Burning Man

Someone recently sent me a video of Burning Man revelers reciting Oh, the Places You’ll Go.

It sent me to the medicine cabinet.

Just watching it gave me a sugar rush by way of heatstroke via straight-up migraine. But nothing can cure what ails me.

Lacking a peyote button or those handy Hunger Games suicide berries, I am forced to resort to blogging as a way to alleviate my malady. Burning Man started in the mid-80s as an artsy-fartsy homage to the Solstice, burning effigies as a form of “radical self-expression,” clearly a hippie euphemism for a low-grade case of pyromania (and not the totally rad Def Leppard kind). I love fire like the Heat Miser but this creeps me out. After sitting through The Wicker Man only to watch a dude burned alive as an offering for the harvest, I am not down with towering infernos.

Then there are the hipster hippies dropping acid while dropping trou. No. Just no. The Places I’ll Go? Pretty sure my list doesn’t include Black Rock City.

Knighted celebrities

Hey you, with the fancy title and doodad pinned to your chest:

Did you rescue a damsel in distress? Pull a sword out of a stone? Do battle in the name of the crown?

No? What's that, you say? You played a vixen on Dynasty and bear responsibility for introducing shoulder pads to the 1980s? Showed your power by "Stayin' Alive" on the airwaves in 1977? Make expensive handbags only royalty and maybe Oprah can afford?

When Joan Collins, The Brothers Gibb (who really are Knights in White Satin), and Anya Hindmarch are getting knighted, call me a dissenter but it sort of seems like the Queen is handing out Grand Cross stars right and left. Does she pick up the medals in the bulk aisle at Costco?

Sir Bono sounds like a fancy cut of bone-in meat at a steakhouse. Damn—ahem, Dame—Kylie Minogue apparently nabbed the Order of the British Empire for her "services to music." David Beckham, OBE? More like OMG. I think Henry Winkler is the bomb, but I don't see how the "thumbs up" merits a knighthood for the Fonz.

Your Majesty: I know it's fun to have some hip playmates who will show up at state functions wearing inappropriate clothing and serenade you with a rousing rendition of "Can't Get You Outta My Head," but you don't have to buy your way into the cool-kid crowd. Unless one of these celebrities figures out how to slay a dragon—and I'm not talking about kicking a mean drug habit or getting a full sleeve tattoo of Grendel—put down the medals and pick up the phone. I'm sure they'd come for the night.

(photo: blogs.sfweekly.com)

Auto-Tune

I can’t sing. I learned this a long time ago, when folks used to turn around and stare at me during mass when I was trying to rock “Amazing Grace” or “Ave Maria.” My tone-deafness was driven home during high school. Whenever the spring musical rolled around, I was relegated to the chorus or the comic relief cameo—both decidedly non-singing roles—and asked to mouth along to the group numbers.

I had my “come to Jesus” moment about my vocal chords long ago. God blessed me with so many other talents that it’d just be greedy to wish for the voice of Aretha Franklin. And we all know that greed is one of the Seven Deadly Sins.

I accept my shortcomings. So too should singalings like Rebecca Black (who I think may be signaling the end of the world as she reaches new heights of insipidity), Kim Zolciak, and Ke$ha who can’t carry a tune. And shame on folks like Usher, Cher, and wil.i.am, who actually can sing. Back away from the audio processor or I might have to auto-turn my fist toward your voicebox.

Super Bowl halftime shows

Props to any artist who agrees to headline the Super Bowl halftime show. Even if they are getting paid a bajillion clams, it’s a losing proposition. The concert always sucks dirty pigskin.

Surrounded by hundreds of people in matching jumpsuits who were picked, not for their dancing prowess, but because they won a local radio contest, the performers lamely move around on death trap of a stage, trying to move through a medley of their most treacly hits as they screech toward the cheap seats and mug for the cameras.

First of all, when has a medley ever been good? Second, when have the singers ever sounded good? When one of the best halftime shows includes N’Sync and Britney, well… Super Bowl halftime shows are a study in lowest-common denominator performances. Performers and their body parts are picked based on their ability to offend the fewest number of people (Janet Jackson's right ta-ta was clearly an oversight). Consequently, you get a whole lot of Black-Eyed Cheese that doesn’t actually entertain anyone.

