Piss In A Champagne Bottle!
In altering the look of the site, Blogger also saw fit to eat all of my links, including the guestbook. However, as you'll notice, I've reposted some of those links, and added one or two new ones. Enjoy the eye candy/sore.
Hey, here's something new... if you want to drop me a line, send one over to shawnwilliston@gmail.com ...I've signed up to their special offer, which is (as far as I know) only available to Bloggers. At any rate, I'd like to see how it fares, so you can send me a note there. Who knows? I may make it my first choice if it's as cool as they say it is.
More to come...
April 21, 2004
April 14, 2004
AMERICAN OIL
Written 15 minutes ago
I started out wanting to write a nice, easy going acoustic song (having given up on the metal album, I've started striving for the more realistic homemade acoustic album idea). Anyway, I was thinking of making it some sort of love song, when suddenly I found myself thinking about the ongoing saga in Iraq. After a while, I imagined what it would be like for two lovers to be torn apart by war. THEN, I imagined what it would be like for those lovers as civilians, torn apart by a random American attack, the male figure in the story losing his wife to some stray shrapnel, or what have you. Finally, I imagined what it would be like to suddenly lose Carrie, and it kind of wrote itself from there. So, what originally was to be a love song for Carrie turned into a sociopolitical, anti-war love song (indirectly) for Carrie. How the hell does my mind work, anyway?
(As a footnote, the first draft had a third verse, rather than the closing refrain you see below. In the verse, the male vows to avenge his loss. However, after writing it, I decided that posting it may bring me dangerously close to being assassinated by the secret service. Besides, I prefer it left as a touching eulogy, rather than a scathing tirade.)
Our borders blurred into sandstorm lines
And scattered with one breath
It’s best to stay here for a while
Since here is all that’s left
Memories will take you far away
But in the end you still don’t move
A gust from the west brought a hail of fire
But the cinders seemed to soothe
And when I put my arm around you
I think you must have perceived my dread
And when I asked if we could get out of here
I can’t say I was surprised
When “no” was all you said…
I caught a whiff of American oil
Just before the salvo began
So I crossed my heart and hoped to live
Then I was driven into the sand
Coming up for air, I saw you kneeling there
Waving your burning flag
I felt our hearts entwine on that front line
Just before your limbs started to sag
And when I put my arms around you
You gazed at me like you were already dead
And when I told you that we would find a way together
I saw those tears in your eyes
When “no” was all you said…
As the day gives way to eternal night
May you find peace on the other side…
Written 15 minutes ago
I started out wanting to write a nice, easy going acoustic song (having given up on the metal album, I've started striving for the more realistic homemade acoustic album idea). Anyway, I was thinking of making it some sort of love song, when suddenly I found myself thinking about the ongoing saga in Iraq. After a while, I imagined what it would be like for two lovers to be torn apart by war. THEN, I imagined what it would be like for those lovers as civilians, torn apart by a random American attack, the male figure in the story losing his wife to some stray shrapnel, or what have you. Finally, I imagined what it would be like to suddenly lose Carrie, and it kind of wrote itself from there. So, what originally was to be a love song for Carrie turned into a sociopolitical, anti-war love song (indirectly) for Carrie. How the hell does my mind work, anyway?
(As a footnote, the first draft had a third verse, rather than the closing refrain you see below. In the verse, the male vows to avenge his loss. However, after writing it, I decided that posting it may bring me dangerously close to being assassinated by the secret service. Besides, I prefer it left as a touching eulogy, rather than a scathing tirade.)
Our borders blurred into sandstorm lines
And scattered with one breath
It’s best to stay here for a while
Since here is all that’s left
Memories will take you far away
But in the end you still don’t move
A gust from the west brought a hail of fire
But the cinders seemed to soothe
And when I put my arm around you
I think you must have perceived my dread
And when I asked if we could get out of here
I can’t say I was surprised
When “no” was all you said…
I caught a whiff of American oil
Just before the salvo began
So I crossed my heart and hoped to live
Then I was driven into the sand
Coming up for air, I saw you kneeling there
Waving your burning flag
I felt our hearts entwine on that front line
Just before your limbs started to sag
And when I put my arms around you
You gazed at me like you were already dead
And when I told you that we would find a way together
I saw those tears in your eyes
When “no” was all you said…
As the day gives way to eternal night
May you find peace on the other side…
April 12, 2004
PISSING VINEGAR Vol. 18: The Valentine's Day Special Resurrected!
Originally written February 13, 2000
Originally posted February 2002
It's a miracle! The long-lost Valentines' PV, not seen in years, has resurfaced. Some of you may remember the early days, when I had my weekly email newsletter. These newsletters contained the very first incarnations of PV, and only a couple were ever reissued, so to speak. In December 2001, I posted the Christmas edition on my old website, and followed two months later with this, the Valentine's Day Special. Unfortunately, some months later, Geocities ate the file, and I feared it was forever lost. Well, today I got an email from Chris Doyle, who was cleaning out an old email account, and miraculously still had the old newsletters on file. And so, children, we can finally relive the perverted magic that is... the Pissing Vinegar Valentine's Day Special. Enjoy.
