While watching "America's Got Talent" last night (yes, I watch it, and we'll get to that at another time), I realized something that had escaped me for years on end. And all it took was a little boy named David Militello to help.
David was a very cute kid that sang the Michael Jackson classic "Ben" to the delight of the judges, audience, and nation. You could actually feel the collective heart of the nation melt at the same time. The kid OOZED cuteness. The kid POURED sweetness. He was a sticky, gooey, saccharine package of a 9-year-old. I was moved.
As he sang "Ben," I began to listen to lyrics to see if he was getting them right. And he was, he sang every note perfectly and got every word correct. I'd never really listened to the words of the song before. You know, REALLY listened to them. Sure, I'd heard it and I knew right away when the opening notes were played that little David was going to be singing about an unending, incorruptible friendship. Something puzzled me about the song, however; I don't know what, and I don't know why, but something about it made me get this little curiosity itch in the pit of my stomach.
I quickly ran to my computer to see what to make of this song. Who was MJ singing about? Why was this "Ben" so important to the Gloved One? And this is what I found...
...THE SONG IS ABOUT A FUCKING RAT!
...Not kidding...
...And not just a rat: A MOTHERFUCKING KILLER RAT...
...Am I the last to know about this one?
Apparently, "Ben" is the title song to the 1972 movie BEN, which was a sequel to the movie Williard, which was remade a couple years ago with Crispin Glover. Williard was the story of a man who becomes friends with a bunch of rats that eventually do his bidding and kill all of his enemies. BEN is the story of a small, lonely, shy boy (insert little David here) who becomes friends with Ben, who is the leader of the killer pack of rats from the first movie...
...Gotta love 70's filmmaking...
Anyway, the song is supposed to be about the kid from the movie singing to his best friend in the world, really his only friend when you come to think of it. Here's the rub: HISFRIENDISAFUCKINGKILLERRAT!
The song was nominated for an Academy Award that year (mind-boggling). I understand its a good song, and up until this revelation I thought it was a wonderful testament to friendship. It's forever tainted, however, by this knowledge. How can I ever take that song seriously now, knowing what I know? It's like finding out Manilow's "Mandy" was about his dog, or that the nursery rhyme "Jack and Jill" is a cautionary tale about fucking around on your spouse, or that the soothing sounds of Bing Crosby came from a man who beat the shit out of his kids.
A fucking rat...wow.
I wonder if little David Militello knows that the song is about a rat. I also now wonder if his song for the next round will be Templeton the Rat's "A Veritable Smörgåsbord" from Charlotte's Web or "Flying Dreams" from The Secret of N.I.M.H. I mean, hell, someone's already sung "Somewhere Out There" from An American Tail.
I'll be forever shaken by this (ok, that's an overstatement; when I find out that "Imagine" is about the joys of nuclear armament or that "What a Wonderful World" is really about ethnic cleansing then I'll be shaken). Still, I really liked that song and I'll never be able to take it seriously again and that irks me to no end.
I used to say "I" and "me,"
Now it's "us", now it's "we."
Ben, most people would turn you away,
I don't listen to a word they say.
They don't see you as I do,
I wish they would try to.
I'm sure they'd think again,
If they had a friend like Ben...
Sigh.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Friday, May 23, 2008
I've Hitched My Wagon to a Falling Star...
...and that star is called Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.
WARNING: This contains spoilers.
FURTHER WARNING: The movie spoiled the series.
I've always thought that I had a good read on what was going to be good and what was going to be bad. What was going to be a lasting trend or what was going to be a passing fad. My finger was on the pulse of what was meaningful and relevant and important.
I'll admit, I've had my screw ups. I have a wonderful collection of POG's and I am willing to play anyone that for some reason or another still has them. I'm still waiting for them to bring back Pepsi Clear. And I'm holding out hope for Corey Feldman to win an Academy Award. But over all, I think that I've got a good read on pop culture.
I was on to Napoleon Dynamite long before it went on to become an indie darling and the most annoyingly quoted movie ever. I was on board with Kayne way before the video for "Through the Wire" came out. I had the good sense to jump off the "Dane Train" when that no talent fuck gave up stand up for shit movies.
But I didn't see this one coming. I hitched my wagon to what I was certain was going to be a sure thing. I hitched my wagon to a falling star.
Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is 2 hours and 6 minutes of disappointment wrapped up in failure packaging and topped with a mediocrity bow. Our country's love of the average, the mundane, the watered-down, and the downright dull has finally reached the greatest action/adventure hero of all time.
I don't even know where to begin. Maybe I'll start with the plot (Um...was there a plot?); maybe I'll discuss the acting (Harrison Ford phoned that performance in); maybe I'll mention the special effects (or the lack of them in the movie); or maybe I'll discuss Karen Allen (Great to see her return to the series...but what the hell was she there for? A completely pointless plot device...or a way to rake in more money?).
But no, I'll stick with just three things. The first of which is the horrible villain, played in a rare showing of awfulness by Cate Blanchett. Cate, you're an amazing actress, you really are. Your performance of Bob Dylan in I'm Not There belongs in a time capsule. Your performance in this movie belongs at the bottom of the Mariana Trench, never to be witnessed again. Nice Russian accent...when you decided to stick with it.
I'll next mention Shia LaBeouf. Shia, oh Shia. You peaked at "Even Stevens" and "Holes." Now, you are a plague. You are a hack. You have become Death, Destroyer of Worlds and Movies and Hopes and Dreams.
"I never had much use for school, but I'm good with a blade."
Good with a blade, huh? That's quite the skill, you dickless pussy. Your character, "Mutt" (let's all have a good cry over that name, shall we), is a lame amalgam of Brando, Dean, and Elvis that tries to be hip and witty, but ends up being ridiculous funny in the end. And not funny intentionally. Funny like how watching someone else get kicked in the nuts is funny. Only this time, it was me getting kicked in the nuts while I watched your clown-like performance.
Finally, I'll discuss the ending.
Aliens.
Really? Really? REALLY?!
Really.
The "Crystal Skull" is apparently the skull of an alien who's race taught early humans culture, math, farming, and all that jazz. Thanks, Aliens, y'all are really helpful! It was removed by conquistadors and hidden for hundreds of years. And now the Soviets want it. Why? Because it'll provide them with power, obviously.
The thing is, the only power I saw it wield was the ability to blow up the temple where the rest of the Alien skeletons were sitting around. Maybe thats why the U.S.S.R. is no more...
And what were they doing sitting around anyway?! Did they see the conquistadors come in, and just sit by as they took the head of one of their buddies?
"Man, did you see that fine human chick over by the corn pile...wait, what are those guys doing? HOLY SHIT! THEY TOOK CHARLIE'S HEAD! We should totally stop them...but fuck, we're made out of FUCKING CRYSTAL! Let's just sit tight, maybe they'll bring it back..."
Come on now, seriously? Is that the best you can come up with? ALIENS?! Indiana Jones is not about aliens. He's about fighting Nazis and the supernatural and going on digs and finding lost artifacts. I can buy an element of the paranormal in the Indy adventures; I'll even buy the guy staying alive after his heart gets ripped out in Temple of Doom (which was previously the worst installment of the series). What I won't buy is Aliens. Give me a fucking break.
Steven Spielberg, George Lucas, and Harrison Ford had 19 years to work on a masterpiece. They had a tall order to fill, sure, but they have the talent to come up with something far better than this trash. The air has been let out of my tires, the wind is gone from my sails, my hero has become a joke.
As excited as I was to see a new Indy adventure, I see now that it was just a ploy to line the pockets of people who's pockets have no need of lining. I can only hope that the iconic image of Indiana Jones, Sala, Marcus Brody, and Henry Jones Sr. riding off into the sunset in The Last Crusade was the true ending of the story, and that the shitfest that has been unleashed on multiplexes is all just a bad, bad, bad dream.
I'll try to hitch my wagon to that star of an idea, and hopefully this time, that star won't fall...
WARNING: This contains spoilers.
FURTHER WARNING: The movie spoiled the series.
I've always thought that I had a good read on what was going to be good and what was going to be bad. What was going to be a lasting trend or what was going to be a passing fad. My finger was on the pulse of what was meaningful and relevant and important.
I'll admit, I've had my screw ups. I have a wonderful collection of POG's and I am willing to play anyone that for some reason or another still has them. I'm still waiting for them to bring back Pepsi Clear. And I'm holding out hope for Corey Feldman to win an Academy Award. But over all, I think that I've got a good read on pop culture.
