i don't think i fit into this indy world (guided by voices, velocity girls): my opus.

often working for twelve straight in the heat and oppressive humidity will get one into a state in which they have no choice but to feel a little out of sorts, like one just doesn't fit. i was tired and quickly entering into that state when i kind of got this compulsion to just come home and spit some bile, i mean, some furious hate onto this here page. and then something odd happened...something almost surreal.

as i was driving home i was listening to fast talk or whatever cheesy title this cool nascar show on am radio has when out of nowhere i was caught in this strange occurrence which i will try to relate like this. anyone who reads this blog knows that i have a hate hard on for carl edwards. i expel perhaps too much energy in my hatred of him and the cheating 99 team. and after the day i had, i was ready to burst my hatred bubble to the sounds of carl edwards via telephone on this show. but an odd thing happened in the midst of the latest cheating scandal(irony), he held up his end of the interview like a freaking champ. he is actually kind of a cool dude. he even appeared on an episode of 24 as the head of homeland security(typical cheater). and then, horrifically, i find myself actually kind of starting to like the guy.

i hate when, after i shoot my trap off in a hateful fashion, that i end up kind of kicking myself in the ass when the object of my hate transforms into this kind of interesting, tangible existence too me. in other words, i hate that i can't hate carl edwards with the passion with which i used to hate him. i kick into neanderthal mode at that point and want to direct my vitriolic rage in another direction. however, it also, frankly, sort of confuses me and and i dreamily begin to wonder about some of my other judgements of dislike. i wonder if they too are somewhat invalid. sometimes i hate the fact that i hate. but for now i am going to focus on that hate and find somewhere to direct it, and if you give me a little time i will work to both prove this hate correct and find my way back toward the glowing positivity for which the beer cannes name is known.

as i begin my journey of obese gulps of haterade, i am thinking now of hipsters and emo kids as i believe it is good to start an essay in hate by directing it at those that most of the population also do indeed hate. it will get people on my side early and i think that is important. to clarify a point now, i don't really hate the emo kids(they are too busy hating themselves) i just kind of worked them in so that i can tell this rad joke a little later. but i do hate the hell out of some hipster mother fuckers. these bastards that roll out of their house looking like fucking nikki sixx of motley crue and wearing skin tight black jeans with black socks on a hundred degree day and acting like they are too cool to ever be bothered with the heat. fuck you. fuck your shitty obscure garage band. and fuck aqua net...or whatever kind of mousse you (over)use in your hair. you aren't a fucking rock star bon jovi, you just sell their records.

q. how many hipsters does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
a. some obscure number that you have never heard of.

q. how many emo kids does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
a. who gives a shit, let them cry in the dark.

and speaking of a cry in the dark, mine is about to burst through aldous huxley's proverbial doors of perception when i spit in the direction of jim morrison and the vile, putrid, asscrackesque doors. the doors kind of suck. they don't write catchy songs in the least, which is sin number one in my book. but that isn't even the important thing with them, as i can always forgive them of their sin by not listening. no the thing that bothers me about the doors is their percieved perception as being some deeper than thou poetic artists. i mean c'mon this morrison fucker was nothing but a drug addled cliche slinger. "love her madly as she's walking out the door","try to set the night on... fire." he needed to set his fucking notebook on fire because i guarantee you that was some trite ass trash. and then this dude has the nerve to spit out a book of poetry. who is this guy...jewell? i mean seriously, if jewell had died after her first album and subsequent book, would she be looked on as this joanie mitchell-esque, whimsichal, poet genius instead of the washed up, snaggletoothed, failed techno come lately country singer she has become? because her and old jimbo were slinging from the same pile of stereotypical shit in my opinion. would kurt loder have the same balls to call out jimmy as he did jewell? or would he suck at the teat of fame instead of cutting it off as he should?