*****
Here we are, kids... mere hours away from the most vomit-inducing of
holidays. The time of year where gushy preps spend insane amounts of money
on their sweethearts. No price is too high for the reddest of roses, the
shiniest of diamonds, or the richest of chocolates. I am speaking of,
naturally, Guarantee Your Piece Day. Hallmark would have you believe that
February 14th is all about showing your undying love and devotion to the
special person in your life. However, smart people (like your pal Willie
here) see through that thin disguise like the translucent teddy mom wore on
the night I was conceived. What February 14th is, in reality, is a day
where you buy a ton of sappy shit for your significant other in exchange for
the promise of sex on a regular basis over the course of the next 365 days.
Let's face it, guys; if you forget your sweetie on Valentine's Day, you can
be damn sure she'll forget how to give head (to you, anyway). So go ahead,
you lovestruck bastards. Lay out the bread, and she'll lay out the spread.
Now, for the singles... I haven't forgotten about you, as I am now
officially one of you. How in the hell do WE expect to be smoking in bed
(for all the right reasons) in just over 24 hours from now? Well, that's
gonna take some work. I mean, after all, girls who are single on
Valentine's Day are more than likely thinking about the guy who gave her a
cute and cuddly teddy bear 12 months ago, only to give her the heave-ho
right before her birthday (Sad but true: some guys just don't have the
prosperity level it takes to maintain a steady flow -- pardon the pun -- of
sexual activity). So, chances are, guys like us are at strike two before we
even button our shirts and slap on the Aqua-Velva (Note: you might want to
switch aftershaves). In the event, however, that the lady you've had your
eye on is open to a little of cupid's cruel archery, this guide is sure to
get you around the bases faster than Donovan Bailey on a sugar rush.*
* IMPORTANT NOTE: The following guide is a bunch of shit I'm making up on
the spot to try and be funny. The methods of mating used in this guide have
not been tested, and Willie assumes no responsibility in the event of
slapped face, drink-soaked crotch, or herpes. If any of this shit actually
works, I'll let you know. -W
STAGE 1: THE PREPARATIONS
What you wanna do is get all gussied up. I know you haven't spent fifty
bucks on swiss chocolate and stuffed animals, so why not take that surplus
over to the high-end men's clothing store and get yourself a slammin' shirt.
Recommended: Burnside, available at Jeans Experts. (NOTE: Don't even think
about wearing your new Burnside shirt to the Opera House, as I will be
wearing mine. If we're dressed like twins, that doesn't mean we'll get in a
threesome. Besides, you DO NOT want to see me naked.) After you've picked
your shirt, choose your jeans or pants carefully. The last thing you want
to do is show up in your 1987 Def Leppard jeans (aka The ones that look like
they've been fed to an alligator, shit out and re-eaten by his brother). Be
neat. This gives women the false impression that you are an organized man,
and therefore a good choice for a mate. Go ahead, take out the dress pants
you last wore at your great-uncle's funeral in 1995. Just make sure they
still fit, you Burger King loving bastard. Next stop: the shoes. Do not
overdo the shoes. If you show up with shoes so shiny the club lighting
makes your feet look like an acid trip, you are officially obssessed with
yourself as far as she is concerned. By the same token, perhaps you could
try not shaving. Not only does this make you look a pinch more rugged than
you are (No matter what they say, ladies do not dig babyfaces), plus you
won't have to worry about nicks, you clumsy fuck. Otherwise, your hair
should be presentable. Feel free to slick it back a bit, but don't bother
buying shares in Dep; It's a fine line between James Dean and Pee-Wee
Herman. Now that you're all studded up, let's go over the approach.
STAGE 2: CLUB ETIQUETTE
When you walk into the club, do not... repeat, DO NOT STRUT! If you
exuberate too much confidence in your future endeavours, those endeavours
will most likely consist of your Pamela Anderson poster and a bottle of Keri
lotion (not that I've ever done that). Just walk like you always do (Note:
If your name is Quasimodo, disregard the last statement; you're filthy rich
off that Disney movie, and therefore can fuck anything you want). Keep your
head up, and if you pass a fine lady look her in the eye, smile and give a
nod on your way by. Remember: groping a complete stranger is very, very
bad. It's important, however, to gauge her reaction. Here are some common
reactions and what they mean to you:
A. "Hi." -- If accompanied by a smile, she's open to your advance, and may
slow dance with you if asked later... if you're lucky, you might even be
able to cop a feel. If accompanied by a frown, she's obviously heartbroken,
and there to get drunk. Try again in an hour. If accompanied by a blank
stare, she thinks you said "High".