I was on to Napoleon Dynamite long before it went on to become an indie darling and the most annoyingly quoted movie ever. I was on board with Kayne way before the video for "Through the Wire" came out. I had the good sense to jump off the "Dane Train" when that no talent fuck gave up stand up for shit movies.
But I didn't see this one coming. I hitched my wagon to what I was certain was going to be a sure thing. I hitched my wagon to a falling star.
Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is 2 hours and 6 minutes of disappointment wrapped up in failure packaging and topped with a mediocrity bow. Our country's love of the average, the mundane, the watered-down, and the downright dull has finally reached the greatest action/adventure hero of all time.
I don't even know where to begin. Maybe I'll start with the plot (Um...was there a plot?); maybe I'll discuss the acting (Harrison Ford phoned that performance in); maybe I'll mention the special effects (or the lack of them in the movie); or maybe I'll discuss Karen Allen (Great to see her return to the series...but what the hell was she there for? A completely pointless plot device...or a way to rake in more money?).
But no, I'll stick with just three things. The first of which is the horrible villain, played in a rare showing of awfulness by Cate Blanchett. Cate, you're an amazing actress, you really are. Your performance of Bob Dylan in I'm Not There belongs in a time capsule. Your performance in this movie belongs at the bottom of the Mariana Trench, never to be witnessed again. Nice Russian accent...when you decided to stick with it.
I'll next mention Shia LaBeouf. Shia, oh Shia. You peaked at "Even Stevens" and "Holes." Now, you are a plague. You are a hack. You have become Death, Destroyer of Worlds and Movies and Hopes and Dreams.
"I never had much use for school, but I'm good with a blade."
Good with a blade, huh? That's quite the skill, you dickless pussy. Your character, "Mutt" (let's all have a good cry over that name, shall we), is a lame amalgam of Brando, Dean, and Elvis that tries to be hip and witty, but ends up being ridiculous funny in the end. And not funny intentionally. Funny like how watching someone else get kicked in the nuts is funny. Only this time, it was me getting kicked in the nuts while I watched your clown-like performance.
Finally, I'll discuss the ending.
Aliens.
Really? Really? REALLY?!
Really.
The "Crystal Skull" is apparently the skull of an alien who's race taught early humans culture, math, farming, and all that jazz. Thanks, Aliens, y'all are really helpful! It was removed by conquistadors and hidden for hundreds of years. And now the Soviets want it. Why? Because it'll provide them with power, obviously.
The thing is, the only power I saw it wield was the ability to blow up the temple where the rest of the Alien skeletons were sitting around. Maybe thats why the U.S.S.R. is no more...
And what were they doing sitting around anyway?! Did they see the conquistadors come in, and just sit by as they took the head of one of their buddies?
"Man, did you see that fine human chick over by the corn pile...wait, what are those guys doing? HOLY SHIT! THEY TOOK CHARLIE'S HEAD! We should totally stop them...but fuck, we're made out of FUCKING CRYSTAL! Let's just sit tight, maybe they'll bring it back..."
Come on now, seriously? Is that the best you can come up with? ALIENS?! Indiana Jones is not about aliens. He's about fighting Nazis and the supernatural and going on digs and finding lost artifacts. I can buy an element of the paranormal in the Indy adventures; I'll even buy the guy staying alive after his heart gets ripped out in Temple of Doom (which was previously the worst installment of the series). What I won't buy is Aliens. Give me a fucking break.
Steven Spielberg, George Lucas, and Harrison Ford had 19 years to work on a masterpiece. They had a tall order to fill, sure, but they have the talent to come up with something far better than this trash. The air has been let out of my tires, the wind is gone from my sails, my hero has become a joke.
As excited as I was to see a new Indy adventure, I see now that it was just a ploy to line the pockets of people who's pockets have no need of lining. I can only hope that the iconic image of Indiana Jones, Sala, Marcus Brody, and Henry Jones Sr. riding off into the sunset in The Last Crusade was the true ending of the story, and that the shitfest that has been unleashed on multiplexes is all just a bad, bad, bad dream.
I'll try to hitch my wagon to that star of an idea, and hopefully this time, that star won't fall...
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Bar...
I'd like to relate to you a story about my adventures last Sunday night while I was attending a professional conference for admissions counselors in Columbus, Ohio. I know that it is not a true blue reflection of or reaction to pop culture, but nevertheless, I feel as though the world should hear this story.
