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hug meHe's maybe not one of the ten worst things to happen to Rock N' Roll...His acolytes, sure, but then, everybodys acolytes pretty much blow.
Oh well...I can maybe replace him with 1. Sting 2. Don Henley 3. Flea's bass playing....
Whichever one works for Rock N' Roll at the time.
suaveYou wanna know what Heaven is? I mean, real, serious, lying on a hammock sipping Pena Coladas in a tropical paradise type shit? I’ll tell ya, it ain’t trying to ram your pale rider into the eye of some nubile needle that’s for damn sure.
Know what it is? It’s being granted that all access pass to the majestic, expansive caverns within the deep creases and thinning, tangled grey topiary of the over sixty set.
Old sluts are the best, they’re so fucking hot.
Seriously, mounting that seasoned filly and going in for the long haul is a thrill that can be only be matched by riding one of those rickety wooden roller coasters in the spooky old carnival staffed by people with no teeth.
Granted, once you’ve penetrated the dry folds of her beef jerky textured labia, your little smoky may wilt a bit from the cold breeze that blows between the stalagmites and stalactites in that dark, mysterious tunnel and the ghosts it holds. But there’s no substitute for experience, and you know you’re learning from a true master. Especially as you caress her breasts, which hang from her chest like rain worn shoelaces topped by dry, flaking nipples and the constipated expression on her road map of a face registers equal parts pleasure and pain.
Marvel at that ass that sags like twin wine sacks, that back like a block of well aged bleu cheese. Cautiously undulate as she moans, “Yeah, you’re doin’ a real good job back there hon, you just keep on doin’ like you do. Careful of my broken hip there, okay Quickdraw?”
When she’s feeling really frisky, she’ll want to flip and take the top. Take a moment to notice and appreciate her pubic nest like a faint, fuzzy tornado descending from her flabby midsection and her breasts swinging like tassels in a March wind. At the moment of climax her dentures drop into your chest and…
Then son, you know you’ve graduated. No more little girls and their fickle frivolities for you. No sir, once you go old you never go back and, in addition to more experience, the silver set offers an abundance of gratitude served up with a lack of attitude.
Take it from the Mayor; if you've got a friend with a living grandma, you need to hit that shit. Granny knows how to Rock.
chillin'Simon Cowell, anybody else not give a shit? I only watched the first episode of the first season of American Idol and, other than looking like one of those middle-aged attorneys who gels their hair and tries to pick up sorority girls at Daytona Beach during spring break, the limey Alan Thicke failed to elicit so much as a bored sigh out of me as I cracked open a can of Icehouse and felt the hour tick away. Granted, nobody was forcing me to watch it, and I’ll admit I was plastered to the screen because, fuck it, the Mayor’s gotta give his brain a little selfish “me brain” time. But still, it was the feeling of the world slowly turning, and age settling in that much more, and youth drifting away that much further. It hurt like taking a plantain sized shit.
I’ll admit, however, to being amused by one aspect of the brit who equates charisma with body spray; the fact that he’s going to get snarky and indignant over music is one thing. There’s nothing wrong with that. If you came of age flipping through, maybe, Your Flesh or Motorbooty, or if you date back even further to Creem or Punk’s heyday, or MAD’s, or if you’re really old, or dead, and had a chuckle at HL Mencken, or if you’re really, really super dead and read Ambrose Bierce, then you recognize that well aimed shittiness is, indeed, a true and fine art.
What made Cowell mildly entertaining, to me anyway, for an hour, was that he got snarky and indignant in defense of music that sounds like it was created in a boardroom and pretty much blew to begin with. He seems to be fighting a one man holy war to keep sacred the holy hymns of glitzy, late century negro divas and oily vanilla crooners and lithe, nubile NAMBLA bait. Honestly, I remember him ripping apart one poor girl for apparently mangling what he called One of His All Time Favorite Songs Ever. That song? Whitney Houston’s hookless opus, I Will Always Love You.
Anyways, the result of this exercise in partisan viewership is that I haven’t much bothered with most other music based reality shows, save part of one episode of the White Rapper Show. That means no Making the Band, no Band on the Run, no…well, I just can’t think of any more, so fuck it. I haven’t lived in a house that has had cable for years, so my VH1 viewing has, perhaps unfortunately, tapered off drastically.