B. "Fuck Off!" -- Grab her ass. She may act like a bitch, but deep down
inside she knows that she's never gonna get laid with that attitude, and
eventually she's going to have to settle for something, and hey! It might
as well be you. If this approach is unsuccessful, buy her friend a drink.
C. The Man Checker -- You may have never heard it termed as such, but you're
familiar with it. The lady leans her head back, takes a quick (.2-.5
seconds) glance downward, and looks back up. This woman is looking at your
penis. If she frowns, your pants are too loose in that region, and she
would have appreciated checking the condition of your Gretzky rookie card
before buying it (ladies will not understand the analogy, but I know the
guys are with me on this one). If she smiles and her eyes grow wide, she
likes what she sees; way to go, poncho... now you've gotta keep the
balled-up sock in there all night. If she smiles and lets out a horrific,
sqealy laugh, you've left your fly open; obviously, she now knows about the
sock.
D. "I've been waiting my whole life for a man like you" -- This usually
signifies one of two things. a) You've been struck by a stray bullet from
Puff Daddy's glock, and have indeed dies and gone to heaven, or b) This
girl's been drinking since the 11th.
E. "Will you buy me a lemon gin?" -- She's 13. Get out now.
F. "Do I know you?" -- This is the girl you tried to pick up while going out
with her best friend. You are three seconds away from getting a beer bottle
smashed over your head. Let this happen. Your intense pain and suffering
will draw sympathy from about a dozen girls who don't know what a disgusting
pig you really are.
STEP 3: WHAT TO DO ONCE YOU'VE REELED HER IN
Congratulations, slick. The lady of choice has given you the privilege of
sitting with her at the table. Keep this in mind: She doesn't own that
table. If she wants to find another, she will. So don't fuck up now.
Statistics show that 83% of all pick-up attempts fail in Stage 3. This is
no time to ask her if those are real; play your cards right here, and you
may get to feel for yourself later. Most guys freeze up at this point of
the journey, as if they were trying to climb Everest only to run out of
oxygen five metres from the top. You're lucky, though, cuz you've got
Willie's advice memorized. This is, in actuality, the simplest part of the
process. There are only THREE THINGS that you MUST DO to finalized the
deal:
ONE: MAINTAIN CASUAL EYE CONTACT. Important: DO NOT STARE!! When she's
saying something that you think may be important to her (i.e. hair, shoes,
or her mom), go ahead and gaze into her baby blues. She may even believe
that you are interested in what she's saying. But know when to draw the
line. For example, if she stops talking, that's your cue to glance at
something other than her pupils. Do not look at her breasts. (Helpful hint:
This may also be a cue for you to say something. Don't talk about
wrestling. Unless she brings it up, of course.)
TWO: DO NOT BRAG ABOUT YOURSELF OR YOUR EXPLOITS -- If you've succeeded in
portraying yourself as the perfect man, you've also succeeded in portraying
yourself as a bold-faced liar. They know we're all idiots. Just be modest
and humble, and she may consider you less of an idiot than her
ex-boyfriends. On the same token, now may be a good time to relate a
personal tragedy. Tell her your last girlfriend died of breast cancer or
something (IMPORTANT: DO NOT tell her your ex-girlfriend died of clamidia).
THREE: KEEP BUYING HER DRINKS -- This one should be pretty much
self-explanatory.
STAGE 4: SEALING THE DEAL
By this time, you're both pretty knowledgable of each other (not to mention
pretty drunk). Now is your time to shine. Too many guys make the mistake
of using all their lines upon first glance of a woman. Stupid ass! Wait
until she's loaded, and your lines stand a better chance of working their
magic. Here's a novel approach; ask her what the best pick-up line she ever
heard was. Then top it. Example: If she says the best she's been offered
was "Your daddy must've been an astronaut, 'cause you're out of this world",
say "Your daddy must've been a donkey, 'cause you've got a fine ass". See?
Ingenuity goes a long way. Maybe all the way. If she giggles like a
schoolgirl, you done good. Now get a serious look on your face, and tell
her you'd really like to see her again. With all the alcohol she's
ingested, plus all the charm you've piled onto her, you stand a good chance
of "again" being later that night, in her bedroom. Now would be a good time
to make sure you've got some condoms. A not-so-wise man once said, "My cock
is rotting! My cock is rotting!". So be like Astar, and play safe.
STAGE 5: USE YOUR IMAGINATION
***********
This concludes our lesson on lovin'. I wish you all the luck in the world,
gentlemen, and I know you all wish me the same. Godspeed, soldier. And
hey... if you make it to stage 5, name it after me.
I'm Willie, and that's the way shit is.
