Thursday, December 09, 2004

A Post Designed Expressly to Piss Furious Jessy Off

I'm tough because I love.

Neil Young: "Like the poor and Pauline Fowler, Neil Young is always with us, a reminder of the drearier things of life. Venerated by paunchy Mojo-reading types, Young - whose reedy voice is the exact timbre of a continental dial tone - has changed neither his riffs nor his plaid shirt since he left Buffalo Springfield in 1968. Forever droning on about a mythical, moral America, Young has even-handedly bored three generations equally thoroughly, and unleashed some unspeakable musical atrocities. His last record, Greendale, was a concept album apparently scripted by William McGonagall, the anti-communist dirge Rockin' In The Free World remains one of the direst songs ever penned, and so relentlessly maudlin is Young that poor, impressionable Kurt Cobain quoted him in his suicide note. The apologists who boast that Neil Young has "never sold out" forget the main reason things don't sell out: people don't want to buy them."

The Beatles: "Thanks to these four, Britain's high watermark of musical creativity is still considered to be pub rock made by white idiots. As if polluting the 1960s with their safe, insipid music wasn't bad enough, they've exerted a stranglehold on culture since, inspiring generations of terrible bands and being feted by Chris Evans and Alan Partridge. Between their toe-curling rhyming couplets, tax-dodging, horseshit "spirituality" and Octopus's Garden, the Beatles embody everything wrong with the 60s in general and hippies in particular."

Both of these little tidbits from here.

To show I'm not completely mean-spirited (all of the time), I'll give myself some of my own business.

The Rolling Stones: "For years the debate raged - who's best: the Beatles or the Stones? Well, the debate raged between cretins, anyhow. Anyone with an ounce of sense and a pair of functioning ears knew there was no contest: the Beatles were better by a factor of 15,000. The Stones recorded some undeniably great tracks. But they also shat out a load of dull, ugly, clumsy rock. And don't start protesting that Mick Jagger is the most charismatic frontman the rock world has ever seen - he's a hideous, tulip-mouthed cadaver with nothing interesting to say, and the most grating voice this side of Sybil Fawlty (ed. note: ???). The most interesting thing about the Rolling Stones is the amount of drugs they took - and there's nothing more boring than that."

The Clash: "They had white jeans and big gums and they went "WEUUUURRRGH " because they were punks. Only, unlike the Sex Pistols, who turned punk's musical limitations into a corking art-school pantomime, the Clash were beholden to cliche, their every discount riff, "spontaneous " guitar demolition and mucus-filled roar plucked from the lichen betwixt the flagstones of 60s rock. What's more, Sandinista! - a triple album of rubbish reggae, children's choirs and rub-a-dub dub - proved they were as prone to self-indulgence as the prog-rock braggards they had avowed to overthrow. "But," bleat the apologists, "they were political." The only sensible response to which being: "So was Enoch Powell (ed. note: once again, ???), but even he'd have drawn the line at white jeans."

To conclude, something with which I think we all can agree:

Jim Morrison: "Only a blowhard stockbroker's son like Oliver Stone could fall in love with a boorish, spoiled admiral's brat like Jim Morrison. He styled himself "the Lizard King - I can do anything". This lizard didn't even survive a strenuous wank in a hotel bathtub, but he popped his alligator boots just in time to secure unwarranted legend status. If he'd lived another two years they'd have found him out - as they would James Dean. Cool band, though, for two albums (out of seven) and a couple of singles; pity about the pretentious name and the ridiculous high-school revolutionary lyrics. I cite the album Waiting For The Sun and the alleged poetry on the RIP-exploitation disc, An American Prayer, as evidence of Jim's profound inch-deepness. The one time it all came together, on LA Woman, he had to screw it up with all that "Mr Mojo Rising" crap in the middle. Always the knob with Morrison. Arthur Lee's Love is the real 1967 LA band. Who are those fools at his grave?"

Wednesday, December 01, 2004

`Tis the Season to Shop Walmart

That's right kids, it's the second annual Gifts that Chulius Caesar would give were he richer and/or omnipotent-er than he currently is Christmas list. Friends, family, and people whose blogs have pleased me shall all reap the spoils of my largesse. So, without further ado:

Non-Scarlett GF: A fully refurbished Diocletian's Palace (i.e., less "churchy" than it currently is) for use as her personal summer retreat.

Maw Caesar: The original cast of Les Miserables at her beck and call.

Paw Caesar: The ability to tune out the original cast of Les Miserables completely.

Sistah Caesar: It involves a plane going down over Afghanistan, with one particular person being the only casualty. That's all I'll say.

Jackie the Mick: May his foist child be a masculine child...What? Already did that, you say? Okay. Hmm. How's this: Wes Anderson shoots all the nipper's significant life events, Lemmy Kilmister does the soundtrack.

Furious Mama: A monster truck and a license to kill. And another dragon. (I gave her a dragon last year.)

Roscoe the Furious Mick: A Flying V forged in the fires of Mount Doom with which he may slay his pre-k enemies.

Its name?

Son of HammerSlammer.

Saint Adam: St. Adam will be designated successor to Kim Jong Il of North Korea, thereby fulfilling his dream of becoming a Communist dictator.

Hokmayen: For one whole year, Hok is possessed (moreso than he already is) by the spirit of Keith Moon. Many a car shall be driven into many a Holiday Inn lobby.

Blatz: A mohawk of such magnificence it can be seen from SPACE.

Bitter Neko: The body of Elliott Smith, preserved Lenin-style. She'll be the envy of all her emo friends.

Cyborg Squirrel: He gets to manage the Meatmen's worldwide reunion tour.

Cyborg Squirrel's SSO: The Victoria's Secrets modelship she's always craved.

Manny: A record collection that does not include any Steely Dan albums. For fuck's sake, man. Steely Dan?

Big Zach Attach(k): No matter what happens, nothing Wayne Damage can ever do will result in Zach going to prison.

Dark Wombat: If memory serves, I gave Dark Wombat a Tokyo appartment filled to the brim with Japanese schoolgirls last year. I really can't think of a present to top that, so I guess I'll just replace what/whomever he might have broken in the past year.

Shovelhead: His interpretive dance performance earns him NEA funding and a Tony.

Briantology: Sole ownership of the Glenfiddich distillery.

Jaden: A lifetime supply of Prince-flavored blowpops.

WIHDC: Ummm....He gets to move out of Virginia?

Brian Wanamaker: He gets his wish. "Too bad he has to DIE," says Oderus Urungus.

DCeiver: Local sports commentator George Michael (heh) conducts an interview with Mark Brunell completely in Aramaic. At the end of the interview, Brunell is flayed and crucified.

Zzzzzoe: All the yoga-friendly bondage gear her heart desires.

Knats: A cape that will flutter magnificently as he rides his horse across the Texas plains. I haven't the faintest idea what Knats would want. I guess he can share the Glenfiddich distillery with Briantologist.

That took entirely too long. If I left you out, let me know. I probably did it on purpose, but the memory isn't what it used to be, so you never know.

And if you don't like your present I have two things to say to you.