DO NOT get used to this.
So, where was I before I got so rudely interrupted by spam? Oh, yes... a little sumthin' sumthin' to get you through the weekend, for the sake of my sanity and as a token of appreciation for the folks who give enough of a shit to take five for this shoddy little webhole. Cheers!
Okay, here's the situation...
I swore it to myself, over and over. From the time I was a teen, I kept it close to my heart, silently reciting it ad nauseum as a personal belief; nay, a mantra. Come to think of it, that's kind of sort of the same thing, but it's not important. All you have to know is, I tried really, really hard not to go back on the word I gave to myself.
I was never, ever, ever going to be one of those people.
Now, I suppose the few of you out there who have not yet developed telepathy need an explanation. What, do I have to fucking spell everything out for you? Can't you tell by the subtleties and general feel of the words I've been saying exactly what I'm thinking at this very moment?
(If you were thinking "I'd really fancy a cheeseburger", congratulations. You can read minds!)
I was never going to be one of those people bewildered by the teenagers and their love for weird/loud/bad music. Oh no, not me! I would diligently stick with the trends and, Goddamn it, I would sense the coolness in them, such is the inherent coolness within my core. The kids would marvel in awe at my coolness, because I liked the same kind of music as they did.
Well, a funny thing happened. Music started sucking. That, or the kids. Maybe both. I can't tell. All I know for sure is this: based on the wording of the above line, every pedophile on the Internet is going to stumble upon this website when they Google. If I may, let me take a moment to welcome our new friends. This message is just for them, so if the regulars would kindly skip the next paragraph...
***Why, hello there, asshead. And, welcome to Willie's Webhole. Don't be scared, there's room for everyone here. Far be it for me to make hasty judgments on your character. However, you should know that you will not find kids sucking anything, or anyone, anywhere on this website. I'm sorry to have wasted your time. But hey, since you're here, I'd like to give you a pat on the back. You serve an important purpose to your community. If not for folks like you, Dateline probably wouldn't be on the air. Boy, do I love me some Dateline; so informative, so compelling. Well, this is where you get off (or, should I say, DON'T get off? LOLs... see what I did there? That's what some people consider humour). Again, thanks for visiting Willie's Webhole. I sure enjoyed your company. Now please, if you'll excuse me, I have some non-diddlers to address. If you wouldn't mind pouring some sulfuric acid on your scrotums and sticking your creepy little dicks into a bucket of boiling motor oil, that'd be just super.***
And, we're back. Now, sometime around 2002, rock music got... well, to put it generally, less about anger and more about love. But, not love in the sense of "ooh baby, let's lay down by the fire and talk about your feelings". More like, love in the sense of "she plunges into my blackened chest with her blackened nails and pulls out my blackened heart, still beating before my blackened eyes". That, and it seemed like no one was singing anymore. It was as though any band signed to a record deal was now required in their contract to keep an electrical charge running through their assholes at all times. And, the ones who were still singing mostly sounded like they'd elected not to have puberty.
Don't get me wrong, the music was still aggressive. It's just that it all sounded like At The Drive-In. Which is the most astonishingly awful part of the screamo movement. I actually liked At The Drive-In! How could they sully such a great band like this? Over and over and over and over and over again? Between the metalhead wannabes screeching about their girlfriends and the whiny bitches moaning their fourth grade poetry, there was hardly any room left for the cool bands. They were still out there, of course. It was just getting a lot harder to hear them for all the razors slicing across wrists.
I will admit, I tried to like it for a while. My Chemical Romance, Saves The Day, Fall Out Boy, Dashboard Confessional, The Used, Bullet For My Valentine, et al. all got their chance. But, after so much of it, I ceased to get anything substantial out of the music. I found myself no longer identifying with the subject matter; then again, how many people can truly identify with a genre that has so many songs about being murdered by the love of your life? Now, I can already hear them saying, "Dude, it's only a metaphor. Love is pain, love is darkness. Don't you understand?" Well, no... I don't, emo kid. You understand this... love is pretty fucking cool. You know, not everything is a seething pit of sadness. Lighten the fuck up; go to the beach or something. You're not a fucking vampire, or the Crow, or even a mime. Nobody needs to be THAT white.