and speaking of cutting it off, since cutting it off is already "on the table"(metaphorically) can i stop seeing it projected on the big screen(literally) this solid fuck you is directed at sociopathic frat fucker eli roth. stop cutting dicks. i'm sick of the splatter porn as i sit in aghast amazement, not at what i see on screen which is trite showmanship at best, but in the fact that people are watching this craving the newest, most exotic display of mutilation that the mind could offer. in a recent cinemascope, errol morris commented how this mode of recent cinema is a product of the war angainst islam as being one that the americans fight with a method of sexual humiliation and domination. a war of who's cock is larger. while i agree with his assessment of the war, i completely disagree with the idea that this is the intent of mr. roth and his ilk. personally, i don't think they are smart enough to contemplate this metaphor until someone more intelligent, like mr. morris, points it out. i honestly think that they are just sensationalist assholes who always feel the need to "up the ante" in some way. either that or they are just perverts that like the look and sound of penis being sliced off.

and speaking of the sound of cut dicks, john fogarty sounds as if his penis has been sliced off hostel style. i mean really...fuck creedence clearwater revival. their songs might be catchy if they didn't have that fucking guy that sounds perpetually constipated gurgling on the tracks. could anybody else in the band sing? because honestly, they picked the only freaking guy on the planet that could make geddy lee's voice sound as clear as whitney houston's by comparisson. but i suppose it wasn't entirely their fault. after all the shit voiced singer trend had already been established by the wheezing, nasal, allergic to tonal quality musings of the jim morrison-esque "poet" bob dylan.

and speaking of bob dylan, i'm not really gonna spit on bob dylan's songs. he has some good ones, he has some that are vile. no, i'm not gonna do that as frankly, i am wholly indifferent to his music outside of making fun of it by singing along as poorly as possible. no today's hatered directed toward bobby boy is for fucking up an otherwise fine piece of work. i'm not there would have been a great, damn-near perfect film if it wasn't for that fucking chucklefuck bob dylan and his obscenely vacuous persona. the pacing was incredible, the dynamics of the narrative arrangement were flawless(much like this essay), and the visuals were todd haynes' normal slice of perfection. but at the center of it all was an ego of pretention that couldn't even seem to fit within the same frame asthe film itself. it's as if todd haynes found the only subject ever that would make david bowie, sorry maxwell demon, look both deeper than surface level and humble in contrast.

and speaking of humility, i am going to serve a dose to simon and garfunkel, whose entity i don't exactly hate except when taken in conjunction with the idea that after these two split they went on to become better expressed, much more interesting artists. paul simon wrote my favorites of his repetoire, me and julio, codachrome, call me al...are all mega fucking hits in my mind. and art garfunkel started blowing up as a really skilled and intuitive actor in some big timers like mike nichol's film carnal knowledge and nicholas roeg's disturbingly great movie bad timing. when i think of their post band careers, i can't help but wonder how good the sound of silence would have sounded without garfunkel pussing it up and how many well drawn ineffectual pussy characters could have come to the screen had these two not been dragging each other down. and that thought kind of makes me hate the duo that is simon and garfunkel.

and speaking of hate, that brings me to my final hate of this essay and oddly enough the place where it comes back to positivity as i earlier wrote that it would. right now i hate that when i made out my fourth of july pantheon of musical artists, the beer cannes rock & roll hall of fame if you will, that i forgot to include the awesome jonathan richman and the sweetly seductive mary lou lord to the list. i wish to attone for that now by extolling their oddly similar virtues. the thing that these two artists do with their songs is to capture the pure ennui(at best) and the utter dissillusionment(at worst) created by the naive hopefullness inherent in the concept of the american dream. there is a wonder to their music that amazes me as i find it strange that they can be so downbeat melancholly and so dreamily hopeful simultaneously. they are two definite, surefire additions to the pantheon.

and speaking of additions to the pantheon, there is another badass that i forgot to mention who just so happens to be the punchline to one of my favorite jokes.

q. how do you turn a duck into an r&b singer?
a. put it in the microwave until its bill withers.

lean on me.