The Real Pat Blair

Even though my reasons for tuning in were innocent enough - keeping up with what’s “cool” for the “kids” these days - I am still somewhat embarrassed to admit that I watched some of the 2004 MTV Video Music Awards. Yes, I only watched for about 15 minutes. Yes, it was all that I could handle. But I was still left with the sinking feeling that not only had I just wasted 15 minutes of my life, but that this country is screwed. I’m sure this has been the rallying cry of old farts since back when the kids started listening to that horrible Mozart nonsense, but I think that this time it’s for real. The youth of America tuned in - in huge numbers, no doubt - to watch a display of beautiful idiots. For a solid 3 hours. Or maybe 4. Who knows?
Not only could most of the presenters not read, many of them were not even capable of speaking. Every sentence began with “OK.” For example:
-OK, here we go with the reading thing.
-OK, this is the coolest show ever.
-OK, I’m doing OK.
-OK, I just wet my pants.
OK. That’s ridiculous, OK? OK, it was more than just, like, a filler word - it was a breath, a segue, as if each sentence needed a segue. I thought that’s what periods were for. Oh, excuse me - that what periods fo’. But it was more than that, too. “OK” was an attention getter: Look at me, I’m going to speak now! It is time to deliberately deliver my incredibly dull line that, having practiced for the past 3 weeks, I will still screw up. Then I will giggle like a 3 year old and grab my crotch. OK, here I go. OK, pay attention. It’s my turn, OK?
Actually, the whole show made a lot more sense once I made that connection. Through years of careful breeding, we have come up with an entire celebrity culture that is shallow, insecure, stupid-yet-self-assured (especially when it comes to politics), and attention hungry. Aside from acting or singing, none of the presenters had any actual marketable skills. I don’t believe that they would be capable of doing clerical work. I don’t believe that they any of them would be capable of mowing lawns (unless you replaced the John Deere with a Bentley, made the uniform a white suit, and left ample time for self-groping and mirror-staring).
Ever the musical ability of the attendees is more than a bit dubious. For example, everyone’s favorite power-balladeers, Hoobastank. They played a much-abbreviated version of their mega-hit “The Reason” in a 3-minute 3-song set that they shared with Jet and Yellowcard. MTV has apparently decided to further shorten the attention span of their audience to the point where no one can actually sit through an entire song. Think I’m kidding? Watch TRL sometime. Anything longer than 45 seconds is verboten. And we wonder why kids need Ritalin. But I digress, which means it’s probably time to change subjects… where was I?
Oh, yes, Hoobastank. “The Reason” is a catchy song, as evidenced by the fact that it is completely unavoidable on the radio (on TV, in the mall, in your head, etc). The song has a great hook, nice lyrics, and incredibly lush production, so I was always surprised that I couldn’t bring myself to like it. I finally decided that maybe the song was just so overdone and cliché that my brain refused to accept it. Were the ridiculous string arrangements the reason that I didn’t like the song? No: the reason was that the band is horrible.
The reason I hate Hoobastank is because, while performing their huge hit for the 8 millionth time, their lead singer (?) was unable to hit a SINGLE NOTE in tune. He was, however, able to invent some new ones, though I find this to be hardly noteworthy. Instead of nice, tasteful, cheesy guitar lines, my ears were battered with nasty, distorted, bottom-heavy power-chords. Yes, it’s true: the band is a bunch of rank amateurs. Go to any local establishment on any given night and I guarantee that you will see any number of bands who are equally talented. By which I mean “crappy.” Better singing regularly takes place after 1am in karaoke bars (I’m assuming, at least - I don’t have much experience on this one).
Actors that can’t speak. Self-conscious, exhibitionist celebrities. Musicians that are tone-deaf. Baseball players that can’t play without steroids. A major-party candidate for president who is running on the experiences of the 4.5 months he spent in a jungle. Society, ladies and gentlemen, is unraveling before our very eyes.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go practice sucking on the guitar in hopes of becoming famous.

Quote of the Day: From Tom Knott in The Washington Times:

The Associated Press noted that until Powell’s announcement to visit Athens, “there had been none of the anti-American demonstrations that were feared” going into the Games, as if this was somehow a positive development.
That merely reveals the upside-down thinking of the infected ones.
Why don’t they protest Osama bin Laden and his head-removing vermin who are at war with the West? Why don’t they have a problem with the Islamic fundamentalists who think nothing of oppressing women and those of different religious faiths? Why haven’t they taken umbrage with Saddam’s mass graves in Iraq?

Entertainment and politics is one thing, but you know things are getting ugly when sports and politics start to mix.