It's like this. In the 90's, "grunge" music defined my generation. The subject matter was intense, abrasive, often depressing. But, the funny thing about Pearl Jam as opposed to AFI is this. There may be an equal amount of despair in the lyrics, but when I listen to Pearl Jam sing about despair, it gives me hope. When I listen to AFI sing about despair, I survey the room for firearms and/or sharp objects.
Then, there's the whole issue of what qualifies as what these days. Can anyone really tell what's emo/hardcore/screamo/metal/retro/alternative/nu-metal/punk anymore? Fall Out Boy sings pop-punk songs about relationships, yet doesn't want to be called emo. Good Charlotte plays some of the most sugary, syrupy dogshit on the planet and claim to be punk. My Chemical Romance went from full-blown emo to emo-punk to 70's revival arena rock emo. Avenged Sevenfold, which I always considered screamo, is all of a sudden trying to be a a metal band. It doesn't make sense! Then again, maybe it's just a matter of being too old to comprehend. But, I do know that when I was a teenager, punk was the Ramones and Sex Pistols, metal was Metallica and Iron Maiden, alternative was Bjork and Radiohead, and so on and so forth. Everybody had their place, was totally cool with it, and never really went out of their way to smell the neighbour's wife's ass.
What it all boils down to is this; it is my belief that rock music needs to smarten the fuck up, take a breather, and get some semblance of identity back. It's too scattered. And the children are suffering for it. They're growing up thinking Sum 41 is punk, Panic At The Disco is hardcore, H.I.M. is metal and Pearl Jam are old farts who suck because they're old farts. They're dressing like Robert Smith and cutting themselves over a Twenty-something Straightedge Anglo Saxon Suburbanite who thinks the world is a black hole of despair because some chick he got to second base with in high school still won't return his fucking text messages.
With all of this being said, I think I've strayed a little far from the point (which, as you all know, is something I never do). I work in a music store, so I can tell you with confidence that most of today's kids have no taste in music. It's no longer about who the best band is, it's about who has the most Myspace friends. Forget about the substance, it's all about the style. Even the kids who are cooler than most by listening to older bands are consumed by it. Some of these kids would do a world of good to buy a Led Zeppelin CD, but won't because they'd rather spend the twenty bucks on a Led Zeppelin T-shirt and let all their friends know they're old school without actually having to sit through "Kashmir". They talk the talk, but when it comes time to actually pick out a CD, 9 out of 10 opt for the generic heavy-rotation-on-Much garbage.
And, do I think it's sad that I don't identify with this music? Of course. But, I'm sadder at the fact that most of the bands making rock music today don't identify with their fans. Consumed with the hook rather than the song, they're robbing our teenagers of the amazing, uplifting feeling of truly connecting with music. That, or the kids are content with connecting to their favourite bands via the official website's message board. To which all I can say is... WTF u guyz?
Here endeth the ePISSle.
April 27, 2007
April 25, 2007
The Mood Lights Make You Wanna Buy It.
In lieu of an official video, Queens Of The Stone Age have created a short advertisement on their website. In the clip, we're introduced to Bulby, a smoking cracked (not smoking crack... not on camera, anyway) light bulb with arms and a mobster's mouth sans profanity (come on, one f-bomb, is that too much to ask?).
Anyway, the real joy of this video is getting to hear a fair chunk of "Sick, Sick, Sick", a blistering little tune with contributions from the Strokes' Julian Casablancas. As you'll know if you watch, Era Vulgaris is released to stores on June 12 (read: not fucking soon enough), and on bit torrent sites everywhere sometime next week.
If not hearing a full song annoyed you, have a listen to "No One Knows", with hilariously misheard lyrics! Or not... you know, I actually sort of hate these things; maybe it's because I don't mishear the lyrics. Ah well, enjoy...
In lieu of an official video, Queens Of The Stone Age have created a short advertisement on their website. In the clip, we're introduced to Bulby, a smoking cracked (not smoking crack... not on camera, anyway) light bulb with arms and a mobster's mouth sans profanity (come on, one f-bomb, is that too much to ask?).
Anyway, the real joy of this video is getting to hear a fair chunk of "Sick, Sick, Sick", a blistering little tune with contributions from the Strokes' Julian Casablancas. As you'll know if you watch, Era Vulgaris is released to stores on June 12 (read: not fucking soon enough), and on bit torrent sites everywhere sometime next week.
If not hearing a full song annoyed you, have a listen to "No One Knows", with hilariously misheard lyrics! Or not... you know, I actually sort of hate these things; maybe it's because I don't mishear the lyrics. Ah well, enjoy...