First off, I was supposed to fly up to Columbus on Sunday morning. Friday evening, while I was enjoying the final season premiere of Battlestar Galactica, I received an email from Skybus saying that I could check in 24-36 hours before my flight. Five minutes later, I received an email from Skybus saying that at midnight, all operations were canceled.
That must have been a really disastrous five minutes.
Anyway, because of the short notice, I was forced to drive the 7ish hours from High Point to Columbus. I get there around 4:30pm and meet up with all of the counselors that I've hung out with over the year. We're a rowdy bunch, so we get right to the business of alcohol and good times. There's a social that night, a "Favorite Band" themed social. You were supposed to wear your favorite concert t-shirt. Mine was a green Weezer shirt, proclaming "I have a Weezer in my pocket, and I'm happy to see you."
Anyway, we're all getting drunk and dancing and having a grand old time. A group of people I've just met say they're going out to another bar. I'm having too much fun at the hotel, so I tell them that maybe I'll meet up later. I keep dancing and drinking and I go to different room parties. Eventually, the night at the hotel stalls and people go to bed. It's around 1am, and I'm still jazzed and in Party Mode. I don't want to go to bed. I want to meet up with the Bar People.
The problem is that I can't remember the name of the bar that they said they were going to. But I THINK I can remember the bar they went to.
Here's where the night takes a turn for the worse.
I go down to the front desk and ask everyone there where "Havana" is located, not the one in Cuba, but the club in Columbus. They look around at each other, and say it's in Short North. This means nothing to me, but then they say it's about a 20 minute walk or a 5 dollar cab ride. I slur a thank you and stumble out to a cab.
Habeeb the cab driver doesn't speak a lick of the King's English. It's about a 15 dollar cab ride because of the wrong turns and misunderstandings. But whatever, you can't put a price on fun. We finally get to Havana, and I leap from the cab and head into the bar. Success, I think, time for round 2!
The first thing that I notice is that the inside of Havana looks like Miami Vice. The walls are slippery tiles, there's a weird blue light illuminating the bar, and throbbing techno-music blares from the speakers. The second thing I notice is that there are a LOT of guys in this place. Almost totally guys. Total sausage fest. And a lot of them are in just their underwear. And a lot of them are making out with each other...
...And thats when I realize that I've accidentally gone to a gay bar.
I must stress that I have no problem with the GLBT community. I support their rights and their cause and I think they are wonderful people. I would also like to say that I've been to gay bars before...but with a group of people. I didn't intend to go by myself...wasted...wearing a t-shirt that says "I have a Weezer in my pocket and I'm happy to see you."
Maybe they're in the back, I think to myself about the people I want to meet up with. Right Lars, sure. Keep a hold of that dream. I begin to wander through the bar trying to find my new friends. I have to stop myself from asking a guy balls deep in another guy if they can help me find the back. That, I think, would not be a great question to ask at this juncture.
I also decide that buying a drink would be bad too. Because after awhile I know that my friends aren't there. I also think that maybe this bar is a seedy place, not a nice gay bar but one where drug deals go down and the cops are just minutes from busting it. And what if I'm there when they busted. I will be arrested at a gay bar, and that will be my life. Nothing I've said or done up until this point will matter. I stumble out of the bar.
And thats when I realize that I wasn't just in a gay bar. I was in a gay district. There are fanny-pack displays in shop windows. Drag queens are getting off of their shifts and out of their make-up, so they look blasted out and undead. Men are strutting up the street wearing fishnets and tank tops. I feel a bit out of place.
I don't want to pay another 15 bucks for a taxi to get back, so I decide to walk. They said it was only 20 minutes, right? If anyone reading this knows of my directional abilities, they will know that this is very, very wrong.
It takes me over an hour to get back to my hotel. The main cause of this is that I get lost on one particular street. The name of the street, I'm not kidding, is Gay Street.
...
I found out later that Gay Street used to be a one way, but now it runs both ways.
...
Not kidding.
I stumble into the hotel finally, and everyone is still at the front desk. "Did you enjoy the bar?" they ask. Furious, I say "Yes," to cover the "WHATTHEFUCKDOYOUTHINKTHANKSFORTHEHEADSUP?!" that wanted to erupt from my mouth. I go to bed and pass out.
The next morning, I see the group that I had wanted to meet up with and I go over to them.