Originally written February 13, 2000
Originally posted February 2002
It's a miracle! The long-lost Valentines' PV, not seen in years, has resurfaced. Some of you may remember the early days, when I had my weekly email newsletter. These newsletters contained the very first incarnations of PV, and only a couple were ever reissued, so to speak. In December 2001, I posted the Christmas edition on my old website, and followed two months later with this, the Valentine's Day Special. Unfortunately, some months later, Geocities ate the file, and I feared it was forever lost. Well, today I got an email from Chris Doyle, who was cleaning out an old email account, and miraculously still had the old newsletters on file. And so, children, we can finally relive the perverted magic that is... the Pissing Vinegar Valentine's Day Special. Enjoy.
*****
Here we are, kids... mere hours away from the most vomit-inducing of
holidays. The time of year where gushy preps spend insane amounts of money
on their sweethearts. No price is too high for the reddest of roses, the
shiniest of diamonds, or the richest of chocolates. I am speaking of,
naturally, Guarantee Your Piece Day. Hallmark would have you believe that
February 14th is all about showing your undying love and devotion to the
special person in your life. However, smart people (like your pal Willie
here) see through that thin disguise like the translucent teddy mom wore on
the night I was conceived. What February 14th is, in reality, is a day
where you buy a ton of sappy shit for your significant other in exchange for
the promise of sex on a regular basis over the course of the next 365 days.
Let's face it, guys; if you forget your sweetie on Valentine's Day, you can
be damn sure she'll forget how to give head (to you, anyway). So go ahead,
you lovestruck bastards. Lay out the bread, and she'll lay out the spread.
Now, for the singles... I haven't forgotten about you, as I am now
officially one of you. How in the hell do WE expect to be smoking in bed
(for all the right reasons) in just over 24 hours from now? Well, that's
gonna take some work. I mean, after all, girls who are single on
Valentine's Day are more than likely thinking about the guy who gave her a
cute and cuddly teddy bear 12 months ago, only to give her the heave-ho
right before her birthday (Sad but true: some guys just don't have the
prosperity level it takes to maintain a steady flow -- pardon the pun -- of
sexual activity). So, chances are, guys like us are at strike two before we
even button our shirts and slap on the Aqua-Velva (Note: you might want to
switch aftershaves). In the event, however, that the lady you've had your
eye on is open to a little of cupid's cruel archery, this guide is sure to
get you around the bases faster than Donovan Bailey on a sugar rush.*
* IMPORTANT NOTE: The following guide is a bunch of shit I'm making up on
the spot to try and be funny. The methods of mating used in this guide have
not been tested, and Willie assumes no responsibility in the event of
slapped face, drink-soaked crotch, or herpes. If any of this shit actually
works, I'll let you know. -W
STAGE 1: THE PREPARATIONS
What you wanna do is get all gussied up. I know you haven't spent fifty
bucks on swiss chocolate and stuffed animals, so why not take that surplus
over to the high-end men's clothing store and get yourself a slammin' shirt.
Recommended: Burnside, available at Jeans Experts. (NOTE: Don't even think
about wearing your new Burnside shirt to the Opera House, as I will be
wearing mine. If we're dressed like twins, that doesn't mean we'll get in a
threesome. Besides, you DO NOT want to see me naked.) After you've picked
your shirt, choose your jeans or pants carefully. The last thing you want
to do is show up in your 1987 Def Leppard jeans (aka The ones that look like
they've been fed to an alligator, shit out and re-eaten by his brother). Be
neat. This gives women the false impression that you are an organized man,
and therefore a good choice for a mate. Go ahead, take out the dress pants
you last wore at your great-uncle's funeral in 1995. Just make sure they
still fit, you Burger King loving bastard. Next stop: the shoes. Do not
overdo the shoes. If you show up with shoes so shiny the club lighting
makes your feet look like an acid trip, you are officially obssessed with
yourself as far as she is concerned. By the same token, perhaps you could
try not shaving. Not only does this make you look a pinch more rugged than
you are (No matter what they say, ladies do not dig babyfaces), plus you
won't have to worry about nicks, you clumsy fuck. Otherwise, your hair
should be presentable. Feel free to slick it back a bit, but don't bother
buying shares in Dep; It's a fine line between James Dean and Pee-Wee
Herman. Now that you're all studded up, let's go over the approach.
STAGE 2: CLUB ETIQUETTE
When you walk into the club, do not... repeat, DO NOT STRUT! If you
exuberate too much confidence in your future endeavours, those endeavours
will most likely consist of your Pamela Anderson poster and a bottle of Keri
lotion (not that I've ever done that). Just walk like you always do (Note:
If your name is Quasimodo, disregard the last statement; you're filthy rich
off that Disney movie, and therefore can fuck anything you want). Keep your
head up, and if you pass a fine lady look her in the eye, smile and give a
nod on your way by. Remember: groping a complete stranger is very, very
bad. It's important, however, to gauge her reaction. Here are some common
reactions and what they mean to you:
A. "Hi." -- If accompanied by a smile, she's open to your advance, and may
slow dance with you if asked later... if you're lucky, you might even be
able to cop a feel. If accompanied by a frown, she's obviously heartbroken,
and there to get drunk. Try again in an hour. If accompanied by a blank
stare, she thinks you said "High".