It's the Return of...
Take a moment.
Breathe.
Hold that breath.
Just a few seconds longer.
Okay, exhale.
Now, bear with me. It's been a long time since I played this game, and there's bound to be some rust. That being said, I've sufficiently pumped myself up with a light workout session and a cool drink of water. From here on out, all I can offer you is my best. If that's not good enough, I'll go back to the bench, serve my time, and work on my jump shot. And coach, I know that if you stick with me, have a little faith, I'll be logging major crunch time minutes again in no time.
Wait, what are we talking about here? My bad, I was having my Michael Jordan dream again.
(ahem)
Okay, here's the situation.
As I stare at this little flashing cursor, and the preceeding line, a thousand memories flutter around my fragile little brain. Like tiny phantoms, Ghosts of Pissings Past, if you will. All of the fallen rants, sent away to die a slow, agonizing death on the back pages of this blog, presented in a loosely memorialized manner, much like fallen soldiers whose numbers far outmeasure the amount of available plots in the cemetery; I shall play the part of the uncaring, unfeeling dictator, dumping them recklessly into a crudely constructed mass tomb and leaving them to rot in the slow burning sun. Such is the fate of these poor, condemned souls. Sadly, their sacrifice shall be forgotten long before this sentence is over.
When I made the decision to bring back the old Crowd Favourite, I scared the shit out of myself. As soon as I published that blog entry, I thought to myself, "What in Sweet Baby Jesus' name were you thinking?"
Here I was, making another empty promise. Hell, I had already given ample reason for the lack of these rants, and had happily gone about my miniscule, vinegar-free existence. I was certain that I'd be crawlng back to this place, begging for your forgiveness in no time. After all, this wasn't the first time I'd failed miserably when it came to following up on my word. Granted, one can never tell when circumstances will prevent said promise to be fulfilled. However, it was my own laziness that dealt the death blow, at least originally. Little procrastinations turned into huge derailments and, before too long, it had been an eternity.
You know the rest; I posted about my happier life, and bid adieu to all things Pissing. Only to pimp the comeback (which I regretted doing, knowing how these things have tended to jinx themselves).
But then, something unexpected happened. Which got me thinking. Which got me angry. Which made me happy. Because now, my friends, we can move forward in pissed off harmony.
Let's begin.
I'd like to play a little game of "picture this" with you. I know, we've done this before, but don't worry; this visualization does not end with scary monsters or severed genetalia. I promise.
You're sitting at home on a Saturday night. There's nothing to do, and Facebook is failing to entertain you at this particular moment. You consider ordering a pizza or maybe some Chinese food; maybe later, you'll pop in one of your DVDs and watch an old favourite for the eighteenth time. Then, the weirdest thing happens. Just as you pick up the phone to call in your order, it rings. You answer and, to your surprise and delight, it's an old friend. You come to know that this particular friend has moved back to town, and you're invited to the housewarming party (which, for the purposes of this story, is conveniently being held tonight).
You jump in the shower, throw on your cleanest clothes, hit up the drive-thru and the liquor store, and land at the house. You walk inside, and all of your friends are there, greeting you emphatically. You have a few drinks and start to reminisce, recalling all of the best times you've shared with this outstanding and unique group of people. All the fondly retold tales of drunken debauchery, flings, ex-lovers, teachers, family... whatever the conversation leads to. It's one of the most awesome times you've ever had. After a few hours of cheer and free flowing good tidings, the doorbell rings. Your host answers the door to reveal someone whom no one in the room has ever seen in their lives. He proceeds to barge into the house, not even bothering to take his shoes off as he tracks mud over the previously clean carpet. He pushes you out of the way and beelines for the fridge, where he helps himself to a beer. Despite everyone's objections, he proclaims that he's going to hang out for a while. He grabs a girl by the hair and pulls her out of her seat. Taking her spot at the kitchen table, he smiles defiantly at everyone. Then, screaming so that his voice can be heard above the protesting masses, he informs us all about the benefits of albuterol and hydroxyzine.
Finally, the host has had enough of this random person's foolishness, and gets you and a couple of other guys to physically remove this nonsensical asshole from the premises. After tossing his sorry ass out the front door, you return to the kitchen where, astonishingly, three other people you don't know are harassing the guests about why they should be enlarging their penises (including the girls). One of them walks over to you and pins you against the wall. Pressing his nose against yours, he roars at you with rancid breath about how much he enjoys being naughty with cherries and a curling iron. You get the picture.
