possibly clear the exceptionally high bar already set at the upstart network by such stalwart programming as "The Parent 'Hood", "The Wayans Bros.", "Kirk" or "Sister, Sister"? Only time would tell.

Good Night, Sweet Prince.

Corey Haim found dead of overdose.

Who Wore it Better: Oscars Edition

This Day in History - March 8 (Good Decisions Edition)

1917 - The United States Senate votes to limit filibusters by adopting the cloture rule.

Of course, as we now know, this forever ended any issues that body may have had
concerning delays on passage of legislation due to one party's blockages,
or the other's ability to achieve a majority vote. Good job!

1965 - The United States lands approxomately 3,500 Marines in South Vietnam.

Within two weeks, U.S. military superiority forced the tumultuous conflict to a swift
and decisive end. American casualties were extremely minimal, and the personnel
involved received a heroes' welcome upon their near-universal return. Awesome!

2008 - President George W. Bush vetoes a bill that would have banned the CIA from using simulated drowning and other coercive interrogation methods to gain information from suspected terrorists.

Through the simple use of creatively applied linguistics, practices like
waterboarding, threats, intimidation and sleep deprivation are found NOT
to be "torture." Subsequently, these practices result in the government's
discovery of reams and reams of intelligence, and the eventual
end of the political practice of terrorism. Way to go!

Friday Funk: David Axelrod "Wandering Star"

Mental Health Break

Hey there, guys. How ya feeling? If you don't mind us saying so, you're looking rather stressed. And because we worry so, we've decided to call in a specialist to calm your nerves.

So please, we urge you now to take out your headphones and reserve the next 4 minutes and 13 seconds of your day while Dr. Shuggie Otis soothes your soul.