B. "Fuck Off!" -- Grab her ass. She may act like a bitch, but deep down
inside she knows that she's never gonna get laid with that attitude, and
eventually she's going to have to settle for something, and hey! It might
as well be you. If this approach is unsuccessful, buy her friend a drink.
C. The Man Checker -- You may have never heard it termed as such, but you're
familiar with it. The lady leans her head back, takes a quick (.2-.5
seconds) glance downward, and looks back up. This woman is looking at your
penis. If she frowns, your pants are too loose in that region, and she
would have appreciated checking the condition of your Gretzky rookie card
before buying it (ladies will not understand the analogy, but I know the
guys are with me on this one). If she smiles and her eyes grow wide, she
likes what she sees; way to go, poncho... now you've gotta keep the
balled-up sock in there all night. If she smiles and lets out a horrific,
sqealy laugh, you've left your fly open; obviously, she now knows about the
sock.
D. "I've been waiting my whole life for a man like you" -- This usually
signifies one of two things. a) You've been struck by a stray bullet from
Puff Daddy's glock, and have indeed dies and gone to heaven, or b) This
girl's been drinking since the 11th.
E. "Will you buy me a lemon gin?" -- She's 13. Get out now.
F. "Do I know you?" -- This is the girl you tried to pick up while going out
with her best friend. You are three seconds away from getting a beer bottle
smashed over your head. Let this happen. Your intense pain and suffering
will draw sympathy from about a dozen girls who don't know what a disgusting
pig you really are.
STEP 3: WHAT TO DO ONCE YOU'VE REELED HER IN
Congratulations, slick. The lady of choice has given you the privilege of
sitting with her at the table. Keep this in mind: She doesn't own that
table. If she wants to find another, she will. So don't fuck up now.
Statistics show that 83% of all pick-up attempts fail in Stage 3. This is
no time to ask her if those are real; play your cards right here, and you
may get to feel for yourself later. Most guys freeze up at this point of
the journey, as if they were trying to climb Everest only to run out of
oxygen five metres from the top. You're lucky, though, cuz you've got
Willie's advice memorized. This is, in actuality, the simplest part of the
process. There are only THREE THINGS that you MUST DO to finalized the
deal:
ONE: MAINTAIN CASUAL EYE CONTACT. Important: DO NOT STARE!! When she's
saying something that you think may be important to her (i.e. hair, shoes,
or her mom), go ahead and gaze into her baby blues. She may even believe
that you are interested in what she's saying. But know when to draw the
line. For example, if she stops talking, that's your cue to glance at
something other than her pupils. Do not look at her breasts. (Helpful hint:
This may also be a cue for you to say something. Don't talk about
wrestling. Unless she brings it up, of course.)
TWO: DO NOT BRAG ABOUT YOURSELF OR YOUR EXPLOITS -- If you've succeeded in
portraying yourself as the perfect man, you've also succeeded in portraying
yourself as a bold-faced liar. They know we're all idiots. Just be modest
and humble, and she may consider you less of an idiot than her
ex-boyfriends. On the same token, now may be a good time to relate a
personal tragedy. Tell her your last girlfriend died of breast cancer or
something (IMPORTANT: DO NOT tell her your ex-girlfriend died of clamidia).
THREE: KEEP BUYING HER DRINKS -- This one should be pretty much
self-explanatory.
STAGE 4: SEALING THE DEAL
By this time, you're both pretty knowledgable of each other (not to mention
pretty drunk). Now is your time to shine. Too many guys make the mistake
of using all their lines upon first glance of a woman. Stupid ass! Wait
until she's loaded, and your lines stand a better chance of working their
magic. Here's a novel approach; ask her what the best pick-up line she ever
heard was. Then top it. Example: If she says the best she's been offered
was "Your daddy must've been an astronaut, 'cause you're out of this world",
say "Your daddy must've been a donkey, 'cause you've got a fine ass". See?
Ingenuity goes a long way. Maybe all the way. If she giggles like a
schoolgirl, you done good. Now get a serious look on your face, and tell
her you'd really like to see her again. With all the alcohol she's
ingested, plus all the charm you've piled onto her, you stand a good chance
of "again" being later that night, in her bedroom. Now would be a good time
to make sure you've got some condoms. A not-so-wise man once said, "My cock
is rotting! My cock is rotting!". So be like Astar, and play safe.
STAGE 5: USE YOUR IMAGINATION
***********
This concludes our lesson on lovin'. I wish you all the luck in the world,
gentlemen, and I know you all wish me the same. Godspeed, soldier. And
hey... if you make it to stage 5, name it after me.
