Well, shiver me timbers, the show didn’t get cancelled. I guess they didn’t make enough money yet to send Dicko Was His Name-o back to Australia yet. And since the American Idol studio is just sitting idle anyway, why not just see how this cookie crumbles.
After the obligatory intros (in which Dicko looked exactly like Darrell Hammond impersonating Bill Clinton), Tweedle-Dom asked John if he had any advice for the bands. I quote: “Just make sure you’re playing together, convey a message to your audience, and, uh, just dig down into it and bring it out onto the stage.” Thanks, John. I’m sure that was invaluable to the bands that were planning to half-ass it tonight.
Sheila E. was asked about the caliber of the bands. She decided to ignore the question, which should have been obvious since the judges picked them to move on to this round, and instead told us that they were diverse. Thanks, E.
Dicko explained the rules in Australian, but I think he said the bands would do a cover tune and an original. Or that they would down some Coppertone and perform as Aborigines. I’ll have to wait to find out.
The covers would all be Dylan tunes – not the tortured heartthrob from 90210, but the guy from the Wallflowers' dad. A bowling ball came down the road and knocked me off my feet, so let’s get this party started.
Denver & the Invesco Field Orchestra
Freight Train Blues - It didn’t sound like Denver had the blues. At best, like he had minor annoyance over their tour van getting caught at a railroad crossing.
One Time Show - It sounded like Freight Train Blues, except with your typical mindless big band lyrics. However, they were appropriate because I can’t see these boys doing more than one show before heading home.
The Hatch
It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue – Goddam these guys are annoying. I hit fast forward on the DVR.
Stretch Out The Time – Exponentially more annoying, and was about as memorable as a night of drinking Wild Turkey straight out of the bottle.
Light of Doom
All Along The Watchtower – I guess they were okay for a bunch of kids. Or pretty mediocre if they were a bunch of thirty something burnouts. Which they’ll be in twenty years. The fact that Jimi owned the song doesn’t help.
Eye Of The Storm – It sounded like a bad Iron Maiden cover band that was pissed off about an inaccurate Al Roker weather report.
The Likes Of You
Blowin’ In The Wind – Where did I go wrong in life in that I’m sitting home on a Friday night watching this?
Love and Gravity – You know what? I’ve run out of shit to say about these bands. I feel like I’m wasting your time the same way they’re wasting mine. You know how you’re hoping to read something somewhat amusing, but aren’t? That’s how I feel right now hoping to hear something tolerable. The only difference is that these bands think they’re the next Men At Work, but I’ll apologize for my writing. I’m sorry.
Rocket
Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door – Oh, how I wanted to like them. Really. After four pathetic bands before them I was ready to like them. I was so hungry that I would have been satisfied with a sandwich from a gas station. But it still sounded like dog piss.
Mean To You – The vocals are killing them. Girls can rock, but they aren’t doing their sisters any favors so let’s forget we ever heard them and go back to listening to The Donnas. Okay?
Cliff Wagner and the Old No. 7
Don’t Think Twice – They seem very likable and their style fit the Dylan tune like a pair of boxer briefs.
Old Fire – I’d love to sit around a bar and listen to them while drinking beer and eating peanuts. Unfortunately, I gave up drinking and I’m allergic to peanuts, but I wish them well.
The Muggs
Meet Me In The Morning – Very Zeppelinesque, except without all the crotch shots of Robert Plant. I dig them.
Slow Curve – Very Zeppelinesque. I dig them. Do you sense a pattern? The song kind of remains the same. I’d really just like to see them open for another band. Way better than when Skid Row opened for Guns n’ Roses.
Clark Brothers
Maggie’s Farm – I don’t know what kind of drugs Dylan used to do, but it certainly didn’t appear to be speed. But if he had given that a try, it might have sounded like the version these chaps threw down.
Billy The Kid – As much as I hate to say it, because I like these guys, they’d also be a fucking awesome opening band. But until they start mixing it up a bit, I’m not sure I could keep up with them for more than 40 minutes.
Tres Bien
Subterranean Homesick Blues – Here’s a Dylan tune I don’t mind, and I didn’t mind the cover, either. Somehow these boys have managed not to annoy me even though they’re very annoying. We’ll see how long my new tolerance initiative lasts.
Easy To Love Me – Ted Leo and the Pharmacistish without the edge. They should definitely be headlining weekend shows at a Division I college bar.
Franklin Bridge
Tangled Up In Blue –They rocked it, but to the point that it was unrecognizable. Like trying to find to find the banana in my morning smoothie.
Incredible – You know, it’s too bad more guys don’t knock off that hip hop gangsta crap and just choose to rock out like this instead.
Dot Dot Dot
Like A Rolling Stone – Please please please
Another Stupid Love Song – go far, far, far away.
Six Wire
Mr. Tambourine Man – The only thing worse than hearing a Dylan song that I don’t like is hearing a glam putz country band cover it. I wanted to shoot each one of them in the foot.
Good To Be Back – I could have sworn that they got kicked off the show last week after playing this song. I wanted to crack each of them over the head with a beer bottle.
So the shows ends and you’re supposed to vote for your favorite and then I guess a couple of them get kicked off. I’m not sure when and I don’t care enough to check. Someone get back to me on that. Thanks loads.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Next Great American Band: Oct 19
Two hour premiere? I don’t have time for this shit. Who signed us up for this? It’s like that time I got talked into that beach volleyball league. Getting spiked in the face by girls and carrying an asscrack full of sand is no way to go through life. But I digress.
So the show. Any age, any style, no rules, coast to coast, families torn apart, dying friends, struggle, triumph and shattered dreams. You know the drill. But if you win, you get to hang out with the bald dude from American Idol and get to date Tony Romo. Or date the bald dude and hang out with Tony. I really don’t care.
Fox stole the intro for Monday Night Football and somehow made it even more lame than it already was. At least we didn’t have to put up with Faith Hill or Hank Williams, Jr. As soon as that wrapped up, Dominic Bowden introduced himself but I wasn’t paying attention because I thought it was an Outback Steakhouse commercial. Why does an Australian accent sound so hot on a woman and so annoying on a guy? Is there a difference between a New Zealand accent and an Australian accent? Or is it subtle enough that someone in the Northern Hemisphere needn’t worry?
So the show. Sixty bands. We can only hope MiGnition is included.
For some reason the American Idol producers are some greedy bastards who don’t wish to share the wealth so they force these jokers to do the show in the middle of the freakin’ desert which makes it look more like Saudi Arabian Idol than The Next Great American Band. Maybe if the main stage bands suck we can go to one of the side stages for an exhibition by The Next Great American Beach Volleyball Team. I don’t mind watching as long as I’m out of the danger zone.
So the judges. First is Dicko. I have a little trouble understanding Dominic’s accent, so all I picked up about Dicko is that he gave birth to Ozzy Osbourne and has a side business selling Pear Jam. Must be an Aussie thing, but I’d be willing to try it. I tried some sautéed goat this summer at an African restaurant, so pear jam is nothing. I also had some salami and green olive pizza at lunch today. I bet sautéed goat would be a decent pizza topping. Italian-African fusion… cuisine of the future. But I digress. As Moist Rub predicted, Dicko is the Simon for this show. Except a lame substitution. Kind of like when Shemp replaced Curly in the Three Stooges.
Sheila E. also signed on as the sensitive, nurturing judge and brings street cred from her experience working with Prince and Ringo Starr. Yes, Ringo. Remember in Pulp Fiction when Samuel L. Jackson keeps calling the guy robbing the diner Ringo? That was badass.
Rounding out the judging panel is John Rzeznik from the Goo Goo Dolls, who apparently there to evaluate the commercial viability of each band’s name. MiGnition is so going to win this thing.
Let’s get started.
The Sizzling Happy Family Band from Cunningham Tennessee attempted to show they are the Next Great American Band by poorly doing a cover song that is nearly 40 years old. I almost immediately regretted turning on this show. However, they updated it by adding a Van Halen riff played with the assistance of a rubber chicken. Thankfully, the guitar player was so hopelessly whipped by his wife that he agreed to give up his crappy band if he didn’t win, so that she could make him have a kid to appease her maternal instinct. Is that any way to treat the greatest guitar hero in Cunningham, Tennessee? I was a little worried after seeing how much the judges seemed to love the rubber chicken, but they eventually sent them packing to my extreme satisfaction.
Tres Bien was all about the 60’s and I thought that they might had gotten lost on the way to the Ed Sullivan show. I was about to relegate them to the classic car show circuit, but it was kind of annoying, yet catchy, in the same way as the Time Life infomercials featuring those oldie compilations. They won the judges over and moved on to the next round.
After the first of many commercial breaks, we were treated to a brief Lake Las Vegas infomercial. If you take your vacations at a golf resort, chances are I don’t like you as a person.
Next, the Dirty Marmaduke Flute Squad covering Kids in America while dressed in a crude cardboard horsehead. Other members were dressed as the Frito Bandito, Mad Max, Friar Tuck, and Nacho Libre. Neither the judges nor I were amused, and if I were Elvis I probably would have shot my television at this point.
Light of Doom featured some 13 year olds with old school Hanson haircuts playing some Iron Maiden type stuff that sound like 13 year olds playing Iron Maiden type stuff. Look here, Junior, if I want to hear Iron Maiden then I’ll play some actual Iron Maiden instead of your attempts at it. I appreciate your shunning of the Top 40 and hip-hop crap that the rest of your classmates are listening to, but that doesn’t make you cool. Dicko agreed with me and wanted to send them back to math class, but Sheila E. loved them and talked John into agreeing with her by threatening by to jam her drumsticks up his Goo Goo hole.
The Hatch got in because the panel thought the singer had rugged good looks, which I know is what I look for in a Great American Band.
Before moving on, they let us know it was 110 degrees in the desert. Really? Who would have thought that?
Then they knocked out the next six bands in a single clip featuring one liners that sounded like they were written for Dicko by the same people that bring you the witty banter on award shows.
Big Toe took the stage next, but not before we learned that their bass player was born without any arms. However, instead of focusing on something that he could naturally excel at, like river dancing, he decided he would instead form a mediocre rock band and play bass with his feet. The panel agreed it was inspirational, yet mediocre, and left to start paper routes.
At this point, John’s really bad tats and Sheila E’s solar panel earrings were becoming more distracting than that booger hanging from your co-worker’s nose.
CJA was so bad it wasn’t even amusing. I was getting pissed at the show for wasting my time and really wished I was Elvis and owned an expendable television.
The Clark Brothers rocked pretty good, especially for a Jesus song. And I’m not talking Jesus Jones or Jesus Lizard. They move on and will be around for a while.
Now on to Day Two. I might have to pick this up a bit.
The Zombie Bazooka Patrol looked to be a novelty act with their white face paint and claim that they were, in fact, actual zombies; however, the original tune was actually pretty decent and possibly best described as the Violent Femmes on moonshine. I thought the judges voted them into round two, but they must have been later disqualified for being undead or something.
Dot Dot Dot claimed to be from Chicago, but I’ve never heard of them so they’re probably lying. I dig 80’s music but only from 80’s bands, not current bands playing 80’s music after the fact. Dicko liked them but thought they might be grating after a while. He was wrong – they’re grating about four bars into the song. Despite that, they move on to the next round.
Northmont got all serious on our ass, talking about the promises they made to their children to be all that they can be or something goofy that I can’t possibly understand because I don’t have any kids of my own and am missing out on the greatest love of all and the chance to change dirty diapers. The band seemed to have as much charisma as their hometown of Dayton. I’ve never been to Dayton so if you guys secretly rock out there, then my apologies. Their performance also left much to be desired and I would suggest they spend a little more time practicing instead of doing bicep curls unless they’re planning on playing the gun show circuit for the rest of their lives. For some reason, the judges thought that they could improve overnight and gave them a chance to come back the next day. That’s horseshit. This show blows.