My prediction for Super Bowl XLVI: Katy Perry in Daisy Dukes and a whole lot of fireworks. A word of advice, though: skip the whipped-cream boob gun.

(photo: honeymag.com)

Christmas muzak

Grandma may have gotten run over by a reindeer, but I want to run the song over with a 3-ton truck. And don’t even get me started about that fucking drummer boy kid. “Pa rum pum pum pum”, really? Did an 18-month-old write this song?

Let’s face it: most Christmas songs blow dead reindeer. And the ones that are tolerable—preferably sung by Bing Crosby or Elvis—are so overplayed that I want to hang myself with my Christmas lights Hark, the herald angels suck.

Silent night? If only.

(photo: christmas.itbestshop.com)

Jazz

In general, I like to know where I’m going, be it a drive, a project, or a piece of music. Jazz fills me with agita. I don’t know when it’s going to end, I don’t know what the squirrelly fucker is going to pull next.

I have to say, I’m kind of blue about this. Unlike PT Cruisers and mimes, I want to like jazz. I want to don a beret and sit in a dark club, nodding my head and saying things like, “Yeah, man” and “Dig that smooth groove.” I used to think I wasn’t smart enough to get jazz. Now I feel as if all the cool kids know the secret Herbie Hand(cock)shake and left me out of the Felonious Monk Memorial Clubhouse.

This only fuels my anger, which is swelling to the point where I want to give the David Brubeck Quartet a serious time out and inflict some damage on David Sanborn’s reed. Scat needs to scram. You dig, Dizzy?

(photo: triangleartsandentertainment.org)

Justin Bieber’s Hair

Javier Bardem was a badass in No Country for Old Men despite that ridiculous hairdo. Tim Urban is hoping his mop top will distract America, if not the judges, on American Idol. Zac Efron looks prettier than Vanessa Hudgens with his ladylocks. Let’s face it: a bowl cut only looks cool on Dorothy Hamill (but then, anything would look cool on Dorothy Hamill).

Justin, dear, sweet, chipmunk-cheeked Justin, are you trying to cover your face so tween girls won’t realize that you’re an animated Disney character? Are you hiding a ginormous zit on your forehead? Did you get tired of holding up a sign that said, “Kick my ass”?

Baby, cut your hair. One time. It’s like the teenage version of a combover. I’m beginning to think “Never Let You Go” isn’t about an 8^th grader, but your bangs.

(photo: wikipedia.com)

THIS…is ah-MER-a-kin idol!

This…drives me BATshit crazy. When Ryan Seacrest announces each Idol episode in the same portentous way, I cringe. A low-rent Dick Clark, Peecrest tries to give AI added import. As if he needs to. We get it. It’s a TV phenom, no question. But it’s not the fight of the century. With four words, this box of hair makes it sound like we are about to watch Jesse Owens take on the entire Third Reich or Oprah cage fight Bill Gates.

We’re not.

We’re about to watch nervous teenagers sing.

Ryan, spend a little more time buying your soul back from the devil and a little less time dragging out the cheesy lead-in to Idol. It’s already full-up on cheese, both tasty and stinky.

Punch in the Face out.

(photo: blog.placesaroundflorida.com)

Mash-ups

I like to think that some things are greater than the sum of their parts. For instance, each TIWTPITF post is pretty rad in and of itself. But when seen in total, it’s mind-blowingly awesome. But then there are mash-ups, video, literary, and musical medleys that are pretty much pastiches of crap. Crap + crap = huge steaming pile of crap.

I never really like medleys at awards shows. They always seem disjointed and rarely flow from one song to another with any finesse. But musical mashups actually are released as singles, as though they are a new, interesting creation.

Guess what? They’re not.

Then there is the current literary trend toward mashups. Take Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, for example. I had an open mind, and not the kind that gives zombies access to my brains. But this new interpretation of one of my most beloved books is a monstrosity, and not in a good way. The co-“author” just took Jane Austen’s public domain text and sprinkled zombie shenanigans around key scenes. As I read it, I just kept thinking that the zombie text was getting in the way of Austen’s elegant, biting prose. I wanted to get back to the meat of the story, which has nothing to do with the undead or Charlotte Lucas’s increasingly gray pallor. The concept was admittedly genius (I love me some Quirk Books) but I want substance with my style, not a hackneyed attempt to ride on the coattails of a literary giant like Jane Austen.