Since it is the weekend before classes start here in the thriving metropolis of Ames, IA, it seems appropriate to focus on stories with a particular topic: beer. After all, what better way for 5,000 green-eared freshmen, newly released into the wild, to celebrate the merits of higher education than by passing out on my front lawn? (The correct answers are napping, reading, studying, or on the neighbors’ front lawn).
First, from our neighbors up north: it seems that 4,200 twelve-packs of Moosehead lager decided to take off, eh, along with the truck-driving hoser who was responsible for the beer (that’s 50,400 cans, for those of you in Boone). Authorities - who happen to be Mounties - have found the truck and trailer, but there is no sign of the beer or the driver. They seem to think that the beer will turn up sooner, rather than later, though, possibly because they got my tip about the house down the street. I don’t know if it’s Moosehead or not, but I’m almost certain that there are several thousand cases of the strange brew in their basement.
What makes this story even stranger (as if it needed a twist) is that the cans were being shipped to Mexico, so they have English (Canadian?) labels on one side and Spanish (Mexican) on the other. Es misterioso, eh? The whole thing reminds me of a great joke about Mother Teresa, but I don’t want to get off topic.
And now for something completely (slightly) different… we have certain proof that bad beer is unbearable, courtesy of a large, furry Baker Lake, Washington resident. State wildlife officials found a black bear passed out on a resort lawn. The bear, who I will call Fuzzy Wuzzy out of respect for his family, had apparently stumbled across a cooler full of Busch and Rainier beer. Good ol’ F.W. apparently has pretty good taste, because he tried one can of Busch, but finished 36 of the Rainiers. I have not tried either beverage, but from what I’ve heard, I think it’s safe to say that this bear is not a jackass when it comes to good taste.
A wildlife agent tried to chase Mr. Wuzzy away from the campground, but he would have none of it, instead choosing to climb a tree and take a quick 4-hour nap (it must have been one bear of a hangover). Eventually our find forestry friends were able to lure Fuzzy away using doughnuts (must have been a police bear), honey (bee careful around animals like that), and 2 cans of Rainier (honest - I’m not lion to you about this one). They caught the bear in a large (presumably) humane (allegedly) trap and relocated him to a rehab facility (that’ll teach him to stay way from the old hair of the dog).
The sad thing is that, as you read this, thousands of college freshmen are drinking what a wild animal refused. How embearassing.

Like a supernova, baby, Chihao Wu is burning for you. Well, not YOU specifically, unless you happen to be Wu’s girlfriend, in which case, you were already aware of this fact, and think, in fact, that Wu is a flaming idiot.
It seems that Wu, filled with a hunka hunka burning love (or perhaps a bad burrito), decided that, to celebrate his girlfriend’s birthday, he would make her a massive fiery card because, after all, what says “I love you” like a heap of burning clothing? Yes, burning clothing. Wu (no relation to the Tang clan) rolled up a bunch of clothes, doused them in oil, and arranged the rags to spell out “Happy Birthday” in his native language (in another example of shoddy reporting, the AP article does not say what Wu’s native language is, but I am speculating that it’s probably not French - if it was, he would have given up half-way through the word ‘Happy’).
Wu chose a parking lot at his community college to provide a perfect backdrop for his romantic endeavors, which means, of course, that he had his party crashed by a bunch of conservatives who were looking to burn books and incite riots… well, the fire department came, anyway. When they showed up, Wu was in the process of stomping out the billowing birthday card. Though the officials didn’t buy his defense that “it was always burning - since the world’s been turning,” they didn’t charge him with a crime - not even a crime of passion. And therein lies the problem.
When asked if she was impressed with her present, Wu’s woman had one word: “No.” Seriously? This guy lights his clothes on fire for you, and you’re not impressed? What do you want from us, anyway?? I don’t want to give anyone any ideas, but it’s entirely possible that this sort of female indifference is what causes guys to fly airplanes into buildings (absolutely tasteless humor, -156,000 points). The man committed arson, for crying out loud. The worst part of it is that he’d have been fine if he’d just got some flowers for her. And maybe a really expensive diamond. And, for sure, a Gucci purse would seal the deal. As long as there were matching shoes.
I guess the moral of the story is: whatever you do, don’t woo like Wu.