The Muggs showed up next and staked their claim as the ugliest band in the competition. They also filled the inspirational spot for Day Two with the story of their bass player that had a stroke in 2001 and was half paralyzed. But instead of relearning to play with his foot and one arm, he just bought a Casio keyboard with the bass guitar setting and was back in business. They sounded like a cross between the Jimi Hedrix Experience and the Black Crowes. Sheila E had an orgasm, and John admitted he slept through the last three bands until The Muggs woke him up. They move on to the next round.
There was a brief clip of some crappy bands that were neither good nor bad enough to make the broadcast. I thanked the producers for sparing me, until the next band arrived.
Fifi LaRue lives with his mom and spends his time and money recording gothic heavy metal in his home studio and then performing it while dressed like KISS. Actually it looks more as if you tried dressing Ron Jeremy up as Gene Simmons and tried to pass him off as the real thing at a KISS convention. He and his band got sent home to Mommy.
Day Three… are you kidding me? Now I understand why Paula is smashed all the time.
Denver and the Mile High Orchestra kick off the morning with their big band sounds, showing what band geeks can accomplish by working together. Besides selling candy bars to pay for band camp. They would totally win if this was The Next Great American New Year’s Eve Band or Wedding Band. But somehow the judges put them through to the next round even though they thought the lead singer was ugly. But if you’ve seen what they did to that Elliot guy from American Idol, I guess anything is possible.
Zolar X from Plutonia was brought in just so Dicko could use his “you sound like Uranus” joke. Of course, we’re only reviewing this show because there’s a guy named Dicko on it.
Six Wire came from Nashville to represent today’s Nashville and not your grandpappy’s Nashville. They gave us some “good to be back home” generic country lyric crap which would be great fodder for a crappy generic country music video showing the small town girl living in a lonely world going off to the big city and getting bumped into on the streets and breaking a heel in a sewer grate and crying and then taking the Greyhound bus back to her rural roots where she has gained a new appreciation for her previous life and feels “good to be back home.” Apparently these boys already had a record contract and failed miserably the first time and didn’t take very good notes on what doesn’t work. The judges agreed they were tight but nothing special, and should go home and think about what they’ve done and not come out of their room until they’re ready to apologize.
Cliff Wagner and the Old No. 7 was next and did some bluegrass stuff that was rather boring, but technically proficient. Kind of like watching someone solve a Rubik’s Cube. Old Cliff looks like the Reverend Horton Heat raised on gravy and moonshine. I liked them, but I think they belong in Dollywood or another theme park rather than on this show. They disagreed, saying that Appalacia will vote for them… as long as the rabbit ears on the cinder block entertainment center can pick up Fox.
The Likes Of You had me stuffing bananas in my ears to stop the pain (and keep the alligators away), but they also have a singer with a shaved head which apparently means their music is a surefire hit and John moves them into the next round.
Red Halo is what Motley Crue might have turned out to be if they had replaced Vince Neil with Rod Stewart and become a Soul Asylum cover band. At least as far as I could tell from the 10 second clip they showed. They didn’t make the cut.
Lexicon appears to be a white boy Run-DMC tribute act and also got the ax.
Blackbird had some really nice fros and hoped to sneak in on the Wolfmother bandwagon. It didn’t work.
Franklin Bridge comes to us from the club scene in Philly, and they reminded me of some of the R&B lite bands that play those upscale clubs where divorced 40 and 50-something men and women go to hook up. I was about to write them off, but then they showed some potential to rock out near the end of their abbreviated song. I’ll have to defer judgment before saying anything else. Besides, people from Philly scare me.
440 Alliance decided it would be really cool to have four people collaborate to do a heavy metal cello solo. It was anything but really cool, and they’ll go back to Texas to think of something a little better.
I’m not sure how good the music by Lords of the Highway was because I was distracted and disturbingly aroused by the girl humping the stand up bass during the performance. But they were sent home to Cleveland to figure out another way to make it into the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame.
The Van Dells did some nice doo-wop stuff and are available for your high school reunion since they will not be moving on to the next round.
If Heaven Bound, a gospel quartet from Buffalo, is actually heaven bound, God may have to change the name of his kingdom to Hell II.
Rocket, a girl band from LA, made it clear that they were not a typical girl band and are doing something that hasn’t been done. To prove their point they did a Ramone’s cover and sounded exactly like a typical girl band. They weren’t bad and move on to the next round, but might want to ease up on the cookie dough and spend a little more time practicing.
Mescal was the token Latin band that was brought in so that Sheila E. could jump on stage with them for a gratuitous drum solo and remind everyone why she is/was famous. After the solo, she hopped off the stage and told them they sucked and can go home.
Northmont was brought back for their second chance where they would prove they have what it takes and keep their dream alive. It would have made a great story, but I thought it was way better when the judges had to tell them that they sucked so bad that they need to go home and find careers that don’t involve music. They might even want to avoid places of employment that play music.
There was some wrap up stuff, I guess. Class was over for me and I was packing up my book bag even if the professor was still talking.
So the show. Any age, any style, no rules, coast to coast, families torn apart, dying friends, struggle, triumph and shattered dreams. You know the drill. But if you win, you get to hang out with the bald dude from American Idol and get to date Tony Romo. Or date the bald dude and hang out with Tony. I really don’t care.
Fox stole the intro for Monday Night Football and somehow made it even more lame than it already was. At least we didn’t have to put up with Faith Hill or Hank Williams, Jr. As soon as that wrapped up, Dominic Bowden introduced himself but I wasn’t paying attention because I thought it was an Outback Steakhouse commercial. Why does an Australian accent sound so hot on a woman and so annoying on a guy? Is there a difference between a New Zealand accent and an Australian accent? Or is it subtle enough that someone in the Northern Hemisphere needn’t worry?
So the show. Sixty bands. We can only hope MiGnition is included.
For some reason the American Idol producers are some greedy bastards who don’t wish to share the wealth so they force these jokers to do the show in the middle of the freakin’ desert which makes it look more like Saudi Arabian Idol than The Next Great American Band. Maybe if the main stage bands suck we can go to one of the side stages for an exhibition by The Next Great American Beach Volleyball Team. I don’t mind watching as long as I’m out of the danger zone.
So the judges. First is Dicko. I have a little trouble understanding Dominic’s accent, so all I picked up about Dicko is that he gave birth to Ozzy Osbourne and has a side business selling Pear Jam. Must be an Aussie thing, but I’d be willing to try it. I tried some sautéed goat this summer at an African restaurant, so pear jam is nothing. I also had some salami and green olive pizza at lunch today. I bet sautéed goat would be a decent pizza topping. Italian-African fusion… cuisine of the future. But I digress. As Moist Rub predicted, Dicko is the Simon for this show. Except a lame substitution. Kind of like when Shemp replaced Curly in the Three Stooges.
Sheila E. also signed on as the sensitive, nurturing judge and brings street cred from her experience working with Prince and Ringo Starr. Yes, Ringo. Remember in Pulp Fiction when Samuel L. Jackson keeps calling the guy robbing the diner Ringo? That was badass.
Rounding out the judging panel is John Rzeznik from the Goo Goo Dolls, who apparently there to evaluate the commercial viability of each band’s name. MiGnition is so going to win this thing.
Let’s get started.
The Sizzling Happy Family Band from Cunningham Tennessee attempted to show they are the Next Great American Band by poorly doing a cover song that is nearly 40 years old. I almost immediately regretted turning on this show. However, they updated it by adding a Van Halen riff played with the assistance of a rubber chicken. Thankfully, the guitar player was so hopelessly whipped by his wife that he agreed to give up his crappy band if he didn’t win, so that she could make him have a kid to appease her maternal instinct. Is that any way to treat the greatest guitar hero in Cunningham, Tennessee? I was a little worried after seeing how much the judges seemed to love the rubber chicken, but they eventually sent them packing to my extreme satisfaction.
Tres Bien was all about the 60’s and I thought that they might had gotten lost on the way to the Ed Sullivan show. I was about to relegate them to the classic car show circuit, but it was kind of annoying, yet catchy, in the same way as the Time Life infomercials featuring those oldie compilations. They won the judges over and moved on to the next round.
After the first of many commercial breaks, we were treated to a brief Lake Las Vegas infomercial. If you take your vacations at a golf resort, chances are I don’t like you as a person.
Next, the Dirty Marmaduke Flute Squad covering Kids in America while dressed in a crude cardboard horsehead. Other members were dressed as the Frito Bandito, Mad Max, Friar Tuck, and Nacho Libre. Neither the judges nor I were amused, and if I were Elvis I probably would have shot my television at this point.
Light of Doom featured some 13 year olds with old school Hanson haircuts playing some Iron Maiden type stuff that sound like 13 year olds playing Iron Maiden type stuff. Look here, Junior, if I want to hear Iron Maiden then I’ll play some actual Iron Maiden instead of your attempts at it. I appreciate your shunning of the Top 40 and hip-hop crap that the rest of your classmates are listening to, but that doesn’t make you cool. Dicko agreed with me and wanted to send them back to math class, but Sheila E. loved them and talked John into agreeing with her by threatening by to jam her drumsticks up his Goo Goo hole.
The Hatch got in because the panel thought the singer had rugged good looks, which I know is what I look for in a Great American Band.
Before moving on, they let us know it was 110 degrees in the desert. Really? Who would have thought that?
Then they knocked out the next six bands in a single clip featuring one liners that sounded like they were written for Dicko by the same people that bring you the witty banter on award shows.
Big Toe took the stage next, but not before we learned that their bass player was born without any arms. However, instead of focusing on something that he could naturally excel at, like river dancing, he decided he would instead form a mediocre rock band and play bass with his feet. The panel agreed it was inspirational, yet mediocre, and left to start paper routes.
At this point, John’s really bad tats and Sheila E’s solar panel earrings were becoming more distracting than that booger hanging from your co-worker’s nose.
CJA was so bad it wasn’t even amusing. I was getting pissed at the show for wasting my time and really wished I was Elvis and owned an expendable television.
The Clark Brothers rocked pretty good, especially for a Jesus song. And I’m not talking Jesus Jones or Jesus Lizard. They move on and will be around for a while.
Now on to Day Two. I might have to pick this up a bit.
The Zombie Bazooka Patrol looked to be a novelty act with their white face paint and claim that they were, in fact, actual zombies; however, the original tune was actually pretty decent and possibly best described as the Violent Femmes on moonshine. I thought the judges voted them into round two, but they must have been later disqualified for being undead or something.
Dot Dot Dot claimed to be from Chicago, but I’ve never heard of them so they’re probably lying. I dig 80’s music but only from 80’s bands, not current bands playing 80’s music after the fact. Dicko liked them but thought they might be grating after a while. He was wrong – they’re grating about four bars into the song. Despite that, they move on to the next round.
Northmont got all serious on our ass, talking about the promises they made to their children to be all that they can be or something goofy that I can’t possibly understand because I don’t have any kids of my own and am missing out on the greatest love of all and the chance to change dirty diapers. The band seemed to have as much charisma as their hometown of Dayton. I’ve never been to Dayton so if you guys secretly rock out there, then my apologies. Their performance also left much to be desired and I would suggest they spend a little more time practicing instead of doing bicep curls unless they’re planning on playing the gun show circuit for the rest of their lives. For some reason, the judges thought that they could improve overnight and gave them a chance to come back the next day. That’s horseshit. This show blows.
