I’m glad to hear Bret Michaels is doing better. No one wants to see Bret die, for all the usual reasons you don’t want a relatively young and healthy-ish person to die, but even more so, Bret Michaels can’t die, because I can’t stomach the idea of even a single Hooters location getting one degree sadder.
America will weep, as once perky waitresses, now clad in black short shorts and a landslide of running mascara and self-tanning lotion, hand out wet naps for sobbing men to futilely attempt to dry their eyes as they mourn the loss of their hero, the patron saint of headbands hiding hairlines and Harley Davidson stickers on SUVs. The waitresses would be inconsolable too, crying not just for the loss of the man that made the music their mom played during child birth, but also for the loss of option seven on their “plan out“ list. Then the men will cry even more because they feel awkward and ashamed of their hard-ons, brought on by leering at the crying young women, as they try to convince their wife and kids that they are just there for the wings and camaraderie. It’s a horrible image.
Bret seems like a nice guy and has always done what most any other average American guy would do given the opportunity and selection of cowboy hats. In fact, Bret is America. He’s diabetic, sleeveless, and just trying to get back to his success from the 80’s. Bret Michaels is Mr. America, which is all the more reason he cannot die while under contract with Donald Trump.
The Donald is like a combination of PT Barnum, Joe Jackson, and Vince McMahon, but without the bearded woman, talented kids, or latent, repressed homoeroticism of Middle America. He’ll grasp onto any controversy or whorin’ opportunity like a pimp who just loaned a hot, orphan girl $500. Trump would make the Michael Jackson memorial service look like tea at the Plaza by comparison.
The final challenge of Celebrity Apprentice would be to plan Bret’s funeral, and the winner would be whoever made it the most profitable and Ed Hardiest. The service would be broadcast live from the Hard Rock Casino in Vegas. Cocktail waitresses, wearing only black body paint designed to look like widows in mourning, would serve as pallbearers, carrying an unwieldy and large rose-shaped coffin sponsored by Golden Palace. Inevitably, the coffin will become too heavy and awkward, and the mostly naked women with sweaty, painted hands will drop it, and Bret will fall out, which will be no surprise to Trump. What’s the point in televising a funeral if the body’s not going to fall out? Trump will drop to his knees, shake a fist at the sky, and shout, “God, you’re fired!” as pyrotechnics explode around him, and a choir of fat black women emerge from the wings, singing a special, soulful version of “Every Rose Has It’s Thorn,” immediately available for purchase on iTunes.
Bret doesn’t deserve that, so I’m glad he’s doing better.
Generally speaking, I couldn’t give a shit about John Mayer one way of the other, but here’re a few quick observations about this video. First off, crying on stage doesn’t make you a blues guitarist. Secondly, if you’re trying to give a sincere apology, maybe you shouldn’t have the bass playing underneath it. And finally, if you’re apologizing for something people think may be racists, you shouldn’t immediately introduce the black members of your band right afterwards. That’s like saying “sure, I have black friends, that I pay.”
Sadly, I started my day by watching this trailer for the Insane Clown Posse’s new movie “Big Money Hustla$” and it put me in a dark place- not just because it’s an absolute dearth of artistry and authenticity akin to titty-less porn for retarded eunuchs, but because it will pull a profit. I mean, I guess if I was a chubby guy in his 40’s who dressed as a clown that jumped up and down arrhythmically while I shouted about generic blue soda, and someone gave me the funding to make a Cowboy movie, I would do it too, but that doesn’t excuse so many for liking it.
They premiered this bastard in Detroit and did an outdoor red carpet with a wind chill of about 14 degrees and the place was packed. I knew Detroit was fucked, but this is just ridiculous.
This trailer and the whole Insane Clown Posse phenomenon just makes Elliot Smith look like even more of a genius, not so much because of his music, but because he had the foresight to stab himself in the chest nine times and die years before this shit happened. Kudos, Elliot.
There’s a line from somewhere that says something like: along the way, scientists stopped thinking about what they should do and only thought about what they could do. I think it’s from Jurassic Park… or maybe the Bible. I get the two confused a lot. But my point is, I think we could say the same about green screen techs and a lot of music producers.
Now dropping in vocals from someone who wasn’t there is nothing new. Ever since multi-track recording was invented, it’s been done, and it’s been done with all sorts of dead people before. But in this case, I really feel like the producers are showing their hand. Or worse, this is like having some friends over for a game of poker, bragging about your new deck of marked cards, immediately dealing a hand, and wondering why everyone folds right away.
You just showed your audience you can fake anything, so why should anyone believe anything you do is real?