"Where did y'all go last night?!" I ask.
They're all hungover, and say, "We don't know man, we drove around, we don't know where we went."
One of the guys asks, "Did you go out last night?"
Pause.
"Yeah man, I came out last night."
First off, I was supposed to fly up to Columbus on Sunday morning. Friday evening, while I was enjoying the final season premiere of Battlestar Galactica, I received an email from Skybus saying that I could check in 24-36 hours before my flight. Five minutes later, I received an email from Skybus saying that at midnight, all operations were canceled.
That must have been a really disastrous five minutes.
Anyway, because of the short notice, I was forced to drive the 7ish hours from High Point to Columbus. I get there around 4:30pm and meet up with all of the counselors that I've hung out with over the year. We're a rowdy bunch, so we get right to the business of alcohol and good times. There's a social that night, a "Favorite Band" themed social. You were supposed to wear your favorite concert t-shirt. Mine was a green Weezer shirt, proclaming "I have a Weezer in my pocket, and I'm happy to see you."
Anyway, we're all getting drunk and dancing and having a grand old time. A group of people I've just met say they're going out to another bar. I'm having too much fun at the hotel, so I tell them that maybe I'll meet up later. I keep dancing and drinking and I go to different room parties. Eventually, the night at the hotel stalls and people go to bed. It's around 1am, and I'm still jazzed and in Party Mode. I don't want to go to bed. I want to meet up with the Bar People.
The problem is that I can't remember the name of the bar that they said they were going to. But I THINK I can remember the bar they went to.
Here's where the night takes a turn for the worse.
I go down to the front desk and ask everyone there where "Havana" is located, not the one in Cuba, but the club in Columbus. They look around at each other, and say it's in Short North. This means nothing to me, but then they say it's about a 20 minute walk or a 5 dollar cab ride. I slur a thank you and stumble out to a cab.
Habeeb the cab driver doesn't speak a lick of the King's English. It's about a 15 dollar cab ride because of the wrong turns and misunderstandings. But whatever, you can't put a price on fun. We finally get to Havana, and I leap from the cab and head into the bar. Success, I think, time for round 2!
The first thing that I notice is that the inside of Havana looks like Miami Vice. The walls are slippery tiles, there's a weird blue light illuminating the bar, and throbbing techno-music blares from the speakers. The second thing I notice is that there are a LOT of guys in this place. Almost totally guys. Total sausage fest. And a lot of them are in just their underwear. And a lot of them are making out with each other...
...And thats when I realize that I've accidentally gone to a gay bar.
I must stress that I have no problem with the GLBT community. I support their rights and their cause and I think they are wonderful people. I would also like to say that I've been to gay bars before...but with a group of people. I didn't intend to go by myself...wasted...wearing a t-shirt that says "I have a Weezer in my pocket and I'm happy to see you."
Maybe they're in the back, I think to myself about the people I want to meet up with. Right Lars, sure. Keep a hold of that dream. I begin to wander through the bar trying to find my new friends. I have to stop myself from asking a guy balls deep in another guy if they can help me find the back. That, I think, would not be a great question to ask at this juncture.
I also decide that buying a drink would be bad too. Because after awhile I know that my friends aren't there. I also think that maybe this bar is a seedy place, not a nice gay bar but one where drug deals go down and the cops are just minutes from busting it. And what if I'm there when they busted. I will be arrested at a gay bar, and that will be my life. Nothing I've said or done up until this point will matter. I stumble out of the bar.
And thats when I realize that I wasn't just in a gay bar. I was in a gay district. There are fanny-pack displays in shop windows. Drag queens are getting off of their shifts and out of their make-up, so they look blasted out and undead. Men are strutting up the street wearing fishnets and tank tops. I feel a bit out of place.
I don't want to pay another 15 bucks for a taxi to get back, so I decide to walk. They said it was only 20 minutes, right? If anyone reading this knows of my directional abilities, they will know that this is very, very wrong.
It takes me over an hour to get back to my hotel. The main cause of this is that I get lost on one particular street. The name of the street, I'm not kidding, is Gay Street.
...
I found out later that Gay Street used to be a one way, but now it runs both ways.
...
Not kidding.