The Muggs showed up next and staked their claim as the ugliest band in the competition. They also filled the inspirational spot for Day Two with the story of their bass player that had a stroke in 2001 and was half paralyzed. But instead of relearning to play with his foot and one arm, he just bought a Casio keyboard with the bass guitar setting and was back in business. They sounded like a cross between the Jimi Hedrix Experience and the Black Crowes. Sheila E had an orgasm, and John admitted he slept through the last three bands until The Muggs woke him up. They move on to the next round.
There was a brief clip of some crappy bands that were neither good nor bad enough to make the broadcast. I thanked the producers for sparing me, until the next band arrived.
Fifi LaRue lives with his mom and spends his time and money recording gothic heavy metal in his home studio and then performing it while dressed like KISS. Actually it looks more as if you tried dressing Ron Jeremy up as Gene Simmons and tried to pass him off as the real thing at a KISS convention. He and his band got sent home to Mommy.
Day Three… are you kidding me? Now I understand why Paula is smashed all the time.
Denver and the Mile High Orchestra kick off the morning with their big band sounds, showing what band geeks can accomplish by working together. Besides selling candy bars to pay for band camp. They would totally win if this was The Next Great American New Year’s Eve Band or Wedding Band. But somehow the judges put them through to the next round even though they thought the lead singer was ugly. But if you’ve seen what they did to that Elliot guy from American Idol, I guess anything is possible.
Zolar X from Plutonia was brought in just so Dicko could use his “you sound like Uranus” joke. Of course, we’re only reviewing this show because there’s a guy named Dicko on it.
Six Wire came from Nashville to represent today’s Nashville and not your grandpappy’s Nashville. They gave us some “good to be back home” generic country lyric crap which would be great fodder for a crappy generic country music video showing the small town girl living in a lonely world going off to the big city and getting bumped into on the streets and breaking a heel in a sewer grate and crying and then taking the Greyhound bus back to her rural roots where she has gained a new appreciation for her previous life and feels “good to be back home.” Apparently these boys already had a record contract and failed miserably the first time and didn’t take very good notes on what doesn’t work. The judges agreed they were tight but nothing special, and should go home and think about what they’ve done and not come out of their room until they’re ready to apologize.
Cliff Wagner and the Old No. 7 was next and did some bluegrass stuff that was rather boring, but technically proficient. Kind of like watching someone solve a Rubik’s Cube. Old Cliff looks like the Reverend Horton Heat raised on gravy and moonshine. I liked them, but I think they belong in Dollywood or another theme park rather than on this show. They disagreed, saying that Appalacia will vote for them… as long as the rabbit ears on the cinder block entertainment center can pick up Fox.
The Likes Of You had me stuffing bananas in my ears to stop the pain (and keep the alligators away), but they also have a singer with a shaved head which apparently means their music is a surefire hit and John moves them into the next round.
Red Halo is what Motley Crue might have turned out to be if they had replaced Vince Neil with Rod Stewart and become a Soul Asylum cover band. At least as far as I could tell from the 10 second clip they showed. They didn’t make the cut.
Lexicon appears to be a white boy Run-DMC tribute act and also got the ax.
Blackbird had some really nice fros and hoped to sneak in on the Wolfmother bandwagon. It didn’t work.
Franklin Bridge comes to us from the club scene in Philly, and they reminded me of some of the R&B lite bands that play those upscale clubs where divorced 40 and 50-something men and women go to hook up. I was about to write them off, but then they showed some potential to rock out near the end of their abbreviated song. I’ll have to defer judgment before saying anything else. Besides, people from Philly scare me.
440 Alliance decided it would be really cool to have four people collaborate to do a heavy metal cello solo. It was anything but really cool, and they’ll go back to Texas to think of something a little better.
I’m not sure how good the music by Lords of the Highway was because I was distracted and disturbingly aroused by the girl humping the stand up bass during the performance. But they were sent home to Cleveland to figure out another way to make it into the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame.
The Van Dells did some nice doo-wop stuff and are available for your high school reunion since they will not be moving on to the next round.
If Heaven Bound, a gospel quartet from Buffalo, is actually heaven bound, God may have to change the name of his kingdom to Hell II.
Rocket, a girl band from LA, made it clear that they were not a typical girl band and are doing something that hasn’t been done. To prove their point they did a Ramone’s cover and sounded exactly like a typical girl band. They weren’t bad and move on to the next round, but might want to ease up on the cookie dough and spend a little more time practicing.
Mescal was the token Latin band that was brought in so that Sheila E. could jump on stage with them for a gratuitous drum solo and remind everyone why she is/was famous. After the solo, she hopped off the stage and told them they sucked and can go home.
Northmont was brought back for their second chance where they would prove they have what it takes and keep their dream alive. It would have made a great story, but I thought it was way better when the judges had to tell them that they sucked so bad that they need to go home and find careers that don’t involve music. They might even want to avoid places of employment that play music.
There was some wrap up stuff, I guess. Class was over for me and I was packing up my book bag even if the professor was still talking.
Friday, October 19, 2007
The Next Great American Band - Oct 19 - Moist Rub
Well, I’m sure glad that’s over. I’m listening to Cream as I write this, because I’m living in the past where it is safe. Before I get started on the bands, I’d like to say a few words about the show in general. Let’s pretend the Show is one of the bands, and I’m some person associated with the music industry who had nothing better to do and needed and/or wanted some easy cash and became a judge. You don’t need to pretend that I’m wearing a powdered wig, because I am. And it’s not on my head. Look, Show, I want to like you. It would make my job a lot easier. I wish I could be John Rzeznik and tell you that you were great and amazing, yeah, well done, wow, yeah, and then vote how I think my fellow judges want me to vote, but I can’t. Like many of the bands that were sent home, you are not tight. FOX has given you a terrific opportunity to succeed, airing you at the perfect pre-party time slot, when the youngsters have not yet dropped the ecstasy and are still waiting for their beer to be bought, and all of the moms and dads have not yet dozed off from a hard week of putting up with life. You would think you would have made an effort to get your shit together, just like Beth Hart told you. Whose idea was it to conduct this episode outside on an open stage, in the wind, where sound evaporates like spilled acetone on a high school lab table? Was the desert setting supposed to be a metaphor for something? If it was, I didn’t catch it, unless it was to represent the desolation of the music industry.
It wasn’t all bad. Some of the pieces worked well. I like Dicko “Slappy” Dickson. He provided practical and relevant repartee, without the Simonish conceit, almost to the point where I thought he may have had employed writers, like Paul Lynde on Hollywood squares. Sheila E. surprised me, only because of my own preconceptions of not being greatly familiar with her, and for some reason she always gave me the impression of Aunt Bea from The Andy Griffith Show. Please excuse me while I use this platform to apologize to her. Sorry about that, Sheila E. Her feedback to the bands ranged seamlessly from soothing and supportive to instructional to unrelenting, bordering on nasty. Nice. Dominic Bowden, the host, didn’t host as much as he side-line reported. But he was competent and non-annoying, which was more than I expected. The show’s editing didn’t do him any favors. The editing was the biggest problem with the production. It made the show plod like the bass player from Northmont (according to Dicko). I’m purposely writing this in a plodding manner to emulate the plodding in which the show was portrayed just so the world can be reminded how annoying it is.
Oh, and if you couldn’t tell by what I talked about in the first paragraph, John Rzeznik was pretty much a dish rag. Is it that hard to find a musician with a brain and a personality? I guess they couldn’t convince Danny Elfman to abandon his dignity. You know, it’s a dead man’s party. Who could ask for more? I assume Rzeznik is there more for his looks than anything else. Not that I think he’s cute or anything. Don’t tell him I said anything. Don’t! Just shut up! Don’t tell him! You’re a jerk! SHUT UP! I can’t believe how much of an asshole you are. Gahhhhhhhd!
In between the real contestants, the Idol-like show forced us to witness crap. Many of these bands were displayed in montage, because montage is French. So, I will do the same because I want to be French, too. I present to you, the filler, comic-relief bands: Rubber chicken, toe bassing, theremin vibrating, ballroom dancing, glass shattering Celtic women, cardboard horsehead, polka, goth rock silliness with no guitar, middle aged Martians, Latin lack of musicianship and a pathetic dissented band for their daughters. That’s all anybody needs to know about them, but I will talk about the band for daughters later.
Of the bands that made the cut, two bands stand out, as far as I can tell, considering what I think the show is looking for. One of them is Tres Bien, a band of son’s of hippies, who grew up on 60's rock. Evidently, none of them were allowed to listen to the radio during their childhood, so all they could listen to was what their parents used to brainwash them. I did a similar thing with my son, which is why he’s the only kid in his high school with a Foghat t-shirt. Tres Bien have a White Stripes meets Jet feel that may be sceneable, but could grow old. The bass player could stand to lay off the Ding Dongs for a few months.
The other band that I think has potential to win is a band called Franklin Bridge, because Rzeznik said, “amazing, wow, yeah” about them. Their sound was a mix of R&B and rock, with a little bit of boy-band thrown in. It sounded fresh to me, but that could be due to the fact that I haven’t showered in a few weeks. Although, they should hire some back up singers, because the guys in the band doing the back up singing all sound like Patrick from Spongebob.
As for the rest of the bands, here is what I can remember.
Light of Doom is a heavy metal band of 12 and 13 year olds. Light of Doom? These kids today are so negative. They rocked pretty good (grammar note: “rocked pretty good” is the proper term. Only snooty people say, “rocked pretty well”. You don’t rock well. When you rock well, you steal songs from Huey Lewis.). If they weren’t so young, they would have never made the cut. Just like Bad Religion said, this is just another human interest story. However, they get extra credit for citing their influences as ninjas, boobs and explosions. The world would be a much happier place if we were all inspired by those things.
The Hatch made it, but only because Sheila E. wants to do the lead singer. Their song almost stopped, non-poetically, at one point. Their style was that of a bland Matchbox 20. It will be interesting to tune in each week to see how far Sheila gets with the singer.
The Clark Brothers are a religious version of Hanson. Jesus doesn’t mmmmBop, so they’ll have to take it into a different direction if they want to succeed on the mainstage. But, they do jam, as far as their lord will allow them to. If you’re looking for a shredding mandolin, this is your band.
Zombie Bazooka Patrol used to be just an ordinary county pop band going nowhere until they decided they wanted to be on this show. So, they painted their faces like zombies to astound the judges. And astound they did. And in doing so, they established a new genre – Hoot’n-anny Death Pop. They don’t need the zombie shtick to be a good band, but I think the discordance between that and their music threw the judges off just enough to keep them on the show. I like these guys.
I’m actually on Dot Dot Dot’s emailing list. The two rockin’ chicks in the band used to be in a band called Catfight that prowled the Chicago area, who’s email list I was on. One of their singers, Gina, was on last year’s American Idol. When Catfight disbanded (although they won’t admit it) each subsequent band the girls joined appropriated Catfight’s address list. I’ve never been to one of Dot Dot Dot’s shows, but I can vouch for their guitarist and bass player. My brother, Dr Jellyfinger, and I fell in love with Rose, the guitarist, the last time we saw Catfight. Having said that, I thought Dot Dot Dot’s performance on the show was disjointed, and Adam, the lead singer was trying too hard. They have an 80's pop sound that could prove favorable to the judges if "retro" ever makes it out of the 70's.
The Muggs brought some drama along with them. Their bass player had a stroke back in 2001. Because of that, he learned to play bass on the keyboard. They play a version of 70’s rock that you would think is applicable for today, because of all this retro smog we’ve been breathing. But, they don’t fit the Johnnie Bravo suit, so they probably won’t win this competition. They would be the first band out of all of these contestants I’d go see.