The only way I would approve of this is if they made Elvis into a Zombie and he ate Martina’s brain at the end of the song. Now that would be Holiday treat.
When I first heard that this was a Christian rap to help kids learn their ABC’s, all sorts of red flags went off him my head. However, all my preconceived notions and blood soaked banners went straight to hell when I heard the, um, rapper fall into Peaches’ flow from “Fuck the Pain Away.”
Now some churchy folk may argue that’s merely a superficial similarity, but I’d like to propose a cause and effect relationship between the two songs.
The Black Keys have teamed up wit Mos Def, RZA, Q-Tip, Pharoahe Monch, and a few other rappers that white people from Brooklyn like to make a rap-rock side project. And you know how sometimes you’re driving down the road, blasting an album, and you think “Hey, the only thing that could make this hip-hop, blues rock, side project collaboration better would be if I was listening to it in a custom, limited edition all black Chevy Camaro.” Well son, this is the side project, genre bending, promotional cross over for you!
That’s right, Chevy is releasing a limited edition BlakRoc Camaro this Friday to time with the release of the album. Hey why not, American auto sales are at an all time low and so are album sales– why not combine the two? It’s like an ammonia and bleach sandwich.
Honestly, I don’t know if the car is marketing for the album or if the album is marketing for the car, and quite frankly, I’m starting to think the marketing firm isn’t sure either. But, just in case you were starting to think this is a bad marketing campaign that doesn’t get what’s going on now, get this- they put mini webisodes full of studio outtakes on youtube. I know, right? Awesome– clips of people fucking up at work. If that doesn’t sell a Chevy, nothing will.
Beyond all the bad ideas born in board rooms, I’m just happy to hear the Black Keys playing together again. Dan Auberbach’s solo project was really starting to feel like a passive aggressive slight to drummer Patrick Carney… the only other guy in the band.
Personally, I can’t wait to get the Decemberist’s limited edition 1983 Volvo Stationwagon. I hear it comes with the complete works of Jack Kerouac scribbled on the roof in Sharpie.
Also, I haven’t heard the full album– it may well be very good. I just can’t wait until this weird new economy that no one has a clue about stabilizes and musicians can just make music and car makers can just make cars that people want. But whatever, as long as everyone’s covering rent, I guess it’s all good.
Courtney Love has taken time off from two-finger typing opiate-induced blog posts about how much money Ryan Adams stole from her kids and how much she loves Etsy to write some songs that I would have to imagine are about how much money Ryan Adams stole from her kids and how much she loves Etsy.
And in case you don’t believe that Courtney Love is a real rock star who records in a real studio, RollingStone took a bunch of pictures to prove it. See? She’s totally legit and deserves record deal after record deal. Here are a few of my favorite.
“Guys, listen, I’m cool with the spiders on the floor and I’m cool with the spiders on my arms and I’m even cool with those three fuzzy ones that swam up my piss stream into my cooter, but this one dangling above me’s distracting my arting.”
“Why isn’t this blog posting? Hey Larry, I think something’s wrong with my myspace page. Larrrrrrry! Stop stealing my money!”
“How about this, what if I married like a real famous and talented guy that’s like the voice of a generation or something, then he kills himself and then we put out the album and heroin and stuff? What about that?”
“What do you mean a giant demon rat isn’t the best way to win people over? It’s a giant demon rat for God’s sake! Who doesn’t love giant demon rats? Good Christ, I’m going to kick the next child I see crying in the mouth.”
Apparently, hundreds of film and television composers are considering joining the Teamsters, because, you know, nothing straightens out a corrupt industry like Teamsters. It’s actually kind of a complicated situation, and the Los Angeles Times wrote a real article about it here.
Jermaine Jackson accepting the award for best pop/rock male artist, in honor of his brother, a dead, drug-riddled, child molester who didn’t release an album this year. Nothing strange about that.
Due to extenuating craziness, I think we have all over looked the significance and hilarity of the fact that Jermaine Jackson has a son named “Jermajesty.” No shit, that’s really his name.
On the outside, it probably seems like Daughtry’s go it made. He doesn’t do jack shit and he gets paid in cocaine and pussy, but underneath it all, he has to feel like Don Draper if his wife, three pregnant chicks, his long lost brother, and his real birth certificate all walkedinto his office at the same time.
“Oh no, Whitney, no. No, you can’t use this to chisel away the oxycontin hardened shit bricks in your asshole. No, this is an award of some sort.”
“Well thanks for nothing than, jackasses! Now, someone get me my pills, my crow bar, and some KY. Momma needs to empty.”