I stumble into the hotel finally, and everyone is still at the front desk. "Did you enjoy the bar?" they ask. Furious, I say "Yes," to cover the "WHATTHEFUCKDOYOUTHINKTHANKSFORTHEHEADSUP?!" that wanted to erupt from my mouth. I go to bed and pass out.
The next morning, I see the group that I had wanted to meet up with and I go over to them.
"Where did y'all go last night?!" I ask.
They're all hungover, and say, "We don't know man, we drove around, we don't know where we went."
One of the guys asks, "Did you go out last night?"
Pause.
"Yeah man, I came out last night."
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
The Average Termite
I just watched a commercial for a termite control service which claimed:
"The average termite chews 24 hours a day, 7 days a week."
The average termite??
Come on.
Either every single termite has a perfect record, or we got some other termites picking up the slack putting in 25 hour days... and I find both scenarios hard to believe.
Monday, March 24, 2008
inner child
This evening a bowl of cereal went soggy, for a plastic robot was discovered in a box of Cheerios.
Random Thoughts While Drifting Through the Stations
89.9 FM
Classical music reminds me too much of Bugs Bunny cartoons to actually be taken seriously. I enjoy it, but I can't help but picture Bugs with his feet on Elmer Fudd's head pretending to be the Barber of Seville.
94.1 FM
Casey Casem sounds the same when he's hosting the American Top 40 from 1967 as he does when he's hosting the American Top 40 from 2008. This is because he is a robot. An ageless, musical robot sent from the future; not to destroy us, but to save us all with the glory of pop music.
98.7 FM
"Toto" by Africa is the greatest song ever recorded by humans.
99.9FM
I will never understand country music. Some of it is ok, but the vast majority of it is un-listenable music. How did the stoic and iconic image of the American Cowboy, something so ingrained in the pop-culture fabric of society, get bastardized and mass produced and morphed into Kenny Chesney?
102.1 FM
I will never get a girl with apple bottom jeans. Or boots with the fur.
102.7FM
Static.
107.5FM
Dear American Idol,
For the love of God, stop.
Love,
Lars
88.5FM
Car Talk is the only good show on this whole God-foresaken station. National Public Radio is the audio equivalent to watching grass grow.
102.9FM
Christmas music should be socially acceptable to listen to all year long.
103.1FM
Static.
94.1FM
The song "You're So Vain" by Carly Simon is ridiculous. Carly, you're chastising this gentlemen, calling out all of his qualities that make him so vain. And then you say that you bet he thinks the song is about him. Well it is! The song is about him! So why shouldn't he think it's about him when it is, in fact, about him! James Taylor did the right thing when he dumped your ass.
107.5FM
Radio DJ's have the easiest job on the face of the planet, and a microphone in which to share their ridiculous thoughts, banter, and experiences to the world. I want their job.
Classical music reminds me too much of Bugs Bunny cartoons to actually be taken seriously. I enjoy it, but I can't help but picture Bugs with his feet on Elmer Fudd's head pretending to be the Barber of Seville.
94.1 FM
Casey Casem sounds the same when he's hosting the American Top 40 from 1967 as he does when he's hosting the American Top 40 from 2008. This is because he is a robot. An ageless, musical robot sent from the future; not to destroy us, but to save us all with the glory of pop music.
98.7 FM
"Toto" by Africa is the greatest song ever recorded by humans.
99.9FM
I will never understand country music. Some of it is ok, but the vast majority of it is un-listenable music. How did the stoic and iconic image of the American Cowboy, something so ingrained in the pop-culture fabric of society, get bastardized and mass produced and morphed into Kenny Chesney?
102.1 FM
I will never get a girl with apple bottom jeans. Or boots with the fur.
102.7FM
Static.
107.5FM
Dear American Idol,
For the love of God, stop.
Love,
Lars
88.5FM
Car Talk is the only good show on this whole God-foresaken station. National Public Radio is the audio equivalent to watching grass grow.
102.9FM
Christmas music should be socially acceptable to listen to all year long.
103.1FM
Static.
94.1FM
The song "You're So Vain" by Carly Simon is ridiculous. Carly, you're chastising this gentlemen, calling out all of his qualities that make him so vain. And then you say that you bet he thinks the song is about him. Well it is! The song is about him! So why shouldn't he think it's about him when it is, in fact, about him! James Taylor did the right thing when he dumped your ass.