Denver and the Mile High Orchestra is a big band band with a flare for rock. Their’s was my favorite performance of the evening. Slappy Dicko criticized Denver, the lead singer, for not having the chick-magnet look and for having too much Ned Flanders in him. They must not get the Simpsons in Australia, because we all know Ned Flanders has a giant mustache and would never wear such a gaudy suit.
Six Wire is a band out of Nashville. They described their style as “edgy country”. Works for me, but they won’t win. Well, maybe they can. Depends on how many country fans watch the show and can climb the telephone pole to vote.
Speaking of voting on telephone poles, Cliff Wagner and the Old #7 is a blue grass band that just doesn’t give a shit. And that’s how they remained on the show. Slappy Dicko, although he loved their music, condemned their blue grassness and asked if they were able to blue-grass up an ABBA song, to show they could at least tickle the pop world. They played a blue grass version of Like a Virgin, as far as Cliff could remember the words, anyway. I couldn’t believe they made the cut, but they did. If I ever throw a hayride, I’ll hire them for the entertainment.
The Likes of You. They didn’t show much of this band. The lead singer looks like a bald David Justice and I don’t think he has testicles. They breezed over two other bands at this point, one of which was Red Halo. I guess I’ll need to tune in next week to find out. It’s quite a cliffhanger they left for me.
Rocket is an all girl punk band. They played The Ramones' Blitzkrieg Bop. I didn’t feel the punk. Maybe I would have if they played an original. It’s hard to match The Ramones for punkness. In their interview they brought up the issue of being a girl band and the inherent struggles related in competing against boy bands. I think if they would quit considering themselves a girl band it would maybe help them in that struggle. Just rock out, BITCHES! Ok, that was out of line. And we wonder why girl bands have a harder road.
I think that was all of the bands who were accepted to move on. I’m not sure. They raced through the contestants at the end. Who do they think I am, Evelyn Wood?
I’d like to end this review on a positive note.
The worst part of the show dealt with this horrible band called Northmont. The show used Northmont as an element of drama to keep the soap opera watchers interested throughout the show. Now that I think about it, the show did have a flow similar to a soap opera. Northmont was allowed to perform twice, because, as far as I can figure, two of the band members have daughters who really want them to win and this is the band’s last chance to make something of themselves because, basically, they are quitters. Their first performance was, as Rzeznik’s only worthwhile comment stated, desperate. Sheila E. roasted the bass player (alright, Sheila, yeah!) and Slappy Dicko told them to go back and think about what they’ve done. So, instead of firing the bass player and hiring Sid, they yelled at each other and gave it another go. This was all being presented to us in little snippets of dissention throughout the show. Add to that the singer and guitar player’s bemoanments of letting their daughters down by not making it as rock stars, and the result is a massive pathetic goo. I disappoint my daughter all the time. It’s no big deal. Children are resilient. They get used to it. I’m not one to “blah blah blah” through details but blah, blah, blah, the bass player still sucked (plodded as Dicko said) and the band was not cohesive. The judges admired the lead singer for his aplomb, but I thought he was disappointing, and I’m not even his daughter. Northmont is off the show now. I’m glad that’s over.
I can’t wait until next week!
It wasn’t all bad. Some of the pieces worked well. I like Dicko “Slappy” Dickson. He provided practical and relevant repartee, without the Simonish conceit, almost to the point where I thought he may have had employed writers, like Paul Lynde on Hollywood squares. Sheila E. surprised me, only because of my own preconceptions of not being greatly familiar with her, and for some reason she always gave me the impression of Aunt Bea from The Andy Griffith Show. Please excuse me while I use this platform to apologize to her. Sorry about that, Sheila E. Her feedback to the bands ranged seamlessly from soothing and supportive to instructional to unrelenting, bordering on nasty. Nice. Dominic Bowden, the host, didn’t host as much as he side-line reported. But he was competent and non-annoying, which was more than I expected. The show’s editing didn’t do him any favors. The editing was the biggest problem with the production. It made the show plod like the bass player from Northmont (according to Dicko). I’m purposely writing this in a plodding manner to emulate the plodding in which the show was portrayed just so the world can be reminded how annoying it is.
Oh, and if you couldn’t tell by what I talked about in the first paragraph, John Rzeznik was pretty much a dish rag. Is it that hard to find a musician with a brain and a personality? I guess they couldn’t convince Danny Elfman to abandon his dignity. You know, it’s a dead man’s party. Who could ask for more? I assume Rzeznik is there more for his looks than anything else. Not that I think he’s cute or anything. Don’t tell him I said anything. Don’t! Just shut up! Don’t tell him! You’re a jerk! SHUT UP! I can’t believe how much of an asshole you are. Gahhhhhhhd!
In between the real contestants, the Idol-like show forced us to witness crap. Many of these bands were displayed in montage, because montage is French. So, I will do the same because I want to be French, too. I present to you, the filler, comic-relief bands: Rubber chicken, toe bassing, theremin vibrating, ballroom dancing, glass shattering Celtic women, cardboard horsehead, polka, goth rock silliness with no guitar, middle aged Martians, Latin lack of musicianship and a pathetic dissented band for their daughters. That’s all anybody needs to know about them, but I will talk about the band for daughters later.
Of the bands that made the cut, two bands stand out, as far as I can tell, considering what I think the show is looking for. One of them is Tres Bien, a band of son’s of hippies, who grew up on 60's rock. Evidently, none of them were allowed to listen to the radio during their childhood, so all they could listen to was what their parents used to brainwash them. I did a similar thing with my son, which is why he’s the only kid in his high school with a Foghat t-shirt. Tres Bien have a White Stripes meets Jet feel that may be sceneable, but could grow old. The bass player could stand to lay off the Ding Dongs for a few months.
The other band that I think has potential to win is a band called Franklin Bridge, because Rzeznik said, “amazing, wow, yeah” about them. Their sound was a mix of R&B and rock, with a little bit of boy-band thrown in. It sounded fresh to me, but that could be due to the fact that I haven’t showered in a few weeks. Although, they should hire some back up singers, because the guys in the band doing the back up singing all sound like Patrick from Spongebob.
As for the rest of the bands, here is what I can remember.
Light of Doom is a heavy metal band of 12 and 13 year olds. Light of Doom? These kids today are so negative. They rocked pretty good (grammar note: “rocked pretty good” is the proper term. Only snooty people say, “rocked pretty well”. You don’t rock well. When you rock well, you steal songs from Huey Lewis.). If they weren’t so young, they would have never made the cut. Just like Bad Religion said, this is just another human interest story. However, they get extra credit for citing their influences as ninjas, boobs and explosions. The world would be a much happier place if we were all inspired by those things.
The Hatch made it, but only because Sheila E. wants to do the lead singer. Their song almost stopped, non-poetically, at one point. Their style was that of a bland Matchbox 20. It will be interesting to tune in each week to see how far Sheila gets with the singer.
The Clark Brothers are a religious version of Hanson. Jesus doesn’t mmmmBop, so they’ll have to take it into a different direction if they want to succeed on the mainstage. But, they do jam, as far as their lord will allow them to. If you’re looking for a shredding mandolin, this is your band.
Zombie Bazooka Patrol used to be just an ordinary county pop band going nowhere until they decided they wanted to be on this show. So, they painted their faces like zombies to astound the judges. And astound they did. And in doing so, they established a new genre – Hoot’n-anny Death Pop. They don’t need the zombie shtick to be a good band, but I think the discordance between that and their music threw the judges off just enough to keep them on the show. I like these guys.
I’m actually on Dot Dot Dot’s emailing list. The two rockin’ chicks in the band used to be in a band called Catfight that prowled the Chicago area, who’s email list I was on. One of their singers, Gina, was on last year’s American Idol. When Catfight disbanded (although they won’t admit it) each subsequent band the girls joined appropriated Catfight’s address list. I’ve never been to one of Dot Dot Dot’s shows, but I can vouch for their guitarist and bass player. My brother, Dr Jellyfinger, and I fell in love with Rose, the guitarist, the last time we saw Catfight. Having said that, I thought Dot Dot Dot’s performance on the show was disjointed, and Adam, the lead singer was trying too hard. They have an 80's pop sound that could prove favorable to the judges if "retro" ever makes it out of the 70's.
The Muggs brought some drama along with them. Their bass player had a stroke back in 2001. Because of that, he learned to play bass on the keyboard. They play a version of 70’s rock that you would think is applicable for today, because of all this retro smog we’ve been breathing. But, they don’t fit the Johnnie Bravo suit, so they probably won’t win this competition. They would be the first band out of all of these contestants I’d go see.
Denver and the Mile High Orchestra is a big band band with a flare for rock. Their’s was my favorite performance of the evening. Slappy Dicko criticized Denver, the lead singer, for not having the chick-magnet look and for having too much Ned Flanders in him. They must not get the Simpsons in Australia, because we all know Ned Flanders has a giant mustache and would never wear such a gaudy suit.
Six Wire is a band out of Nashville. They described their style as “edgy country”. Works for me, but they won’t win. Well, maybe they can. Depends on how many country fans watch the show and can climb the telephone pole to vote.
Speaking of voting on telephone poles, Cliff Wagner and the Old #7 is a blue grass band that just doesn’t give a shit. And that’s how they remained on the show. Slappy Dicko, although he loved their music, condemned their blue grassness and asked if they were able to blue-grass up an ABBA song, to show they could at least tickle the pop world. They played a blue grass version of Like a Virgin, as far as Cliff could remember the words, anyway. I couldn’t believe they made the cut, but they did. If I ever throw a hayride, I’ll hire them for the entertainment.
The Likes of You. They didn’t show much of this band. The lead singer looks like a bald David Justice and I don’t think he has testicles. They breezed over two other bands at this point, one of which was Red Halo. I guess I’ll need to tune in next week to find out. It’s quite a cliffhanger they left for me.
Rocket is an all girl punk band. They played The Ramones' Blitzkrieg Bop. I didn’t feel the punk. Maybe I would have if they played an original. It’s hard to match The Ramones for punkness. In their interview they brought up the issue of being a girl band and the inherent struggles related in competing against boy bands. I think if they would quit considering themselves a girl band it would maybe help them in that struggle. Just rock out, BITCHES! Ok, that was out of line. And we wonder why girl bands have a harder road.
I think that was all of the bands who were accepted to move on. I’m not sure. They raced through the contestants at the end. Who do they think I am, Evelyn Wood?
I’d like to end this review on a positive note.
The worst part of the show dealt with this horrible band called Northmont. The show used Northmont as an element of drama to keep the soap opera watchers interested throughout the show. Now that I think about it, the show did have a flow similar to a soap opera. Northmont was allowed to perform twice, because, as far as I can figure, two of the band members have daughters who really want them to win and this is the band’s last chance to make something of themselves because, basically, they are quitters. Their first performance was, as Rzeznik’s only worthwhile comment stated, desperate. Sheila E. roasted the bass player (alright, Sheila, yeah!) and Slappy Dicko told them to go back and think about what they’ve done. So, instead of firing the bass player and hiring Sid, they yelled at each other and gave it another go. This was all being presented to us in little snippets of dissention throughout the show. Add to that the singer and guitar player’s bemoanments of letting their daughters down by not making it as rock stars, and the result is a massive pathetic goo. I disappoint my daughter all the time. It’s no big deal. Children are resilient. They get used to it. I’m not one to “blah blah blah” through details but blah, blah, blah, the bass player still sucked (plodded as Dicko said) and the band was not cohesive. The judges admired the lead singer for his aplomb, but I thought he was disappointing, and I’m not even his daughter. Northmont is off the show now. I’m glad that’s over.