Thing is, I think maybe the twin institutions of Rock N’ Roll and Reality TV might make fitting bedfellows for a casual fling or two. All it would really take is a true spark of inspiration. Luckily for all, the Mayor just so happens to carry around a flint stick.
So, here are some of my no less than super- brilliant ideas:
Rehab Follies- This show follows rock stars of all stripes, from grimy grunge era and hair metal throwbacks like Scott Wieland to former indie kids who got caught up living the lifestyle like…I dunno, go to Austin and you can probably just pick somebody at random, as they go through addiction, rehab and possible relapse. Suspense builds as, after having spent weeks to months in a hospital or detox facility, they attempt to resume their musical endeavors only to have their bandmates goad them with, “Man, come on, you can have one beer can’t you?” Hilarity ensues as the rehabee repeats his downward spiral.
Breaking Up the Band- In which a female is sent in to seduce one or all members of any given band, stroking egos and setting them against each other. Inter-band tensions are further aggravated by the varied opinions of rock journalists, label AR people, coke dealers, and numerous other hangers-on.
The Cut Out Bin- In which a panel of judges- one of them should probably be Mark E. Smith- watches a series of bands and decides who gets to go on to the next round and who gets their instruments taken away from them and sent to the business school of their choice.
The beauty of it is that you get judges who just can’t stand anything, and everybody who appears gets their instruments taken away. Because, dammit, there’s just too many bands.
SuperFans!! The Wedding Crashers Edition- Based on a practical joke I’d read about in which a group of people would go to see nobody bar bands wearing homemade t-shirts and acting as though the band were returning conquerors. In the wedding crashers edition, the SuperFans crash wedding receptions, chant “So Good!! So Good!!” and demand to hear Sweet Caroline over and over and over again. Rioting ensues when security attempts to throw them out.
HandiBand, the Making of an Outsider Artist- In which people of various physical, emotional and developmental disabilities are turned loose in a recording studio full of varied instruments.
Every episode ends with a battle of the bands, in which a bunch of horn-rimmed indie kids decide who goes on to the semi-finals to become the Ultimate Outsider Artist.
The Littlest Band- They’re midgets…I mean, Little People…and their in a band! Imagine the possibilities!!!
a-ok
What, in your humble opinions, are the worst things to have happened to Rock and/or Roll?
1. Eddie Vedder’s voice- Nothing irritates quite like the baritone bray of this stubbly melon faced putz as he earnestly begs and grovels for credibility. He should maybe just die. If I almost respect a musician, and they claim Pearl Jam as an influence, I completely lose all respect. If you like Pearl Jam, even just a little, you’re a choad.
2. Music Journalism- First of all, Fuck Lester Bangs. Fuck Lester Bangs and the whole mythology of him being this Dionysian Poet Laureate of Rock Criticism. Then again, he was at the very least an article of his era. And, admittedly, Creem was a pretty good standard bearer of the rock spoof form under his inept helm. My main gripe is with the last twenty or so years of generations of post punk, then indie, “journalists” churning out press kit fodder for bands that have a shelf life of maybe six weeks.
3. Sobriety- If all you’re gonna do in your old age is recycle riffs that may have been relevant fifteen years ago, you could at least continue being a train wreck for our entertainment.
4. Lou Barlow
5. Michael Stipe- There may not have been an Eddie Vedder without him.
6. Bono- I know, duh. Still, sometimes the obvious needs stating. Also, he undoubtedly shares guilt for the existing persona of Eddie Vedder.
7. The music business- Okay, we know…Rock N’ Roll was invented by sleazy DJs and, if the wheels hadn’t been greased by payola, it wouldn’t have been near what it was. Nowadays, however, we know better, and if you’re not making music, but you’re in the music business…remember what Bill Hicks said in an address to people who worked in advertising? Applies to you too, cocksmoker.
8. Longevity- Die Already! Jesus…
9. Music Festivals- and I mean from Woodstock and Isle of Wight all the way to South by Southwest. South by Southwest is a nasty little monster, sure, but at this point I’m convinced that even the utopian free love fests that baby boomers can’t stop getting all jizzy-eyed over were more for the industry and the jagoffs who skimmed off of the musicians toil and the fans appreciation than they were for either musicians or fans.
10. Literary aspirations.
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