If you look at most of my entries, the comments section is bare. For a very long time, I wondered if anyone read this thing. Sure, a few popped up here and there, just to let me know that it wasn't just me I was writing/posting for. But then, the other day, I met Alex. For those who don't know who Alex is, allow me to bring you up to speed. Alex is the douchebag Russian bot that decided to post completely incoherent and hotlink infested comments in response to my last post. If you look at the comments, they're copy and paste jobs of various passages from various literary works interspersed with unrelated words which link to websites, most of which I assume are like Hepatitis C, where the C stands for Computer, and Hepatitis stands for Will Anally Rape Your. I haven't clicked any of the links, and I hope to Christ that you aren't dumb enough to.
So anyway, here we have it. My comments section corrupted by fucking bullshit spam. All because some slack jawed Vodka swilling fucktard is getting paid a couple of rubels by some batshit pharmaceutical company for ruining perfectly good websites. Seriously, does this kind of advertising work? Has anyone ever seen this shit and thought to themselves that now would be a good time to get on the old phenlpypertoxamine train? What, am I supposed to just disable comments and let this jackass move on without notice that he's seriously cheesed the creator of Pissing Vinegar?! Fuck that shit! He put four comments on my website, so I'll put forty on his. And, even if nobody actually is there to read them, something out there in the Interweb will know that Willie was spammed by some cyberfuckhead, and Willie spammed back. As a matter of fact, as soon as I finish this, I'm going to march right over to Alex's comments page and spam the ever loving shit out of him. I'll spam his bitch ass so hard, he'll think he's died and gone to some hellish Monty Python purgatory.
I'm no fool; I know this isn't going to do any good. The way I see it, sometimes you've got to walk a mile in a bot's shoes before you know they're/it's a fucktard. If the only way to do that is to post the word "fucktard" forty times in someone's blog, so be it. This is for your battered inbox. This is for the gNosh guestbook. This is for the companies that aren't paying me to annoy you, even though I can think of no sweeter existence than to be paid by the fucktard. This is for your freedom!
Here endeth the ePISSle.
Edit: Apparently, it's my computer who's really the fucktard. My javascript isn't letting me post on Alex's blog. Oh well, I guess I can always report him as a spammer (like many others who have left quite colourful comments in his blog already) and hope that somebody pinpoints his exact location, boards a plane, knocks down his door, barges in and throws him through a window before inserting shards of glass into his scrotum. Unless, of course, Alex turns out to be a she. In which case, we jam her box with spam of course.
Edit 2: Okay, I've flagged this douche's blog and set my comments for word verification. Believe me, I wanted to keep it as easy as possible for you to comment on my shit, but if you're a spammer, you're going to have to actually be at the keyboard to do it. Carry on.
Take a moment.
Breathe.
Hold that breath.
Just a few seconds longer.
Okay, exhale.
Now, bear with me. It's been a long time since I played this game, and there's bound to be some rust. That being said, I've sufficiently pumped myself up with a light workout session and a cool drink of water. From here on out, all I can offer you is my best. If that's not good enough, I'll go back to the bench, serve my time, and work on my jump shot. And coach, I know that if you stick with me, have a little faith, I'll be logging major crunch time minutes again in no time.
Wait, what are we talking about here? My bad, I was having my Michael Jordan dream again.
Okay, here's the situation.
As I stare at this little flashing cursor, and the preceeding line, a thousand memories flutter around my fragile little brain. Like tiny phantoms, Ghosts of Pissings Past, if you will. All of the fallen rants, sent away to die a slow, agonizing death on the back pages of this blog, presented in a loosely memorialized manner, much like fallen soldiers whose numbers far outmeasure the amount of available plots in the cemetery; I shall play the part of the uncaring, unfeeling dictator, dumping them recklessly into a crudely constructed mass tomb and leaving them to rot in the slow burning sun. Such is the fate of these poor, condemned souls. Sadly, their sacrifice shall be forgotten long before this sentence is over.
When I made the decision to bring back the old Crowd Favourite, I scared the shit out of myself. As soon as I published that blog entry, I thought to myself, "What in Sweet Baby Jesus' name were you thinking?"