107.5FM
Radio DJ's have the easiest job on the face of the planet, and a microphone in which to share their ridiculous thoughts, banter, and experiences to the world. I want their job.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Multiple Personalities: A National Concern
I feel that with I should take a moment today and discuss a problem that has swept the nation and has taken center stage in the pop culture of this country. This problem is multiple personalities, or, in the Latin, splitus mentalius.
This is not a new problem. Over the years, multiple personality disorder has reared its ugly head in all sorts of forms. From Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde to Cybil; from Michael Caine in Dressed to Kill to Woody Allen's character in Zelig. One can also make a corollary to the desire to obtain an alternate identity, exemplified by David Bowie (Ziggy Stardust), Clark Kent (Superman), and Emperor Palpatine (Darth Sidious).
Something is happening now, however, that has made this kind of behavior more mainstream. I'm talking, of course, about Miley Ray Cyrus and her alter-ego, Hannah Montana. Their "Best of Both Worlds" tour was the highest selling of the year and their albums are flying off the shelves. This Disney princess has made good, coming out from behind the mullety-shadow of her father, Billy Ray. Miley recently presented at the Oscars, and Hannah's show is going strong.
Here's the thing though...THEY'RE THE SAME FUCKING PERSON.
The Best of Both Worlds tour touts that both Hannah and Miley perform songs. It's a double-bill to die for (read "to die for" as "leap off something high instead of watch"). How is this possibly an amazing feat? Every time Hannah performs its actually Miley anyway! This Best of Both Worlds tour is just an excuse to milk more money from poor saps that can't get enough of cheesy, shitty music.
Dear teeny-bopper kids, your parents, and the Walt Disney Corporation,
Knock it the fuck off.
Love,
Lars
P.S.: I'm sure that Hillary Duff is kicking herself when she sees that all it takes is a wig change to double your profits for one show.
Ziggy Stardust didn't walk out on stage halfway through his show and say "Hey everyone, you all know I'm David fucking Bowie, who are we kidding. I'm just gonna take this shit off and I'll sing the rest of my normal songs."
Clark Kent didn't fly around Metropolis without first stopping in a telephone booth to change into his blue tights and red cape.
The Emperor didn't show his true colors until his plan had fully come to fruition.
Are Miley Ray Cyrus/Hannah Montana this generation's answer to Bowie and his Stardust? It'll break my achey-breaky-heart if that's the case.
This is not a new problem. Over the years, multiple personality disorder has reared its ugly head in all sorts of forms. From Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde to Cybil; from Michael Caine in Dressed to Kill to Woody Allen's character in Zelig. One can also make a corollary to the desire to obtain an alternate identity, exemplified by David Bowie (Ziggy Stardust), Clark Kent (Superman), and Emperor Palpatine (Darth Sidious).
Something is happening now, however, that has made this kind of behavior more mainstream. I'm talking, of course, about Miley Ray Cyrus and her alter-ego, Hannah Montana. Their "Best of Both Worlds" tour was the highest selling of the year and their albums are flying off the shelves. This Disney princess has made good, coming out from behind the mullety-shadow of her father, Billy Ray. Miley recently presented at the Oscars, and Hannah's show is going strong.
Here's the thing though...THEY'RE THE SAME FUCKING PERSON.
The Best of Both Worlds tour touts that both Hannah and Miley perform songs. It's a double-bill to die for (read "to die for" as "leap off something high instead of watch"). How is this possibly an amazing feat? Every time Hannah performs its actually Miley anyway! This Best of Both Worlds tour is just an excuse to milk more money from poor saps that can't get enough of cheesy, shitty music.
Dear teeny-bopper kids, your parents, and the Walt Disney Corporation,
Knock it the fuck off.
Love,
Lars
P.S.: I'm sure that Hillary Duff is kicking herself when she sees that all it takes is a wig change to double your profits for one show.
Ziggy Stardust didn't walk out on stage halfway through his show and say "Hey everyone, you all know I'm David fucking Bowie, who are we kidding. I'm just gonna take this shit off and I'll sing the rest of my normal songs."
Clark Kent didn't fly around Metropolis without first stopping in a telephone booth to change into his blue tights and red cape.
The Emperor didn't show his true colors until his plan had fully come to fruition.
Are Miley Ray Cyrus/Hannah Montana this generation's answer to Bowie and his Stardust? It'll break my achey-breaky-heart if that's the case.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)