I can’t wait until next week!
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
The Next Great American Announcement
We here at Leper Pop are excitingly indifferent to announce that soon we will be allowing another rock and roll reality type show to torment us. Ever since Lucas was crowned magic furry frog of the non-existent band, Suave Porn, we just haven’t known what to do with ourselves. So, we’ve been scraping salt licks for gold and building pole vaults for the elderly. You can’t imagine how fulfilling it is to see the smile on an octogenarian’s face when she finally clears eighteen feet without displacing her hip or losing her dentures.
Before I continue, I’d like to take a moment to say a few words about old people. I was at WalMart today buying a rubber decoy fish, and I happened to walk through the adult sanitary diapers (as opposed to those unsanitary diapers – don’t be duped into buying those; you may as well just wear a burlap sack) section. As usual, I giggled to myself thinking about old people shitting all over themselves. All of a sudden, I had a moment of maturity and realized that when we make fun of old people, we are actually making fun of ourselves. Most of us are going to get old and will be subject to all the inhuman suffering current old people are enduring. And those of us who don’t get old will be dead before then, and that’s not very funny at all (except for the Darwin Award winners – I just love getting those emails. Especially when I receive the same one over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over. Precious.). We younger people think we are immune to the eventualities of age. But we’re not, unless death saves us from that ridicule. Even Pete Townsend grew old, albeit, as far as I know, not incontinently old. Yet. Did you know that the original lyric he wrote for My Generation was, “I hope I die before people make fun of me for shitting on myself”? But, as is the bane of most great unresolved lyrics, it was haphazardly erased and scribbled over when he had trouble coming up with a meaningful rhyme for “shitting on myself”, so he changed it to “…before I get old”. It works, but it certainly isn’t as inspired as it could have been (he should have used “knitting yon shy elf” as the subsequent line to save the endangered lyric). That should be a lesson to us all. Let xe without potential soilage cast the first snicker.
And now back to our regularly scheduled announcement.
If you are anything like me, you’ve known for about a day and a half the FOX network will be presenting a groundbreaking new rock and roll show called, The Leprosy Variety Hour and Beets. They WILL be presenting it once they agree to fork over enough cash to bring our band out of retirement, or at least buy Sid a new bass (and amp). While they are waiting to meet our demands, they plan to waste our time with a catastrophic talent show called The Next Great American Band. Brought to us by the creators of American Idol, this show proposes to pose undiscovered musical groups against one another in a weekly cut-throat musical melee. Hopefully it’s musical. The show dares to follow the American Idol model for success: present a bunch of weirdoes to make the actual contestants seem worthy, use judges to roast the shit out of everybody, impound everybody’s identity, conduct marketing research in the form of audience voting and then cross-market the crap out of the winner, incorporating a band branded breakfast cereal, Saturday morning cartoon, action figures, guest appearances on the Al Roker show, fake news stories, TV commercials for adult diapers, a Google Earth expose’, Mormon controversies and maybe, just maybe, an album and/or a single. The hymen exloding episode will be a two-hour extravaganza airing this Friday at 7:00 pm (that’s right, I’m talkin’ Central Time, the time zone that brought you Oprah and Fritos).
Before seeing a single episode of this show, I’m a bit confused by it. What do they mean, the “next” great American band? Grand Funk Railroad is The American Band, as evidenced by their web site. They earned that title by composing We’re An American Band. They had me at "A-booze n ladies keep me right". By golly, if they were good enough for Sweet, Sweet Connie, they are good enough for America. I hear she’s quite discerning. Here is where I get confused. How does this show jump from The American Band to The Next Great American Band? What happened to The Great American Band? Was one ever established? Nobody ever asked me to vote on it. Who is it? No, not The Who. I’ve already covered them by discussing Pete Townshend’s lurking runny bowel issues. Besides, I don’t think they’re American. FOX and those Idol people may be jumping the gun on this. I won’t be able to concentrate on the undiscovered bands if I don’t know who they intend to usurp with the new artificial title they hope to achieve. It’s not Starship, is it? Jeez, I hope not. Let’s assume it’s The Meatmen and move on.
The show, hereafter referred to as “the show”, will be hosted by Dominic Bowden, host of New Zealand Idol (a show where a sheep usually wins). He was chosen because Americans still think New Zealand is cool because of all of the Lord of the Rings hoopla. I know nothing of Dominic Bowden other than I think he played an orc, the one that looked like Ernest Borgnine, in Return of the King.
Like American Idol, the show will have three judges: John Rzeznik, Sheila E. and Ian Dicko Dickson. Rzeznik, of course, is The Goo Goo Dolls. I know he was partners with Robby Takac, but Robby’s songs never did anything so we, like Rzeznik, won’t give him any credit for the band. I was on board with The Goo Goo Dolls when I heard Only One, and it even drove me to buy their first two commercially noticeable albums. But then Rzeznik sold out and committed himself to writing sappy, sapful, sappish sap. He’ll fit in perfectly on this show, I’m guessing. These undiscovered bands have already sold their souls to the producers to get on this show*. Rzeznik will be able to mentor them as they kowtow their way up the charts.
* I read through the application/contract each band needed to submit. The contract pretty much does require them to sell their entirety to the show’s producers. The bands and anything they create, say, do, look like, smell like, think, ejaculate, bump into, have thrust upon them during the show belongs to the producers. And not just here on Earth. There is a line in there that states this servitude applies to anywhere in the universe and in perpetuity. Luckily for the bands there are probably multiple universes. Until those other universes are accessible, however, these people remain cartoon characters for the show, unless they can figure out a way to become real like Fat Albert did. Hey, Hey, Hey, gonna have a good time. As long as we get laid, right bands!
Sheilah E. comes to the show from the world of Prince, so she is used to being told what to do. She should be able to turn that around and instruct the contestants what Prince would have them do. But that alone is not enough to qualify to be a judge on a reality show, especially since Prince refused to write a letter of reference for her. Once they found out she is the aunt of Nicole Richie, a reality show super freak, the producers realized reality is in her blood. Plus, every good reality show needs a good drummer.
I don’t know much about Ian Dicko Dickson. I suppose I could learn more about him if I tried, but I’d rather be surprised. He is a judge on Australian Idol (where an Aborigine and a dingo duke it out each week for national glory). I assume he will adopt a similar role to that of Simon Cowell’s role on American Idol. All I really have to go on is his moniker, Dicko. I know what it means to be a Dicko here in America, so I may be able to assume he is a bit pelicanish. Since he works in Australia, I thought it prudent to research the equivalent Australian meaning. It turns out, in Australia, Dicko means Slappy. Sheila E. will be providing all of the rim shots for Dicko’s ribald flapdoodle.
From the promises strewn across mass media about The Next Great American Band, this show may be ridiculous enough for us to admire. And by “admire” I mean ridicule, as well as admire, not to mention chew over, and possibly reprove gently but earnestly.
Which brings us to the long awaited announcement. In an effort to help this show get off to a good start and remain popular in perpetuity across this universe, because we feel sorry for the executives of American Idol, realizing that they are not yet rich enough, Leper Pop will painstakingly watch The Next Great American Band program and report back to you our accounts. This way, you will not have to watch it and be able to go out and get drunk like the rest of America, watching live bands in real bars, each Friday night, while we sit at home wearing our adult diapers so we don’t miss a second of it.
Before I continue, I’d like to take a moment to say a few words about old people. I was at WalMart today buying a rubber decoy fish, and I happened to walk through the adult sanitary diapers (as opposed to those unsanitary diapers – don’t be duped into buying those; you may as well just wear a burlap sack) section. As usual, I giggled to myself thinking about old people shitting all over themselves. All of a sudden, I had a moment of maturity and realized that when we make fun of old people, we are actually making fun of ourselves. Most of us are going to get old and will be subject to all the inhuman suffering current old people are enduring. And those of us who don’t get old will be dead before then, and that’s not very funny at all (except for the Darwin Award winners – I just love getting those emails. Especially when I receive the same one over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over. Precious.). We younger people think we are immune to the eventualities of age. But we’re not, unless death saves us from that ridicule. Even Pete Townsend grew old, albeit, as far as I know, not incontinently old. Yet. Did you know that the original lyric he wrote for My Generation was, “I hope I die before people make fun of me for shitting on myself”? But, as is the bane of most great unresolved lyrics, it was haphazardly erased and scribbled over when he had trouble coming up with a meaningful rhyme for “shitting on myself”, so he changed it to “…before I get old”. It works, but it certainly isn’t as inspired as it could have been (he should have used “knitting yon shy elf” as the subsequent line to save the endangered lyric). That should be a lesson to us all. Let xe without potential soilage cast the first snicker.
And now back to our regularly scheduled announcement.
If you are anything like me, you’ve known for about a day and a half the FOX network will be presenting a groundbreaking new rock and roll show called, The Leprosy Variety Hour and Beets. They WILL be presenting it once they agree to fork over enough cash to bring our band out of retirement, or at least buy Sid a new bass (and amp). While they are waiting to meet our demands, they plan to waste our time with a catastrophic talent show called The Next Great American Band. Brought to us by the creators of American Idol, this show proposes to pose undiscovered musical groups against one another in a weekly cut-throat musical melee. Hopefully it’s musical. The show dares to follow the American Idol model for success: present a bunch of weirdoes to make the actual contestants seem worthy, use judges to roast the shit out of everybody, impound everybody’s identity, conduct marketing research in the form of audience voting and then cross-market the crap out of the winner, incorporating a band branded breakfast cereal, Saturday morning cartoon, action figures, guest appearances on the Al Roker show, fake news stories, TV commercials for adult diapers, a Google Earth expose’, Mormon controversies and maybe, just maybe, an album and/or a single. The hymen exloding episode will be a two-hour extravaganza airing this Friday at 7:00 pm (that’s right, I’m talkin’ Central Time, the time zone that brought you Oprah and Fritos).
Before seeing a single episode of this show, I’m a bit confused by it. What do they mean, the “next” great American band? Grand Funk Railroad is The American Band, as evidenced by their web site. They earned that title by composing We’re An American Band. They had me at "A-booze n ladies keep me right". By golly, if they were good enough for Sweet, Sweet Connie, they are good enough for America. I hear she’s quite discerning. Here is where I get confused. How does this show jump from The American Band to The Next Great American Band? What happened to The Great American Band? Was one ever established? Nobody ever asked me to vote on it. Who is it? No, not The Who. I’ve already covered them by discussing Pete Townshend’s lurking runny bowel issues. Besides, I don’t think they’re American. FOX and those Idol people may be jumping the gun on this. I won’t be able to concentrate on the undiscovered bands if I don’t know who they intend to usurp with the new artificial title they hope to achieve. It’s not Starship, is it? Jeez, I hope not. Let’s assume it’s The Meatmen and move on.
The show, hereafter referred to as “the show”, will be hosted by Dominic Bowden, host of New Zealand Idol (a show where a sheep usually wins). He was chosen because Americans still think New Zealand is cool because of all of the Lord of the Rings hoopla. I know nothing of Dominic Bowden other than I think he played an orc, the one that looked like Ernest Borgnine, in Return of the King.
Like American Idol, the show will have three judges: John Rzeznik, Sheila E. and Ian Dicko Dickson. Rzeznik, of course, is The Goo Goo Dolls. I know he was partners with Robby Takac, but Robby’s songs never did anything so we, like Rzeznik, won’t give him any credit for the band. I was on board with The Goo Goo Dolls when I heard Only One, and it even drove me to buy their first two commercially noticeable albums. But then Rzeznik sold out and committed himself to writing sappy, sapful, sappish sap. He’ll fit in perfectly on this show, I’m guessing. These undiscovered bands have already sold their souls to the producers to get on this show*. Rzeznik will be able to mentor them as they kowtow their way up the charts.
