Tiger Woods vs. Noreweigan Wood

There seems to be question about whether or not the public can “trust” Tiger Woods. (Trust him with what? My car? Nope. My wife? Definitely nope. I don’t trust anyone I don’t know personally. Do you?) ESPN had a half hour vomit-inducing round table discussion about his waning popularity based on everything but how he hits a golf ball. Until golf becomes full contact I think it’s painfully boring to watch and follow so I don’t much care. But I do care enough to write that cheating on your wife is nothing compared to bilking hard-working Americans out of their pensions and 401k’s. Nothing compared to abusing kids or using a great rock song to schlep some crappy product.  The list of things worse than adultery is a mile long yet the story about Tiger Woods is how his cheating on his wife is a betrayal to his fans, a taint on the sport of golf and the now crumbling integrity of the marketing industrial complex that is the golfer himself. I can barely believe it’s a story. And I’m actually writing about it. This is what happens when you stop watching the news or reading about current events and politics. I only hear about the biggest, most inane train wrecks.

Something about those Asian Americans, though. Interesting enigmas, they are.

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Save The Roots!

I feel sorry for The Roots. The Roots are this great hip-hop band from Philly who are immensely talented and have great success especially among those who have grown to loathe the pedestrian contemporary rap songs about rims on whips or cabbage and grips.

Why The Roots deserve our sympathy is because every weeknight they have to sit through an entire, uninterrupted episode of the late nite snooze-fest of a show that is hosted by the sadly unimaginative Jimmy Fallon. Since The Roots are the house band, they bear witness to high-grade talent going rotten in the interview chair on the daily. The exchanges between Fallon and his guests are punishingly forced, plodding and just plain boring. I would rather watch my father pick his ears with a car key than sit through Jimmy Fallon interviewing someone. Fallon’s lack of common cultural knowledge leaves him sitting there like a nervous muppet with nothing interesting to say, unaware that he has no shred of spontaneous wit. 

The episodes are rabbit pebbles strung together by long, dull stories from celebrities and maybe a silly voice thrown in and this sorry recipe for entertainment reduces his show to a 60 minute log of awkward silence. I’ve counted how many times people laugh during a Jimmy Fallon segment and wonder why The Roots haven’t thrown their instruments through the phony scenic background and burned that place to dust. Simply put, the show just isn’t funny and the business of a late night show that isn’t Nightline is to be funny or we’re all falling asleep wishing The Roots would change their name to The Riots.

I know The Roots are getting paid but couldn’t they be given reprieve from this terrible show? We all know Fallon won’t last another year, which is unfortunate because on SNL he was quite funny, in his element he was goofy and charming. But leave him alone with the likes of Robert DeNiro or even Danny DeVito and count the tumbleweeds.

The Roots need to migrate to a better show or this is going to stain their resume, what about that crazy Scottish guy? His show’s kinda irreverent and bizarre. Way more fun than watching Jimmy Fallon struggle to put words together to form something that matters. Poor bastard.

The very least he could do is replace The Roots with a band more fitting for his nightly vacuous conversations, like Good Charlotte or The Black Eyed Peas so The Roots can go on making great music without enduring their horribly grueling day job.

Nickelback Rules (So Does Creed)

Matchbox 20, Blink 182, Good Charlotte, Disturbed, Staind, Linkin Park etc. If any of these bands have merchandise that has somehow found its way into your possession or onto your property then you need to immediately put this next paragraph into the nearest orifice that leads deep into your eardrums and brain.

The Melvins, Turbo Negro, The White Stripes, The Mars Volta, Nebula and the almighty Nashville Pussy. This prescription of rock will surely prevent any overdose of suck that may occur while listening to those other manufactured, gutless schlock artists whose music is more of a commodity for commercial whoring than anything resembling a creative endeavour.

I’ve always thought rock music is supposed to be rough hewn, passionate, energetic and original, with enough sexual voltage and beautiful belligerence to blow your neighbors back to the stoned century of Iron Butterfly.

Don’t get me started on how the fall of civilization just began when some jerkhole in a wifebeater, fur coat and fedora barfed saccharin all over Lynyrd Skynyrd. No-talent rubes are ruining the music of yesteryore. (They also said the same about rap but we’ve come a long way, baby.)

Next issue: Death Cab For Cutie Rules (So Does Fall Out Boy)

Sexting In America

Apparently, cyberbullying is out and sexting is in and you would think that spreading love instead of hate would be a good thing.

I was around 9 or 10 when I showed the neighbor girl my little lizard and she showed me her little muffin. I don’t know how normal that was but I’m glad I wasn’t hauled in for coercion, it was after all, my idea to meet by the bushes on the side of the house.

When I was a kid I did crazy things and luckily I was reasonably smart enough to know when to draw the line. But regardless of environment and influences, growing up will always be a constant roll of the dice for parents and children.

I read that teenagers caught sending or keeping racy pictures of each other via cell phone (“sexting“) may be slapped with child pornography charges. I don’t know whether to laugh or weep. Can we seriously use the same laws against those we’re trying to protect?

Can anyone define “racy” or “offensive”? Is it a lesser crime if it’s semi nudity? What if dirty words are attached? Let’s say the family dog was in the background, does Fido deem some horrible bestiality charge as well? Will any of this be graded on a curve?

Have we gotten to the point with our kids where since we can’t relate with them on a technological level we quit trying on an emotional one? So instead of having a conversation about pre-maritel sex or how stupid it is to take a picture of your hoo-ha and send it to all your friends, we’ll just give them criminal records and label them sex offenders? I guess that’ll learn ’em real good.

We all knew the boys in school who had to fight everybody. We all knew the girls in school who were easy. We all know now it was because they had self-image issues that caused such behavior. It’s actually quite natural because aside from some extreme cases, they usually turn out to be normal, regular everyday people.