I'm Willie, and that's the way shit is.
A CLUE!
So, I'm surfing the net tonight, and I decide to pop over here to see if anyone's signed my guestbook. And, lo and behold, there's an anonymous post, and a cryptic one at that. All it says is, "78 days..."
Weird. I'm trying to figure out what it could possibly mean. I did the math from today's date, and 78 days from now is Tuesday, June 29. The date only means two things to me. It's a) the one year anniversary of seeing the mighty Pearl Jam live, and b) the projected release date for The Tragically Hip's new album.
Maybe it's something else entirely. I don't think it's anyone's birthday that I know, and I'm not sure of any major events happening on that day. At any rate, it's a good head scratcher, and I do so enjoy scratching my head. More clues, please!
So, I'm surfing the net tonight, and I decide to pop over here to see if anyone's signed my guestbook. And, lo and behold, there's an anonymous post, and a cryptic one at that. All it says is, "78 days..."
Weird. I'm trying to figure out what it could possibly mean. I did the math from today's date, and 78 days from now is Tuesday, June 29. The date only means two things to me. It's a) the one year anniversary of seeing the mighty Pearl Jam live, and b) the projected release date for The Tragically Hip's new album.
Maybe it's something else entirely. I don't think it's anyone's birthday that I know, and I'm not sure of any major events happening on that day. At any rate, it's a good head scratcher, and I do so enjoy scratching my head. More clues, please!
April 8, 2004
PISSING VINEGAR Vol. 39: THREE APPLES HIGH
(Yes, this really IS a PV!)
Okay, here's the situation...
Is it just me, or is the modern music scene turning into a junior high dance? I mean, hell, it's always been common knowledge that the music industry's number-one target demographic has been teenaged girls (which makes me wonder about all those old men in suits), but ever since Britney experienced her well-publicized growth spurt, every bright faced, shiny eyed teenage girl who can carry half a tune is finding herself with a record contract. And let's face it folks, it's getting pretty pathetic when you have a hard time naming a female star of any Disney-produced TV series that DOESN'T have a deal with a major record label.
Between Avril, Hilary, Lindsay, and all the others, a self-respecting soon-to-be-28-year-old man like myself is starting to feel really dirty if he watches Muchmusic for more than five minutes, because these pint-sized primadonnas are fucking everywhere! Whatever happened to the days when girls this age were relegated to Mini-Pop duty? Now, we're putting them center stage, handing them fifty backup dancers and a headset, and telling them to smile for daddy. It's fucking sickening.
And hey, it wouldn't be so bad if a couple of them actually had talent. But they're all the same fucking person to my ears, with a few very subtle differences to throw the public off. Think about it; Avril was the anti-Britney, and sold a fuckload of records. Hilary Duff was the innocent child, and sold a fuckload of records. Fefe Dobson was the black one, and didn't sell nearly as many records as Avril or Hilary. Linsay Lohan is the Hilary Duff copycat, and thus providing the few teenage girls without a record deal an antagonist, a "bad Hilary", if you will (as if a "good Hilary" ever existed).
I say, we throw all these teens into one band, and let them have their year and a half of fame, a la the Spice Girls, so they can fade into obscurity, and we can see a few decent videos on TV for a change. Because, realy, that's all that can be expected. The fact that Britney and Christina are still popular today is either a fluke of the grandest scale, or a testament to the belief that, if you indulge enough retirement-age fantasies in your videos, you CAN get those geezers out of the rocking chair and into the record store.
So kids, when you're blowing grey-haired executives for a guest spot on a sitcom in 10 years, don't fret; this is merely the way pop music works. You were a product, mass marketed to your very peers. Those same girls you taunted as you left them behind for a life of fame and fortune. Those same girls who chose an education over a free ride, and actually made something of their lives. Those same girls who will be happier and more successful than you could ever dream of. Face the cold hard truth, girls; Mickey Mouse is a dirty old man, and you have been violated. See you on the cover of People; we all know how much they love a good old fashioned crash and burn tale.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm missing Lizzie McGuire.
Here endeth the ePISSle.
(Yes, this really IS a PV!)
Okay, here's the situation...
Is it just me, or is the modern music scene turning into a junior high dance? I mean, hell, it's always been common knowledge that the music industry's number-one target demographic has been teenaged girls (which makes me wonder about all those old men in suits), but ever since Britney experienced her well-publicized growth spurt, every bright faced, shiny eyed teenage girl who can carry half a tune is finding herself with a record contract. And let's face it folks, it's getting pretty pathetic when you have a hard time naming a female star of any Disney-produced TV series that DOESN'T have a deal with a major record label.
