HAPPY NEW YEAR!
You know, it’s New Years, and they say there wasn’t a terrorist attack. Go to the airport, and see if they give you a cavity search…. then ask yourself… “self, if that wasn’t a terrorist attack, what is?”
SELF CENTERED MUSIC…SUCKS
Linkin Park is one of the biggets bands out there! Wow! Look at all the albums they sell. Million upon millions of angst-ridden youths wandering around, buying up these albums of rap-rock (rap-rock… doesn’t it sound like some wierd rock monster out of Two Towers?) and blaring them as they sit in their room, writing in their journals about how much they hate their parents for skimming their allowance. But there’s a problem with all of this… it’s my problem with most contemporary music. Most of it is… well.
I’m all for a self-centered song, but coupled with the Vagina movement of 1997 (anybody remember Paula Cole?) and the ensuing Lillith Fair b.s., it became fashionable to sing about yourself… completely about yourself. And not in the good way of the past, where it was used to spread a message. Now it was used simply to vent. Consider Public Enemy, who’s lyrics were focused on oppression with a steady, driving beat, or the music of early Metallica, which, although not my cup of tea, tended to tell stories with words. Now, consider this for a moment.
“I wanna heal, I wanna feel…”
“Everything you say to me, it takes me one step closer to the edge, and I’m about to break!”
“I am number one…”
“I am not the person who is singing, I am the quiet one inside…”
“It doesn’t matter what car I drive or the ice around my neck…”
“How do you like me now, now that I’m on my way, do you still think I’m crazy, standing here today?”
“You’re gettin’ closer, to pushin’ me off of lifes little (god that’s lame) ledge, ‘Cause I’m a loser…”
“I wanna be in another place, I hate when you say you don’t, understand… I wanna be with the energy (?) not with the enemy, a place for my head…”
“Now I see, you’re testing me, pushing me away…” (Well of course she is, you narcissistic whiner)
JESUS! When the Beatles did it, it was ast least interesting… (I am the Walrus, anybody?) but this shit…. and yes folks, it is shit, all of it… is a genuine bore. Nobody’s into creation, they just like to vent. Get a Linkin Park album, and bleep out every menion of the words “I, my, myself, mine, and me”. What you’re left with will sound like a Robot on dialysis.
Everythings contaminated. Rap becomes a dick-waving contest. Rock becomes an angst-waving contest. Pop tries to see how greatly it can irritate me. Country? God, it’s forgotten it’s cousin-molesting roots!
THE SIXTH SIN: ANNOYING MANNERISMS
Let’s forget all of that, anyway. Time to explain to you the peculiar habits of the once and future roomate. Lets call him Finius to avoid a lawsuit.
Finius, he has a very strict religion on him. It disallows him from doing a lot of fun… and nessessary things. Like waxing the weasel. As a result, he sits at his computer, and his legs… shake. Mechanically. Mine don’t, because the central nerve cluster between them is given maintenence on a regular basis. It’s not a sin, it’s a necessity. But Finius, he don’t know that, and as a result, he sits at his desk, bug-eyed, legs shaking like a grasshopper on cocaine. But it don’t stop there. The guy has an online girlfriend. (which is LAME. LAMER THAN THE LAMEST OF THE LAME. Twice as lame as Lara) When he talks to her on the phone, (or worse, on the computer), he utters this fake laugh. “A hee ha!” Remember Mosquito? Kinda like that (and if you remember Mosquito, you get a free pie).
Anyway, mannerisms such as this realy get to me. Which brings me to SIN FIVE, which I was supposed to write on last week. It really ties in with SIN SIX….
SIN FIVE: EFFEMMINANT HIGH FIVES
I got a buddy named Bo, and he’s one cool ass guy! He gets all the ladies, is a blast to be around, and smells fantastic. One problem….
The high fives he gives… and he gives a lot… lack manliness.
Here’s a high five from Bo.
My hand is raised. Bo’s hand softly touches the bottom of my palm in the most homoerotic fashion imaginable, and then gently caresses the old scars beneath my wrist, before giving me a slight tickle just above my elbow.
…although I bet of you are sportin’ some trouser oak from that description, ya fackin’ perverts.
Anyway, enough of this. I must get back to my marvelous Dallas vacation. Mazel Tov ya crazy kids!