* I read through the application/contract each band needed to submit. The contract pretty much does require them to sell their entirety to the show’s producers. The bands and anything they create, say, do, look like, smell like, think, ejaculate, bump into, have thrust upon them during the show belongs to the producers. And not just here on Earth. There is a line in there that states this servitude applies to anywhere in the universe and in perpetuity. Luckily for the bands there are probably multiple universes. Until those other universes are accessible, however, these people remain cartoon characters for the show, unless they can figure out a way to become real like Fat Albert did. Hey, Hey, Hey, gonna have a good time. As long as we get laid, right bands!
Sheilah E. comes to the show from the world of Prince, so she is used to being told what to do. She should be able to turn that around and instruct the contestants what Prince would have them do. But that alone is not enough to qualify to be a judge on a reality show, especially since Prince refused to write a letter of reference for her. Once they found out she is the aunt of Nicole Richie, a reality show super freak, the producers realized reality is in her blood. Plus, every good reality show needs a good drummer.
I don’t know much about Ian Dicko Dickson. I suppose I could learn more about him if I tried, but I’d rather be surprised. He is a judge on Australian Idol (where an Aborigine and a dingo duke it out each week for national glory). I assume he will adopt a similar role to that of Simon Cowell’s role on American Idol. All I really have to go on is his moniker, Dicko. I know what it means to be a Dicko here in America, so I may be able to assume he is a bit pelicanish. Since he works in Australia, I thought it prudent to research the equivalent Australian meaning. It turns out, in Australia, Dicko means Slappy. Sheila E. will be providing all of the rim shots for Dicko’s ribald flapdoodle.
From the promises strewn across mass media about The Next Great American Band, this show may be ridiculous enough for us to admire. And by “admire” I mean ridicule, as well as admire, not to mention chew over, and possibly reprove gently but earnestly.
Which brings us to the long awaited announcement. In an effort to help this show get off to a good start and remain popular in perpetuity across this universe, because we feel sorry for the executives of American Idol, realizing that they are not yet rich enough, Leper Pop will painstakingly watch The Next Great American Band program and report back to you our accounts. This way, you will not have to watch it and be able to go out and get drunk like the rest of America, watching live bands in real bars, each Friday night, while we sit at home wearing our adult diapers so we don’t miss a second of it.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Movie Review: Welcome To Paradise
Take me down to the paradise city
Where the grass is green
And Crystal Bernard plays a preacher who’s pretty
Oh, won't you please take me home
Oops... wrong picture.
There. Much better.
I was doing my daily search for any exciting news from the Crystal Bernard camp when I saw that her new movie Welcome to Paradise was recently released. Direct to DVD, but that’s just because she’s too good to put up with that Hollywood crap and sell out by taking a role as Matt Damon’s sidekick in the Bourne Calamity.
I haven’t seen it yet. I’m not sure if it’s available at my local rental store or if I’m going to have to purchase it somewhere, but that’s not going to stop me from reviewing it between bites of my leftover Blue Cheese Burger from Blackie’s. Not bad, but I think I’ll stick with cheddar next time. Or the Blackie’s Burger with bacon and grilled onion. But I digress.
From what I gathered after reading some background material and a few other reviews out there, our fetching Crystal plays Debbie, a preacher at some snooty church in Dallas. Hey, I lived in Dallas so I can relate. So far so good. Then she gets kicked to the curb for her liberal ways and somehow ends up in a small town called… yep, Paradise… with her dyslexic son who can’t figure out why Mom has dedicated her life to Dog.
Paradise, it seems, is not filled with slutty teenage girls and Romanian prostitutes as one would expect, but instead it’s like Mayberry. Where a stranger’s arrival is met with both excitement and suspicion, but instead of having Sheriff Andy Taylor to guide the townsfolk Welcome to Paradise has Brian Dennehy. He usually plays a sheriff in the movies, but like I said I haven’t seen this particular movie. I’ll assume he plays the sheriff or some sort of controversial townie who either supports Crystal before she wins the town over or is eventually won over after initially being her arch nemesis. Either way, he’s great in the role. I was reading some Brian Dennehy trivia and it’s claimed that he worked with Martha Stewart a long time ago before they were famous and they’re still friends. Pretty cool, huh?
But back to the movie. So Crystal’s presence tears the town apart like a chicken in a Tyson plant. One side digs the new chick because hanging around the Dairy Queen waiting to get knocked up is no way to live and the other side doesn’t want her kind around because if hanging around the Dairy Queen waiting to get knocked up was good enough for them then it’s good enough for, um, you know, I guess, the rest of the town. As Ella Fitzgerald said, or sang, “Something’s gotta give.” Sinatra sang it, too, but I’m not sure who had a bigger hit with it. Leann Rimes also sang it and given the rural setting of this film, perhaps that is more appropriate. I’m not saying that rural folks are rubes that can only relate to a singer in blue jeans and a pair of boots, but anytime I drive through those towns I can only get country stations on the radio. Now where was I? I guess the next part could be a spoiler, although I’m not sure how much of a spoiler it really is if I haven’t seen the movie. But you’ve been warned.
And you’ve obviously chosen to ignore that warning. Just like when the doctor told you to watch your cholesterol but you ordered that Blackie’s Burger anyway. You’ll just take the stairs instead of the elevator when you get home and that should even things out, right? Until you get there and that really cute guy is waiting for the elevator so you decide to forego the stairs and ride with him – why do you live that way? Hey, it must be the money. Well, call me Nelly, but I’ve digressed again. He might have asked you out but you smelled like bacon and he wants his women to smell like sex and candy. Like disco lemonade.
Again, back to the show. Now, remember, I haven’t seen the movie yet, but as I understand it a homeless woman spontaneously combusts on the back porch of the church which burns down immediately because it’s made out of balsa wood, and Crystal gets blamed for it because she should have known that homeless people are notorious for spontaneously combusting, which is how they end up on the streets to begin with and the reason that most shelters are made out of brick.
So now Crystal is standing there with a pile of church ash at her feet and has to decide whether to go back to Dallas and work as a stripper or rebuild the church. From what I’ve read, the plot doesn’t quite go the way that I would have preferred; however, it kept its PG rating and received the coveted Dove Foundation Seal of Approval.
And if it’s good enough for the Dove Foundation, it’s good enough for me. And if it’s good enough for me that generally doesn’t mean much, but go rent it anyway.
I want to go, I want to know
Oh, won't you please take the DVD hooooooome….
Where the grass is green
And Crystal Bernard plays a preacher who’s pretty
Oh, won't you please take me home
Oops... wrong picture.
There. Much better.
I was doing my daily search for any exciting news from the Crystal Bernard camp when I saw that her new movie Welcome to Paradise was recently released. Direct to DVD, but that’s just because she’s too good to put up with that Hollywood crap and sell out by taking a role as Matt Damon’s sidekick in the Bourne Calamity.
I haven’t seen it yet. I’m not sure if it’s available at my local rental store or if I’m going to have to purchase it somewhere, but that’s not going to stop me from reviewing it between bites of my leftover Blue Cheese Burger from Blackie’s. Not bad, but I think I’ll stick with cheddar next time. Or the Blackie’s Burger with bacon and grilled onion. But I digress.
From what I gathered after reading some background material and a few other reviews out there, our fetching Crystal plays Debbie, a preacher at some snooty church in Dallas. Hey, I lived in Dallas so I can relate. So far so good. Then she gets kicked to the curb for her liberal ways and somehow ends up in a small town called… yep, Paradise… with her dyslexic son who can’t figure out why Mom has dedicated her life to Dog.
Paradise, it seems, is not filled with slutty teenage girls and Romanian prostitutes as one would expect, but instead it’s like Mayberry. Where a stranger’s arrival is met with both excitement and suspicion, but instead of having Sheriff Andy Taylor to guide the townsfolk Welcome to Paradise has Brian Dennehy. He usually plays a sheriff in the movies, but like I said I haven’t seen this particular movie. I’ll assume he plays the sheriff or some sort of controversial townie who either supports Crystal before she wins the town over or is eventually won over after initially being her arch nemesis. Either way, he’s great in the role. I was reading some Brian Dennehy trivia and it’s claimed that he worked with Martha Stewart a long time ago before they were famous and they’re still friends. Pretty cool, huh?
But back to the movie. So Crystal’s presence tears the town apart like a chicken in a Tyson plant. One side digs the new chick because hanging around the Dairy Queen waiting to get knocked up is no way to live and the other side doesn’t want her kind around because if hanging around the Dairy Queen waiting to get knocked up was good enough for them then it’s good enough for, um, you know, I guess, the rest of the town. As Ella Fitzgerald said, or sang, “Something’s gotta give.” Sinatra sang it, too, but I’m not sure who had a bigger hit with it. Leann Rimes also sang it and given the rural setting of this film, perhaps that is more appropriate. I’m not saying that rural folks are rubes that can only relate to a singer in blue jeans and a pair of boots, but anytime I drive through those towns I can only get country stations on the radio. Now where was I? I guess the next part could be a spoiler, although I’m not sure how much of a spoiler it really is if I haven’t seen the movie. But you’ve been warned.
And you’ve obviously chosen to ignore that warning. Just like when the doctor told you to watch your cholesterol but you ordered that Blackie’s Burger anyway. You’ll just take the stairs instead of the elevator when you get home and that should even things out, right? Until you get there and that really cute guy is waiting for the elevator so you decide to forego the stairs and ride with him – why do you live that way? Hey, it must be the money. Well, call me Nelly, but I’ve digressed again. He might have asked you out but you smelled like bacon and he wants his women to smell like sex and candy. Like disco lemonade.
Again, back to the show. Now, remember, I haven’t seen the movie yet, but as I understand it a homeless woman spontaneously combusts on the back porch of the church which burns down immediately because it’s made out of balsa wood, and Crystal gets blamed for it because she should have known that homeless people are notorious for spontaneously combusting, which is how they end up on the streets to begin with and the reason that most shelters are made out of brick.
So now Crystal is standing there with a pile of church ash at her feet and has to decide whether to go back to Dallas and work as a stripper or rebuild the church. From what I’ve read, the plot doesn’t quite go the way that I would have preferred; however, it kept its PG rating and received the coveted Dove Foundation Seal of Approval.
And if it’s good enough for the Dove Foundation, it’s good enough for me. And if it’s good enough for me that generally doesn’t mean much, but go rent it anyway.
I want to go, I want to know
Oh, won't you please take the DVD hooooooome….
Saturday, October 13, 2007
The Most Bestest Show on Television
I don’t watch too much television and despise most reality shows. Okay, I confess. I can actually watch about two episodes of any series before it grows tiresome and I just want to organize a murder-suicide between the contestants and me.
But every once in a while a series captures my attention and I feel obligated to share it with our exclusive readership. Last year that show was In Search of the Next Pussycat Doll, which brought together a bunch of hot, annoying, catty young ladies to entertain us with their singing, dancing, hotness, annoyingness, and cattiness. So I now bring you this season’s featured show:
America’s Most Smartest Model on VH1. Please tune in. Please.