Kids are going to make-out in the 6th grade. Kids are going to sneak out of the house at 15. Kids at that age are also going to “sext” (what a stupid word) each other whether we spank them, ground them, or legislate ridiculously dangerous laws against them. Don’t make talking with them a last resort. Roll them bones with confidence and have faith in your kids.

It must be nice to be a teenager and set all this precedence in front of administrators and lawmakers who might actually benefit from a little sexting themselves. All the while making parents crazy on numerous levels.

And I Don’t Mean “Enter Sandman”

It was the summer between my 7th and 8th grade year and I was just discovering all the wonderful nuances of girls, exploring my own nooks and crannies and slowly developing my adolescent social skills into finely honed weapons of high school survival.

Back when music was pressed and recorded onto media called cassettes and vinyl albums, record companies would advertise mail-order bargains that seemed too good to be true to a mulleted 14 year old boy. 12 records for a penny! A bona fide one cent coin with Lincoln’s head on it could acquire 12 albums of whatever they had catalogued and all I had to do was buy one record a month for five years or something. 14 year-old boys don’t think that far ahead of their zipper and stomach.

Needless to say, when that cardboard package arrived 8-12 weeks later my love affair with Heavy Metal Molten Hard Rock was born. My life changed between the time it took opening the box and laying the needle down.

When I was in the sixth grade my friend had an older brother (thank god for bad older brothers) who had this poster on his wall with these crazy guys on it and my friend kept telling me how great they were. A year and a half later Columbia House had Ride The Lightning delivered to my house and as I listened to the first track I literally felt my testosterone well up and run down my legs as I was filled with this wonderful, furious noise. It explained all my frustration, confusion and ambition through abusive power chords and relentless pounding drums. I kneeled in front of my record player and became an instant hound for aggressive, obnoxious music that would eternally anger teachers, frighten parents and guarantee me to never hold hands with the pretty preppie girls.

I was in love with 4 men from San Francisco but a few months later I cheated on Metallica with some guys named Slayer and it’s been beautifully downhill ever since.

Simultaneously, 3 black guys from New York City introduced me to a whole ‘nother sound that would also terrorize authority figures and every girl who carried an Esprit bag. But that’s a whole different post.

Like a distinct smell, music defines a moment more than any kind of memory.

Animation of the Damned

Did my parents think the cartoons I watched on television were insane acid trips that they couldn’t decipher for the life of them?

Because if I were a parent I don’t know what I’d think about my kid being2077890250_dbb7c0bedd1 parked in front of the likes of Billy and Mandy or Courage the Dog. These are intense cartoons, but they are also (believe it or not) cerebral and mention more literary references than anything I watched as a youngster. In between the fart and snot jokes, flashing lights and screams, I have a feeling these programs are intelligent productions. I just can’t quite prove it because upon first look these cartoons look certifiably nuts. Besides not helping them settle down, are they detrimental to a youngster?

Some of these episodes act like amphetamine explosions of color with rapidly changing scenes and images and loud sounds that are literally, quite schizophrenic.

I’m a grown adult and I when I watch these courage_dognew cartoons I love the feeling of my pulse racing and my wide eyes being clockwork oranged. But I’m not a seven year old boy. Lest we forget the convulsing Japanese whose anime truly executed mind control over the masses. Admittedly, I do enjoy Billy and Mandy and I want to be concerned, but do they really differ from Elmer Fudd running around with a double barrel shotgun?

God bless the Simpsons, a dependable cartoon whose intelligence is rooted in bad influences.

Getting Older is Awethome!

Aging is not like a fine wine. It’s not a slow and romantic process where wit paintstakingly grows from a wealth of experience, it’s more like when you hammer your thumb instead of the nail and realize you’re cursing the same way your father did.

Aging hits you when you suddenly notice something as if you were on the outside looking in.

Like when I feel like a perverted ogler when I catch myself gawking at a tramp stamp and whale tail.

Getting old happens in about a half-second, then it’s just one thing after another. Men start buying elastic pants and women get bingo wings, it’s just that simple.

Now I’m remiss if I don’t reminisce at least once a day.

JonBenet Ramsey would now be over the age of 18.

I utter a small groan and sigh when I wake in the morning.

I’m constantly thinking about how things used to be. When music and fashion and pop culture made more sense, when people weren’t such rabid, violent animals at such a young age. Maybe it’s always been that way and it’s just more publicized today.

Young women are getting younger and younger while their clothes are getting smaller and smaller. (What’s wrong with these people?)

When I’m asked, I sometimes forget my exact age.

I remember the simplicity of many of my childhood toys and how my imagination wasn’t dependent on a microchip.

toy1I remember how long it took to dial a rotary phone and when cellular phones used to be the size of a loaf of bread.

Many of the actors and singers I grew up enjoying are now dead.

I left my fancy cell phone on a chair at a streetside cafe in Vietnam and when I realized what I had done, I sprinted a quarter mile to retrieve it and consequently spent the next week nursing the back muscle I pulled from running.

If I drink gin in the morning I pay for it all that night. I used to never have that problem.

25 years ago Beverly Hills Cop, Ghostbusters and Miami Vice all emerged as a part of my (and everyone else’s) world. 25 years ago the Thriller video was premiered and Tipper Gore went paranoid lunatic over Prince’s Purple Rain. 25 years ago people had Ferraro stickers on their cars and Vanessa Williams was a Penthouse Miss America. Oh what a long way we’ve come, baby.

I realize the new hairs and growing obesity is all a part of my new command and now that I’ve almost successfully completed the transformation of becoming my parents, I can only say that growing older is totally awesome!