Do you have a lot of mp3s on your computer that are of questionable legality? (Odds are good). Do you feel maybe a little guilty about this? (Perhaps). If you don’t, shouldn’t you? (Yes). Am I a hypocrite for bringing this up? (Probably, but, for fear of the RIAA, will decline to comment, other than to say that you should hear me out on this one). If there was a ridiculously cheap way to buy all of those mp3s so that you could legally burn them to your hearts content, would you? (Sounds interesting). Especially if it justified getting guilty pleasure songs like “Escape” by Enrique Iglesias? (OK, fine, I’m in).
What on earth am I talking about? NO, not iTunes, Apple’s annoyingly cumbersome service which is about to be taken over by the Beatles - those songs are a ridiculous 99 cents each. Fortunately for us, RealNetworks announced today that they are selling songs for $0.49 apiece until labor day, and albums for a whopping $4.99. Well, most of them - if you want Coldplay’s “Rush of Blood to the Head,” you’ll have to pay $5.44 - so much for that bargain. The newest Wilco and Black Eyed Peas albums, however, are under $5, so it’s not an empty promise.
You own ‘em, you can burn ‘em, and you can get ‘em dirt cheap. Not only that, it’s the legal (and moral) thing to do. I’m not getting any money for referring people (RealNetworks is actually going to lose money (about $0.20 on every song sold), I just wanted to bring your attention to the option. Heck, at 50p a song, you can almost justify investing in something like this. Support the arts, right?

I am in a groove. Or a rut. Take your pick. Last week I went shopping for some new work clothes, specifically, dress shirts. As a side effect of trying to look like an over-achiever at work, I am beginning to have two completely different sets of apparel: college and snob. It’s a good thing I have two closets at my new place, otherwise the two might start to mingle, and we just can’t have that. Supreme Court be darned - for my attire, it’s separate but equal.
So, having made the decision that the left closet was due for some additions, I hopped in my car, drove to the mall, walked in the same department store, walked to the men’s dress section, and immediately found the brand of shirts that I buy. They are reasonably priced, well-made, good looking, and easy to care for, so why would I try anything else? In fact, why would I even try any of them on? I picked up 3 shirts and was ready to go. Try things on? Sheesh. I buy PANTS without trying them on. Same brand, same style, same size.
This really messes things up when they change a design but give it the same name, which Levis is notorious for doing. 501’s today are NOT the same as they were five years ago. Sure, you can always take back the clothes that don’t fit correctly, or you could even consider trying them on in the store before you buy them, but this is just a lot of work. Instead, I refuse to buy Levis. It seems much simpler, and this way, I’m making a statement, too. So out the door I go. After stopping to pay, of course.
But this was where the doubt started to creep in. Should I try to broaden my horizons, even just a bit? Sure, it’s nice to have your own styles - for example, if you wear an untucked blue-ish plaid button-down shirt with khaki shorts and sandals, you are now officially dressed like Pat Blair - but variation is good too. Right? Maybe? All of my long-sleeved dress shirts are solid colors: either white or hues of blues (which, by the way, would make an excellent name for an emo band). Should I change things up a bit?
What about red? Nah. Canary and olive (yellow and green, for all of the normal people that read this) seem to be in colors. I held them up, examined the shirts closely, and decided that I wasn’t that big of a fan. It might work. But it might not. So why bother? Stripes? Yikes. I almost got a white shirt with blue pinstripes - a pretty safe, conservative move - but I couldn’t decide on whether I wanted narrow or wide stripes, so I just gave up. If I ever end up on TV, either would have looked terrible. Why risk it?
So, instead, I wonder, as I sit here in my khakis pants and gray pinpoint shirt: what would today have been like in paisley? Then I realize: probably pretty crappy. Maybe there’s something to be said for consistency. At least no one can call me a “groove-hater.”

***

Quote of the Day:
“So what are we to make of Mr. Kerry’s self-seared 30-year-old false memory of Christmas in Cambodia with its vast accumulation of precise details? Of being shot at by the Khmer Rouge (unlikely in 1968) and of South Vietnamese troops drunkenly celebrating Christmas (as only devout Buddhists do)?”
Mark Steyn in the Washington Times

…that I’ve gone insane: I think this is legitimately hysterical.

10 days without internet makes one… well, pretty bored. But there were only 66 unread email messages, so it can’t be that bad. I’ll try to get into the swing of things here in the very near future.
It feels good to be back, yo.

Two word: moving sucks.
OK, that’s four, but you get the idea. I won’t bore/astound you with all the terrible details - maybe in person - but, as bad/ridiculous as parts were, the whole process went particularly well, all things considered. After all, to the best of my knowledge, no one has passed away yet as a result of the tumult.
I did learn one lesson this weekend: if you have a foosball table that was in bad shape before it fell out of the back of a pickup and sat outside in the rain for a night, it only takes 15 minutes for someone to take it from curbside. Amazing.
Ah, but I need to get busy. As mentioned earlier, as of tomorrow, I will be internet-less for most of the week. So I’m going to do all my hacking and other illegal activity while this account is still in somebody else’s name.