Sixteen models are competing for the title by participating in a series of modeling and intellectual challenges and judged by Ben Stein and Mary Alice Somebody from Bazaar. In episode one there was the spelling bee that asked them to spell words such as collagen (ding! (by the way, “My lips are silicone, not collagen.”)) and emaciated (not even close) and designer names such as Tommy “Hilfinger”. There was also the runway walk while having to rattle off items in a given category like “Things That Are Round.” Mandy found that to be very challenging, but was smart enough to think of three (balls, cherries, tires) and repeat them over and over during her turn. The male model that got “US States” as his category included the states of Memphis and Seattle.
You’ve got the stereotypical ditzy lingerie model that only made it through the first episode because Ben thought she was hot (much to Mary Alice’s chagrin). The Argentinean guy that believes any woman will sleep with him if he tells her she has nice tits and a hot ass. And the formidable Soviet model straight out of that Rocky movie in which Rocky had to fight the formidable Soviet dude.
You might feel old and fat watching the show, but you’ll also feel like a genius. And when they get old and fat, at least you’ll still be able to find the state of Memphis on a map.
But every once in a while a series captures my attention and I feel obligated to share it with our exclusive readership. Last year that show was In Search of the Next Pussycat Doll, which brought together a bunch of hot, annoying, catty young ladies to entertain us with their singing, dancing, hotness, annoyingness, and cattiness. So I now bring you this season’s featured show:America’s Most Smartest Model on VH1. Please tune in. Please.
Sixteen models are competing for the title by participating in a series of modeling and intellectual challenges and judged by Ben Stein and Mary Alice Somebody from Bazaar. In episode one there was the spelling bee that asked them to spell words such as collagen (ding! (by the way, “My lips are silicone, not collagen.”)) and emaciated (not even close) and designer names such as Tommy “Hilfinger”. There was also the runway walk while having to rattle off items in a given category like “Things That Are Round.” Mandy found that to be very challenging, but was smart enough to think of three (balls, cherries, tires) and repeat them over and over during her turn. The male model that got “US States” as his category included the states of Memphis and Seattle.
You’ve got the stereotypical ditzy lingerie model that only made it through the first episode because Ben thought she was hot (much to Mary Alice’s chagrin). The Argentinean guy that believes any woman will sleep with him if he tells her she has nice tits and a hot ass. And the formidable Soviet model straight out of that Rocky movie in which Rocky had to fight the formidable Soviet dude.
You might feel old and fat watching the show, but you’ll also feel like a genius. And when they get old and fat, at least you’ll still be able to find the state of Memphis on a map.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Chat Room of Ignorancy
My son's friend's sister is thirteen years old, and apparently, she "fell in love" with some guy she "met" in a chat room. He lives out of state. Her parents were unaware of this “relationship” until recently, when this dude showed up at their house. He is twenty years old, and he claims that he is in love with the thirteen year old girl. He also threatened suicide if the family wouldn't allow them to pursue their relationship. Sounds like she picked a winner.
My kids don’t do much chatting online. They limit their online communication to email and MySpace messaging. But, you never know when they’ll submerge themselves into the world of Lamarckian Skank Talk. That’s what I call it, anyway. Why? Well, “Lamarckian” because, as far as I can tell, all that people do in those chat rooms is pass their adaptive characteristics back and forth to each other. I threw in “Skank” because I like that word and it has a cantankerous feel about it. Probably because of the two k’s, just like Krispy Kreme. There is nothing worse than cantankerous doughnuts. They taste like a fuzzy sound, never fit neatly in a box and I don’t even want to get into their effects on my digestive system, other than stating that feces should not bubble. The last thing I need is my daughter coming home with a box of cantankerous doughnuts and asking me to mix her up a batch of my famous vulcanized tuber coffee. You know what? I’m not gonna do it. In an attempt to employ some preventive maintenance, I had a little family meeting with the kids to discuss chat room love and other perils.
Below are the minutes from that meeting (as documented by our dogs – note: “I” refers to me. I have trained my dogs to write in the first person, where the first person is always me. It’s good to be a primate.):
1. It is physically impossible to fall in love until you are at least thirty years old because the emotional part of the brain, the amoritorium, does not mature until then. I showed them my Psychology diploma from college which proves I know about that kind of stuff, and whatever I say is true.
2. It is impossible to fall in love with somebody who you have only interacted with in a chat room. You cannot “know” somebody by merely talking to xe on a computer. You must interact with xe on other levels and share actual experiences with xe in order to get to know xe enough to even think about falling in love, which you can’t do until you’re thirty, anyway, so you might as well just play video games until then. Also, you can’t go bowling together online, and if you can’t go do that, you can’t fall in love. Any attraction or feelings you sense in chat room relationships is just your brain filling in the spaces, i.e. the unknown details about the other person with an ideal concept of who you want that person to be (just like after you put a door in you have to caulk the spaces between the door frame and the wall, and you use the best caulk, not the crappy cheap stuff, because that will crack before summer comes), and the yearning you feel is just your hormones telling your body to procreate, but your hormones don't care about your psychological, financial or not-being-a-whore well being. Their job is to promote the sustenance and continuation of life, regardless of the long term emotional, psychological and financial impact their actions may have on the host, or the host’s father (primarily in regards to the financial impact). The government should regulate hormones like it does booze, cigarettes and guns. The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms should add Hormones to their repertoire – the ATFH. Action Item: Write letter to congressperson.
3. Twenty year old people who pursue thirteen year old people are losers, otherwise they would be pursuing people their own age. There are just as many losers at your age as there are at any other age. This is due to the principle of physics known as the conservation of losers, which states within some population domain (e.g. age group), the amount of losers remains constant; losers are neither created nor destroyed, but only changed through the action of social forces as described by Newton's law of losers. Twenty year old people only seem like non-losers to thirteen year old people because of the eternal law of adolescent ignorancy, which states that if any twenty year old person hits on a thirteen year old person, xe is a loser and the thirteen year old person is too ignorant to know any better, but the thirteen year old person's parents do know better and should be heeded. It is for this very reason that I always turn down advances from hot chicks in their twenties (you gotta lead by example, ya know. It’s quite a sacrifice, but my kids are worth it). Action Item: For demonstration purposes, find a hot twenty-two year old chick to come over to the house and hit on me and then send her away in a firm, yet polite manner (but find out where she’ll be later).
4. Threats of suicide are not measures of ultimate devotion. They are symptoms of psychological imbalance and should not be reinforced with promises of love. Or blow jobs. And definitely no anal.
5. Don't do drugs until college. Action Item: Go back in time and do more drugs in college.
6. Always wear a rubber.
7. Somebody take out the garbage. Action Item: Somebody take out the garbage.
8. I’ll be home after last call. Action Item: Borrow twenty bucks from the son.
My kids don’t do much chatting online. They limit their online communication to email and MySpace messaging. But, you never know when they’ll submerge themselves into the world of Lamarckian Skank Talk. That’s what I call it, anyway. Why? Well, “Lamarckian” because, as far as I can tell, all that people do in those chat rooms is pass their adaptive characteristics back and forth to each other. I threw in “Skank” because I like that word and it has a cantankerous feel about it. Probably because of the two k’s, just like Krispy Kreme. There is nothing worse than cantankerous doughnuts. They taste like a fuzzy sound, never fit neatly in a box and I don’t even want to get into their effects on my digestive system, other than stating that feces should not bubble. The last thing I need is my daughter coming home with a box of cantankerous doughnuts and asking me to mix her up a batch of my famous vulcanized tuber coffee. You know what? I’m not gonna do it. In an attempt to employ some preventive maintenance, I had a little family meeting with the kids to discuss chat room love and other perils.
Below are the minutes from that meeting (as documented by our dogs – note: “I” refers to me. I have trained my dogs to write in the first person, where the first person is always me. It’s good to be a primate.):
1. It is physically impossible to fall in love until you are at least thirty years old because the emotional part of the brain, the amoritorium, does not mature until then. I showed them my Psychology diploma from college which proves I know about that kind of stuff, and whatever I say is true.
2. It is impossible to fall in love with somebody who you have only interacted with in a chat room. You cannot “know” somebody by merely talking to xe on a computer. You must interact with xe on other levels and share actual experiences with xe in order to get to know xe enough to even think about falling in love, which you can’t do until you’re thirty, anyway, so you might as well just play video games until then. Also, you can’t go bowling together online, and if you can’t go do that, you can’t fall in love. Any attraction or feelings you sense in chat room relationships is just your brain filling in the spaces, i.e. the unknown details about the other person with an ideal concept of who you want that person to be (just like after you put a door in you have to caulk the spaces between the door frame and the wall, and you use the best caulk, not the crappy cheap stuff, because that will crack before summer comes), and the yearning you feel is just your hormones telling your body to procreate, but your hormones don't care about your psychological, financial or not-being-a-whore well being. Their job is to promote the sustenance and continuation of life, regardless of the long term emotional, psychological and financial impact their actions may have on the host, or the host’s father (primarily in regards to the financial impact). The government should regulate hormones like it does booze, cigarettes and guns. The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms should add Hormones to their repertoire – the ATFH. Action Item: Write letter to congressperson.
3. Twenty year old people who pursue thirteen year old people are losers, otherwise they would be pursuing people their own age. There are just as many losers at your age as there are at any other age. This is due to the principle of physics known as the conservation of losers, which states within some population domain (e.g. age group), the amount of losers remains constant; losers are neither created nor destroyed, but only changed through the action of social forces as described by Newton's law of losers. Twenty year old people only seem like non-losers to thirteen year old people because of the eternal law of adolescent ignorancy, which states that if any twenty year old person hits on a thirteen year old person, xe is a loser and the thirteen year old person is too ignorant to know any better, but the thirteen year old person's parents do know better and should be heeded. It is for this very reason that I always turn down advances from hot chicks in their twenties (you gotta lead by example, ya know. It’s quite a sacrifice, but my kids are worth it). Action Item: For demonstration purposes, find a hot twenty-two year old chick to come over to the house and hit on me and then send her away in a firm, yet polite manner (but find out where she’ll be later).
4. Threats of suicide are not measures of ultimate devotion. They are symptoms of psychological imbalance and should not be reinforced with promises of love. Or blow jobs. And definitely no anal.
5. Don't do drugs until college. Action Item: Go back in time and do more drugs in college.
6. Always wear a rubber.
7. Somebody take out the garbage. Action Item: Somebody take out the garbage.
8. I’ll be home after last call. Action Item: Borrow twenty bucks from the son.
Monday, October 08, 2007
Who Do You Think I Am - Michael Chertoff?
So, I was cuddling with this woman after a hot and sweaty session of pilates. Working out is the most intimate activity I can think of that two people can share, and I cannot 
imagine doing so with someone without finishing it off with a mutual hold. We didn’t talk much as our sweat glands dialed down to a slow leak. Once in a while one of us would comment about our workout and then drift back to mind numbness. I was about to snag a doze when she gently poked me in the rib with her nose and said, “I feel so safe when you hold me in your arms.”
As you can probably imagine, I was flabbergasted. What the hell could that mean? Did she owe a loan shark some money? Was she wanted by the police? Were Martians after her? Maybe she got on PETA’s bad side when she molested that toad. Was it that she felt comfortable farting in front of me? What kind of safety could my scrawny, yet deceptively powerful arms provide?
The more I thought about that comment, the more dumbfounded I became. I finally surmised that she relied on my arms for safety against some unknown cadre of demons I could never comprehend. I know that’s quite a conclusion leap from loan sharks, police, Martians and molested toads, but I had a lot of
thoughts going through my head at that time and memory has smeared them, kind of like peanut butter spread over a positive meniscus lens, so I could not possibly review them all here. I do remember, however, thinking about a good way to remove my pants without appearing presumptuous, but that’s a bit off the point. The implications presented by her comment were quite a burden to have laid on me. I could have lain there all day if she would have just kept her safety concerns to herself. (I don’t think I’ve ever used the word “lain” before. Feels kinda weird, yet liberating.) I’ve spent most of my adult life protecting myself from the perilous content our world affords, and now I have to be responsible for her safety, too? That’s hardly fair. I just met her on a bus a few hours ago. For her to thrust this preposterous demand upon the faculties of my arms was domineering, and, frankly, a little rude.
