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It has only just occurred to me: those 4,000 holes that it takes to fill up the Albert Hall – did John Lennon mean Assholes? As in assholes sitting in the seats and filling it up? If so, the Albert Hall holds just over 5,000. Does that mean that only 4,000 of them are assholes and the other 1,000 attendees are rather nice people? And if that is so, how does the Albert Hall manage to maintain its asshole-to-nice-person ratio when dispensing tickets? Do they sell the first 1,000 tickets to, say, little old ladies and then the rest to the Koch Brothers?
Some other things that have been on my mind that might interest you.
“Are we human, or are we dancer?” What in the living, steaming, piss-bucket of pointless, shitty lyric-writing does this mean? I hear it constantly at my gym and want to punch an unsuspecting trainer every time it rains down on us from the ceiling speakers. Now, I sort of like The Killers. Mr. Brightside was a reasonably good song. But, if they are vying to be the worst lyricists in rock and roll? They don’t and will never hold a candle to the puerile, meaningless resplendence of Neil Peart or Jon Anderson so they’d better sit down, grab a goddamn pencil and stay in that fucking recording studio until they’ve got something sensible to sing about.
When I was a bachelor, I often wondered, “Can potpourri be used as a vegetable?” I mean, you visit people’s houses and it’s just sitting there on top of the toilet with nobody eating it. Seems like such a waste. I imagined, when you boiled it up, it would taste sort of like really pleasant smelling broccoli.
Shouldn’t we make beef jerky even worse for you, health-wise? I mean, it already looks like a doowanger stolen from an Aztec mummy. The “people” who eat those grizzly, revolting sticks of desiccated meat obviously don’t care whether they’re alive or dead so why should we or the Department of Health? Why not stuff these noxious nibbley nummy-nums with every imaginable banned additive and trans-fatty flavor-enhancer until they ooze coagulated arterial sludge out of every dehydrated pore? Perhaps, toss in a dollop of radioactive waste. It would be of inestimable aid to society by getting rid of unwanted and highly toxic refuse and the conscientious carrion connoisseur would be able to locate the handy snack in his glove compartment without having to turn on the light in his pickup truck.
Am I the only one who thinks there are too many fucking musical genres today? Trance, dance, techno, minimal, ambient, downtempo, chillout, house, Euro House, progressive house, electro house, (just how the fuck do these differ?) Italodance, tech house, dubstep, beats, breakbeat, glitch, abstract and lounge. That’s an awful lot of sub-categories for a type of music that’s about as enjoyable as being caught masturbating by your mother while wearing striped knee-socks at a big plastic duck bill.
Do you think the Crab Nebula being shaped like an actual crab is mere coincidence or is it God on high saying to all people of all nations, “You should try eating these things. Sure, crustaceans are as ugly as fuck but they’re really quite tasty.”
And lastly (and probably leastly), how the hell does “Homeland” get nominated for and win Emmy Awards? Have the Academy members that voted for this intellectual bidet actually seen the show? If you want to reward an actress who can pop the eyes out of her like J. Wellington Wimpy when espying a succulent hamburger, then by all means vote for Claire Danes but this woman’s acting is about as subtle and nuanced as a colonoscopy performed by the Three Stooges. Ms. Danes appears to be a serious candidate for spontaneous human combustion in just about every scene stampedes through. I’ve met less crazy people at stop lights, washing my windshield with their soiled underwear. I can only imagine that they cast poor Claire in this part because Soupy Sales is no longer with us. Wal-Mart would have second thoughts about letting this woman into one of its stores as a customer but the CIA head honchos seem more than happy to entrust the wellbeing of the entire free world to her.
But I guess in a show where, if you want to warn a terrorist leader in the Middle East of an impending assassination, you can simply text him on your cell phone from inside the White House war room (As long as you keep your I-Phone under the table, no one will notice.)…well, anything is possible.
I’ve always thought of television as the “special needs” brother of the entertainment world but it appears to be sliding downhill faster than a Brazilian village in a downpour. Mandy Patinkin must wish he were still being knocked unconscious by the Dread Pirate Roberts every time he picks up a script. This drama/thriller has bigger holes in it than Lindsay Lohan’s septum. If you have to move a man’s family to a “Safe House” because they’ve been targeted for assassination by a crack team of international bad guys?... Well, put them in an apartment that has floor to ceiling windows the entire length of the living room and never draw the curtains! Now, I’m as big a fan of sproingy breasts and downy female posteriors as any man alive, but this show would have to have pre-orgasmic, undulating supermodels hanging from suspension ropes in every scene to make me watch a third season.
Sure, there have always been shitty shows with talentless casts vomiting up witless dialogue but they didn’t win Emmys! (well, mostly) If only “My Mother the Car” had stayed on the air, Ann Southern would have won a big shiny statue for best performance by an actress farting nitrogen oxide.
I’m sorry, but Cory Monteith was a mediocre actor and a so-so singer who couldn’t even take drugs right, while Jack Klugman had a sparkling career going back to 1950. He was brilliant at the fluffiest comedy and the darkest drama. So, which recently deceased performer did the Academy decide to spend big minutes honoring? It’s enough to make you scream like Roger Daltry.
At some point, the Academy of Television Arts & Sciences has to take a good look at itself and say, “You know what? Most of what we produce is unadulterated crap. Let’s only give out awards when they’re actually merited.” Television would have to change for the better or the Emmy Awards Show would only be about 25 minutes long, including lively dance numbers.
Now, for something far more sensible:
People send me all kinds of cool and groovy stuff at Radio Vickers to share with my mailing list. (Which you can become apart of by writing me at radiovickers1@gmail.com!)
Steve B. sent me this terrific video. It’s a six minute musical tour through the different guitar solo styles that have tickled our eardrums since the early days of rock and roll.
Brent M. sent in a brilliant trailer for Monty Python and the Holy Grail…if it were made today. This is so true. Very nice piece.
Something else quite sensible:
I have discovered some top notch music over the last month – while not writing a column. Take a listen and try to forgive my typing tardiness.
The Wild Feathers – Backwoods Company - this thing really rocks. Good old fashioned rock and roll like you almost never hear on the radio these days.
Another terrific song by the Wild Feathers from their debut album.
The Wild Feathers – The Ceiling
Ida Maria – Last Dance – There is something wonderfully 80’s about this song – the good CFNY kind of 80’s – not that teeth-bleedlingly horrible shit CHUM used to inflict on its poor, criminally undiscerning listeners. It even has a little lead riff that remains me of Tom Verlaine.
The Golden Suits – Swimming in 99 – pop music at its best. Plus, the video offers two very attractive watches for your consideration.
The Strypes – Blue Collar Jane – Massively cool and noisy song performed by two year-olds. I wonder if the singer meant to look so much like a young Paul Weller in the opening shot.
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