Between Avril, Hilary, Lindsay, and all the others, a self-respecting soon-to-be-28-year-old man like myself is starting to feel really dirty if he watches Muchmusic for more than five minutes, because these pint-sized primadonnas are fucking everywhere! Whatever happened to the days when girls this age were relegated to Mini-Pop duty? Now, we're putting them center stage, handing them fifty backup dancers and a headset, and telling them to smile for daddy. It's fucking sickening.
And hey, it wouldn't be so bad if a couple of them actually had talent. But they're all the same fucking person to my ears, with a few very subtle differences to throw the public off. Think about it; Avril was the anti-Britney, and sold a fuckload of records. Hilary Duff was the innocent child, and sold a fuckload of records. Fefe Dobson was the black one, and didn't sell nearly as many records as Avril or Hilary. Linsay Lohan is the Hilary Duff copycat, and thus providing the few teenage girls without a record deal an antagonist, a "bad Hilary", if you will (as if a "good Hilary" ever existed).
I say, we throw all these teens into one band, and let them have their year and a half of fame, a la the Spice Girls, so they can fade into obscurity, and we can see a few decent videos on TV for a change. Because, realy, that's all that can be expected. The fact that Britney and Christina are still popular today is either a fluke of the grandest scale, or a testament to the belief that, if you indulge enough retirement-age fantasies in your videos, you CAN get those geezers out of the rocking chair and into the record store.
So kids, when you're blowing grey-haired executives for a guest spot on a sitcom in 10 years, don't fret; this is merely the way pop music works. You were a product, mass marketed to your very peers. Those same girls you taunted as you left them behind for a life of fame and fortune. Those same girls who chose an education over a free ride, and actually made something of their lives. Those same girls who will be happier and more successful than you could ever dream of. Face the cold hard truth, girls; Mickey Mouse is a dirty old man, and you have been violated. See you on the cover of People; we all know how much they love a good old fashioned crash and burn tale.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm missing Lizzie McGuire.
Here endeth the ePISSle.
April 7, 2004
Pissing Vinegar Vol. 39: The PV That Wasn't Really a PV
Okay, here's the situation...
In case you haven't noticed, there hasn't been a new Pissing Vinegar upate in a while, only postings of recent lyrics. It's not that I don't want to give you a shiny new PV, it's just that I can't find the time to write one.
Regardless, I hope you're reading and maybe even taking something away from my lyrics, as it's the only thing I'm writing with any consistency recently. Besides, in lieu of PV's, my newer material contains the very subject matter I've always lashed out against in those old tirades. With that said, maybe I'm subconsciously moving away from the scathing social commentary business, and toward the scathing social commentary through poetry business. Whether or not that's satisfactory, I don't know. If none of you sign the guestbook or send me an email to let me know what's good or what sucks on here, I can't improve.
I guess what I'm saying is, it's hard to feel that this sort of thing is really worth the miniscule effort I'm putting into it, without getting a little feedback. A few brief comments are nice and all, but I'm a spoiled brat trying to wean himself off of the old days, when a hundred hits a day wasn't all that surprising. It starts to feel like no one is out there, and it kind of makes me want to sign off. I know I mistreated you all by crawling into my little cocoon for over a year, but now I'm right here, and I'm willing to give you all I've got if you're willing to take it.
Jesus... that was a little dramatic. Look, I'm just requesting everyone who stops by to make a small note in my guestbook, so I can gauge who gives a shit, who doesn't, and who is still oblivious to the fact that I do, in fact, have an online presence again.
If it's F-bombs and tittie jokes you want, I can do that. If you want me to dust off the thesaurus and write something smart, I'll give it the old community college try. But, if you want me to sit here, feeling like I'm chucking words into an endless void of apathy, I can't and I won't. It's up to you now, grasshopper. Save the Emporium.
Sorry for the sleight of hand. This has most definitely NOT been PV39.
Okay, here's the situation...
In case you haven't noticed, there hasn't been a new Pissing Vinegar upate in a while, only postings of recent lyrics. It's not that I don't want to give you a shiny new PV, it's just that I can't find the time to write one.
Regardless, I hope you're reading and maybe even taking something away from my lyrics, as it's the only thing I'm writing with any consistency recently. Besides, in lieu of PV's, my newer material contains the very subject matter I've always lashed out against in those old tirades. With that said, maybe I'm subconsciously moving away from the scathing social commentary business, and toward the scathing social commentary through poetry business. Whether or not that's satisfactory, I don't know. If none of you sign the guestbook or send me an email to let me know what's good or what sucks on here, I can't improve.
I guess what I'm saying is, it's hard to feel that this sort of thing is really worth the miniscule effort I'm putting into it, without getting a little feedback. A few brief comments are nice and all, but I'm a spoiled brat trying to wean himself off of the old days, when a hundred hits a day wasn't all that surprising. It starts to feel like no one is out there, and it kind of makes me want to sign off. I know I mistreated you all by crawling into my little cocoon for over a year, but now I'm right here, and I'm willing to give you all I've got if you're willing to take it.