I excused myself, and sat in the living room. Two minutes later (yeah, it only took her two minutes until she got suspicious and came looking for me – can you believe it?) she came out of the bedroom and asked me what I was doing. “Yeah, you’re gonna have to leave,” was my response. She questioned
my reasoning, and I tried to explain to her the encumbrance she so flippantly launched at me, like a pink polka-dotted harpoon sent careening viciously at a finectomized puffer fish. It wasn’t until I declared that if I wanted my arms to act as safety nets, I would have gotten a job with the Flying Wallendas years ago. She was so confused at that point, she decided to leave. In hind sight I can understand why my last statement confused her so much – I don’t think the Flying Wallendas used safety nets.
As she walked out of my home and out of my life, she was attacked by a mischievous horde of marauding fruit bats. Now I realize she may have had a point about feeling safe in my arms. Not a single fruit bat has ever attacked anything I was holding in my arms. Although, since I had just met her, I have no clue how she would have known that. The subject never came up during our pilates.
imagine doing so with someone without finishing it off with a mutual hold. We didn’t talk much as our sweat glands dialed down to a slow leak. Once in a while one of us would comment about our workout and then drift back to mind numbness. I was about to snag a doze when she gently poked me in the rib with her nose and said, “I feel so safe when you hold me in your arms.”As you can probably imagine, I was flabbergasted. What the hell could that mean? Did she owe a loan shark some money? Was she wanted by the police? Were Martians after her? Maybe she got on PETA’s bad side when she molested that toad. Was it that she felt comfortable farting in front of me? What kind of safety could my scrawny, yet deceptively powerful arms provide?
The more I thought about that comment, the more dumbfounded I became. I finally surmised that she relied on my arms for safety against some unknown cadre of demons I could never comprehend. I know that’s quite a conclusion leap from loan sharks, police, Martians and molested toads, but I had a lot of
thoughts going through my head at that time and memory has smeared them, kind of like peanut butter spread over a positive meniscus lens, so I could not possibly review them all here. I do remember, however, thinking about a good way to remove my pants without appearing presumptuous, but that’s a bit off the point. The implications presented by her comment were quite a burden to have laid on me. I could have lain there all day if she would have just kept her safety concerns to herself. (I don’t think I’ve ever used the word “lain” before. Feels kinda weird, yet liberating.) I’ve spent most of my adult life protecting myself from the perilous content our world affords, and now I have to be responsible for her safety, too? That’s hardly fair. I just met her on a bus a few hours ago. For her to thrust this preposterous demand upon the faculties of my arms was domineering, and, frankly, a little rude.I excused myself, and sat in the living room. Two minutes later (yeah, it only took her two minutes until she got suspicious and came looking for me – can you believe it?) she came out of the bedroom and asked me what I was doing. “Yeah, you’re gonna have to leave,” was my response. She questioned
my reasoning, and I tried to explain to her the encumbrance she so flippantly launched at me, like a pink polka-dotted harpoon sent careening viciously at a finectomized puffer fish. It wasn’t until I declared that if I wanted my arms to act as safety nets, I would have gotten a job with the Flying Wallendas years ago. She was so confused at that point, she decided to leave. In hind sight I can understand why my last statement confused her so much – I don’t think the Flying Wallendas used safety nets.As she walked out of my home and out of my life, she was attacked by a mischievous horde of marauding fruit bats. Now I realize she may have had a point about feeling safe in my arms. Not a single fruit bat has ever attacked anything I was holding in my arms. Although, since I had just met her, I have no clue how she would have known that. The subject never came up during our pilates.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Sailin' On The Hire Ground
Like Moist Rub, I also use Yahoo as my portal to the Internets and enjoy reading their headline advice to see how I’m screwing up my life and how their experts can make it better. Here’s a portion of their recent feature on interview tips:
What Are Your Revealing?
Look in the mirror: If too much is showing, don't wear it! While low-cut blouses or shirts are in fashion, most are inappropriate for the workplace, including the initial interview. The interviewer could possibly be distracted by the inappropriateness of the candidate's attire and therefore not focused 100% on the interview. This is unfortunate for both parties; the candidate may not be getting the positive reaction to answers they want, and the interviewer may be less apt to probe for the information they need to make a solid hiring decision.
-- Joelle Thies, staffing specialist recruiter, Wells Fargo
Joelle sounds like a girl’s name. So her advice only applies if the interviewer is female. If the interviewer is male, then he may be distracted enough by the candidate’s attire to not notice the inappropriateness of the candidate’s experience or answers. And possibly be even more apt to probe.
Joelle also generalizes here based on her experience with the obviously stuffy Wells Fargo organization. Perhaps some lass is interviewing for a cocktail or bartender job. Then such attire might even be considered an asset. Just like sunglasses girl.
Who is sunglasses girl? I’ve mentioned her three times previously in this blog. She was a younger, brunette version of Charlize Theron who worked at the sunglasses store at the mall I used to work at. (No, I’m not a mall Santa or security guard or escalator repairman.) Anytime they had a hot girl working there, you could see increased traffic at the store and purportedly increased sales. Even more so if her garb was more revealing. Anytime you had a dorky guy working there, they might as well been selling Meat Loaf 8-track tapes or just plain meat loaf. But I digress. Although please don’t bring up meat loaf during an interview – neither sweaty rock stars nor comfort food is a good topic.
You see, I almost fell into the same trap that Joelle did. Maybe meat loaf would be a good topic if you were applying for a job as a cook at The Cheesecake Factory or trying to market sweatbands to musicians.
Over the years I’ve had the opportunity to interview people for jobs. I usually ended up seeing one of two types. The first type is one that you probably wouldn’t even hire even if the only job responsibility was to keep breathing, because you’re afraid they might find a way to screw that up and it would be a real nuisance to have to write somebody up for holding their breath. The second is the overly polished and practiced candidate that won’t give you anything but over-rehearsed, generic answers that leave you wondering what they’re trying to hide. That’s when I like to ask them an off the wall question like, “What would you do if you were chosen to be Miss America?” I haven’t crowned anybody to date.
And my top four interviewee moments:
4. A girl interviewed with us for a logistics job and was wearing a polo shirt for a court reporting school. I asked about it and she said she was going to school to become a court reporter. Maybe my flowing judge robe and powdered wig threw her off, but I don’t think she read the job description too closely.
3. During the obligatory “do you have any questions for us” portion of the interview a candidate asked, “Yes, do you drug test?”
I actually hired him.
2. One guy showed up with his hand heavily bandaged/splinted. I was making conversation while we were sitting down and asked him what happened. He replies, “I guess I have a bit of a temper.” Then I guess I’ll try not to piss you off and I'll let you know that you didn’t get the job via US mail.
I personally was interviewing for jobs after college with a broken ankle but had enough sense not to tell them that it happened because I was drunk and fell off a sidewalk. I lied and told them I broke it playing softball, and I almost got one job because they were looking for players for their company team.
1. And finally, we were asking a candidate about his typing skills – whether he was pretty fast on the keyboard or more of a hunt and peck person. His reply – “I guess you could say I’m a pecker.”
Thank you, good night, drive safely.
What Are Your Revealing?
Look in the mirror: If too much is showing, don't wear it! While low-cut blouses or shirts are in fashion, most are inappropriate for the workplace, including the initial interview. The interviewer could possibly be distracted by the inappropriateness of the candidate's attire and therefore not focused 100% on the interview. This is unfortunate for both parties; the candidate may not be getting the positive reaction to answers they want, and the interviewer may be less apt to probe for the information they need to make a solid hiring decision.
-- Joelle Thies, staffing specialist recruiter, Wells Fargo
Joelle sounds like a girl’s name. So her advice only applies if the interviewer is female. If the interviewer is male, then he may be distracted enough by the candidate’s attire to not notice the inappropriateness of the candidate’s experience or answers. And possibly be even more apt to probe.
Joelle also generalizes here based on her experience with the obviously stuffy Wells Fargo organization. Perhaps some lass is interviewing for a cocktail or bartender job. Then such attire might even be considered an asset. Just like sunglasses girl.
Who is sunglasses girl? I’ve mentioned her three times previously in this blog. She was a younger, brunette version of Charlize Theron who worked at the sunglasses store at the mall I used to work at. (No, I’m not a mall Santa or security guard or escalator repairman.) Anytime they had a hot girl working there, you could see increased traffic at the store and purportedly increased sales. Even more so if her garb was more revealing. Anytime you had a dorky guy working there, they might as well been selling Meat Loaf 8-track tapes or just plain meat loaf. But I digress. Although please don’t bring up meat loaf during an interview – neither sweaty rock stars nor comfort food is a good topic.
You see, I almost fell into the same trap that Joelle did. Maybe meat loaf would be a good topic if you were applying for a job as a cook at The Cheesecake Factory or trying to market sweatbands to musicians.
Over the years I’ve had the opportunity to interview people for jobs. I usually ended up seeing one of two types. The first type is one that you probably wouldn’t even hire even if the only job responsibility was to keep breathing, because you’re afraid they might find a way to screw that up and it would be a real nuisance to have to write somebody up for holding their breath. The second is the overly polished and practiced candidate that won’t give you anything but over-rehearsed, generic answers that leave you wondering what they’re trying to hide. That’s when I like to ask them an off the wall question like, “What would you do if you were chosen to be Miss America?” I haven’t crowned anybody to date.
And my top four interviewee moments:
4. A girl interviewed with us for a logistics job and was wearing a polo shirt for a court reporting school. I asked about it and she said she was going to school to become a court reporter. Maybe my flowing judge robe and powdered wig threw her off, but I don’t think she read the job description too closely.
3. During the obligatory “do you have any questions for us” portion of the interview a candidate asked, “Yes, do you drug test?”
I actually hired him.
2. One guy showed up with his hand heavily bandaged/splinted. I was making conversation while we were sitting down and asked him what happened. He replies, “I guess I have a bit of a temper.” Then I guess I’ll try not to piss you off and I'll let you know that you didn’t get the job via US mail.
I personally was interviewing for jobs after college with a broken ankle but had enough sense not to tell them that it happened because I was drunk and fell off a sidewalk. I lied and told them I broke it playing softball, and I almost got one job because they were looking for players for their company team.
1. And finally, we were asking a candidate about his typing skills – whether he was pretty fast on the keyboard or more of a hunt and peck person. His reply – “I guess you could say I’m a pecker.”
Thank you, good night, drive safely.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Knock Knock
Twenty years from now all you people wearing those giant sunglasses are going to cringe when you look at pictures of yourselves so why don’t you just knock that crap off already.
The new Faith Hill version of the Sunday Night Football theme blows, so somebody tell NBC to knock that off already. Before I send Joan Jett to start kicking some ass.
The older I get the more often I get the urge to tell people to just knock it off. I haven’t decided if it’s because I’m older or if people are just doing more crap that they just need to knock off. I believe it’s the latter… that’s what we old guys do.
The new Faith Hill version of the Sunday Night Football theme blows, so somebody tell NBC to knock that off already. Before I send Joan Jett to start kicking some ass.
The older I get the more often I get the urge to tell people to just knock it off. I haven’t decided if it’s because I’m older or if people are just doing more crap that they just need to knock off. I believe it’s the latter… that’s what we old guys do.
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