If you uninspired leeches continue to co-opt legitimate works of art and bleed them of their brilliance, I’m going to have to bring about some bloodshed of my own. And no, it doesn’t involve snacking on the undeveloped right side of your cerebrum.

Kids’ songs

“Baaaaackpack, backpack!”

“Hot dog! I’ve got the rhythm in my head.” 


“There were ten in the bed and the little one said, ‘Roll over, roll over.’”

Clearly, there are many problems with the above scenario (TEN in the bed? Are we in a Dickens’ novel?); however, the biggest beef I have is that I can’t get the mother-lovin’ song out of my head.

As much as I tried to sing “Doncha wish your baby was hot like me?” to my goddaughter, it’s the wheels on the bus that go round and round in my head. A friend once instructed me to hum the Entertainment Tonight theme whenever I got stuck in an endless loop of song suckage. Happily, this worked for wrong songs from Sisqó, the Baha Men, and a musician ex-boyfriend, but kids’ songs are more insidious. They appear innocent on the surface, which makes them all the more sinister (think of what happened to baby-faced Anakin Skywalker if you need a cautionary tale).

This will not do.

Since shouting some 2 Live Crew or other material offensive to Tipper Gore’s ears might stunt a toddler’s growth, I propose that for every one Wiggles or Little Einstein song we have to jazz hands our way through, they get to suffer the decidedly non-hummable sounds of early American Idol auditions. That’s some aural poop that will never get stuck in anyone’s cerebral sandbox.

Concert ticket prices


I’m looking into seeing some Jovi. Things aren’t looking good. Sure, you live for the fight when it’s all that you’ve got. What I don’t got is the 75 clams for a shitbox seat behind the stage that should come with an oxygen tank. Oh, I could get better seats…if I coughed up $670. Maybe I could cough up a lung and sell my organs to pay for a ticket.

I have loved JBJ ever since I saw him and his tousled hair swing over me in Cobo Arena during the Slippery When Wet tour. The last time I saw Bon Jovi (the Crush tour), I prolly forked over $100 or so for my ticket, when all was said and done. But I don’t know if JBJ and the boys are worth two months of health insurance, which I’ll need after I harvest my organs. If I actually plunk down my card for the ticket and 83 miscellaneous service and handling fees, I will be kicking my uninsured dumbass from here to Key Arena, which isn’t a MENSA-worthy idea. So I’ll pass and turn up my iPod instead, because, truth be told, I’m a little sick of livin’ on a prayer.

What’s the most you’ve ever shelled out for a concert? Was it worth it?

“Happy Birthday” song

There’s no way to sugar coat it. This song blows chunks of dry birthday cake. You can’t put a candle on top of it and hope to distract folks from the monumental awfulness of this little ditty about Jack and Diane and everybody else’s birthday.

No one likes to sing it.
No one likes to hear it.

Even in French, it makes my ears bleed.

Please, for the love of all things holy—like today, the sacred day when my magnificent mother gave me to the world—sing me a song that you aren’t roped into chanting with lackluster enthusiasm (often at a crap-ass chain restaurant).

Sing one of my favorite karaoke songs. Sing me “Love Shack” or “Fever” or “Don’t Stop Believin’” (as trendy as that may be now). I wouldn’t mind a little bit of “Can’t Take My Eyes Off of You.” To make my birthday wish come true, sing me some Jovi, namely the chorus of “Livin’ on a Prayer:”

Oh, we’re halfway there
Oh oh, livin’ on a prayer
Take my hand, we’ll make it, I swear
Oh oh, livin’ on a prayer.

That sort of seems more appropriate these days anyway. While I appreciate the gesture, sing me something that won’t make me lose my appetite before I get to the birthday cake.

With what song would you want to be serenaded on your birthday?

(photo: guardian.co.uk/.../may/23/bestbirthdaycake)