Jesus... that was a little dramatic. Look, I'm just requesting everyone who stops by to make a small note in my guestbook, so I can gauge who gives a shit, who doesn't, and who is still oblivious to the fact that I do, in fact, have an online presence again.
If it's F-bombs and tittie jokes you want, I can do that. If you want me to dust off the thesaurus and write something smart, I'll give it the old community college try. But, if you want me to sit here, feeling like I'm chucking words into an endless void of apathy, I can't and I won't. It's up to you now, grasshopper. Save the Emporium.
Sorry for the sleight of hand. This has most definitely NOT been PV39.
April 5, 2004
Seven Seconds Late (Doing What You've Done)
Written April 4, 2004
I'm not a famous artist. But, if I was, I'd be feeling pretty violated these days, with all the hubbub over what words you can or can't say, and what acts you can or can't do. I'd hate to think that a single word from my mouth, or one strategically placed wardrobe malfunction, could blackball me for life. It's time to put an end to all the censorship and supposed "moral cleansing" that's being forced upon us. It's time to own up to the fact that, no matter how much we isolate them, our children are going to learn swear words, see members of the opposite sex nude, and watch hundreds of people die on television. The longer we allow the suppression of free speech, the longer we suffocate ourselves as free-thinking individuals. If the world ever does become the set of '7th Heaven' (as the proponents of the Great Silencing would have it), I'll be sitting up in an old oak tree, smoking a cigarette and jacking my stack to a glossy Jessica Biel 8x10, screaming at the poor, petrified souls below to get the fuck out of my drop zone.
You, the advocates of the verbal embargo
You, who won’t be satisfied until we’re all muted
Parade your troubled children as a product of our credo
Outlaw anyone who’d have the gall to disprove it
But we have the facts, and the facts say you’re all frantic
Desperate for excuses to deflect all the blame
Preaching your morals, but you’ve twisted the semantics
Nervous whispers echoed on the tape delay
Freedom becomes folklore
The narrative controlled
Worthless and predictable
But the airtime still gets sold
The constitution is non-verbatim
Because speech just isn’t free
So when I gag your mouth and tell you it’s decreed
I’m just doing what you've done to me
You, the spotless family, the moral minority
You, the ones who’ve never had to beg forgiveness
The holier than thou routine is boring me
If God hates imperfection, everybody’s on his shit list
We have the facts, and the facts say you’re all liars
Peddling integrity to cover up your sins
You’re drowning yourself in spite of the fire
The water’s getting hotter, everybody jump in
Acceptance becomes folklore
We’re all heathens in your eyes
So blasphemous, so evil
We’ll never be glorified
The bible is non-verbatim
Because we don’t feel esteemed
So when I denounce you and curse the air you breathe
I’m just doing what you’ve done to me
Written April 4, 2004
I'm not a famous artist. But, if I was, I'd be feeling pretty violated these days, with all the hubbub over what words you can or can't say, and what acts you can or can't do. I'd hate to think that a single word from my mouth, or one strategically placed wardrobe malfunction, could blackball me for life. It's time to put an end to all the censorship and supposed "moral cleansing" that's being forced upon us. It's time to own up to the fact that, no matter how much we isolate them, our children are going to learn swear words, see members of the opposite sex nude, and watch hundreds of people die on television. The longer we allow the suppression of free speech, the longer we suffocate ourselves as free-thinking individuals. If the world ever does become the set of '7th Heaven' (as the proponents of the Great Silencing would have it), I'll be sitting up in an old oak tree, smoking a cigarette and jacking my stack to a glossy Jessica Biel 8x10, screaming at the poor, petrified souls below to get the fuck out of my drop zone.
You, the advocates of the verbal embargo
You, who won’t be satisfied until we’re all muted
Parade your troubled children as a product of our credo
Outlaw anyone who’d have the gall to disprove it
But we have the facts, and the facts say you’re all frantic
Desperate for excuses to deflect all the blame
Preaching your morals, but you’ve twisted the semantics
Nervous whispers echoed on the tape delay
Freedom becomes folklore
The narrative controlled
Worthless and predictable
But the airtime still gets sold
The constitution is non-verbatim
Because speech just isn’t free
So when I gag your mouth and tell you it’s decreed
I’m just doing what you've done to me
You, the spotless family, the moral minority
You, the ones who’ve never had to beg forgiveness
The holier than thou routine is boring me
If God hates imperfection, everybody’s on his shit list
We have the facts, and the facts say you’re all liars
Peddling integrity to cover up your sins
You’re drowning yourself in spite of the fire
The water’s getting hotter, everybody jump in
Acceptance becomes folklore
We’re all heathens in your eyes
So blasphemous, so evil
We’ll never be glorified
The bible is non-verbatim
Because we don’t feel esteemed
So when I denounce you and curse the air you breathe
I’m just doing what you’ve done to me
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