Here I was, making another empty promise. Hell, I had already given ample reason for the lack of these rants, and had happily gone about my miniscule, vinegar-free existence. I was certain that I'd be crawlng back to this place, begging for your forgiveness in no time. After all, this wasn't the first time I'd failed miserably when it came to following up on my word. Granted, one can never tell when circumstances will prevent said promise to be fulfilled. However, it was my own laziness that dealt the death blow, at least originally. Little procrastinations turned into huge derailments and, before too long, it had been an eternity.
You know the rest; I posted about my happier life, and bid adieu to all things Pissing. Only to pimp the comeback (which I regretted doing, knowing how these things have tended to jinx themselves).
But then, something unexpected happened. Which got me thinking. Which got me angry. Which made me happy. Because now, my friends, we can move forward in pissed off harmony.
Let's begin.
I'd like to play a little game of "picture this" with you. I know, we've done this before, but don't worry; this visualization does not end with scary monsters or severed genetalia. I promise.
You're sitting at home on a Saturday night. There's nothing to do, and Facebook is failing to entertain you at this particular moment. You consider ordering a pizza or maybe some Chinese food; maybe later, you'll pop in one of your DVDs and watch an old favourite for the eighteenth time. Then, the weirdest thing happens. Just as you pick up the phone to call in your order, it rings. You answer and, to your surprise and delight, it's an old friend. You come to know that this particular friend has moved back to town, and you're invited to the housewarming party (which, for the purposes of this story, is conveniently being held tonight).
You jump in the shower, throw on your cleanest clothes, hit up the drive-thru and the liquor store, and land at the house. You walk inside, and all of your friends are there, greeting you emphatically. You have a few drinks and start to reminisce, recalling all of the best times you've shared with this outstanding and unique group of people. All the fondly retold tales of drunken debauchery, flings, ex-lovers, teachers, family... whatever the conversation leads to. It's one of the most awesome times you've ever had. After a few hours of cheer and free flowing good tidings, the doorbell rings. Your host answers the door to reveal someone whom no one in the room has ever seen in their lives. He proceeds to barge into the house, not even bothering to take his shoes off as he tracks mud over the previously clean carpet. He pushes you out of the way and beelines for the fridge, where he helps himself to a beer. Despite everyone's objections, he proclaims that he's going to hang out for a while. He grabs a girl by the hair and pulls her out of her seat. Taking her spot at the kitchen table, he smiles defiantly at everyone. Then, screaming so that his voice can be heard above the protesting masses, he informs us all about the benefits of albuterol and hydroxyzine.
Finally, the host has had enough of this random person's foolishness, and gets you and a couple of other guys to physically remove this nonsensical asshole from the premises. After tossing his sorry ass out the front door, you return to the kitchen where, astonishingly, three other people you don't know are harassing the guests about why they should be enlarging their penises (including the girls). One of them walks over to you and pins you against the wall. Pressing his nose against yours, he roars at you with rancid breath about how much he enjoys being naughty with cherries and a curling iron. You get the picture.
If you look at most of my entries, the comments section is bare. For a very long time, I wondered if anyone read this thing. Sure, a few popped up here and there, just to let me know that it wasn't just me I was writing/posting for. But then, the other day, I met Alex. For those who don't know who Alex is, allow me to bring you up to speed. Alex is the douchebag Russian bot that decided to post completely incoherent and hotlink infested comments in response to my last post. If you look at the comments, they're copy and paste jobs of various passages from various literary works interspersed with unrelated words which link to websites, most of which I assume are like Hepatitis C, where the C stands for Computer, and Hepatitis stands for Will Anally Rape Your. I haven't clicked any of the links, and I hope to Christ that you aren't dumb enough to.
So anyway, here we have it. My comments section corrupted by fucking bullshit spam. All because some slack jawed Vodka swilling fucktard is getting paid a couple of rubels by some batshit pharmaceutical company for ruining perfectly good websites. Seriously, does this kind of advertising work? Has anyone ever seen this shit and thought to themselves that now would be a good time to get on the old phenlpypertoxamine train? What, am I supposed to just disable comments and let this jackass move on without notice that he's seriously cheesed the creator of Pissing Vinegar?! Fuck that shit! He put four comments on my website, so I'll put forty on his. And, even if nobody actually is there to read them, something out there in the Interweb will know that Willie was spammed by some cyberfuckhead, and Willie spammed back. As a matter of fact, as soon as I finish this, I'm going to march right over to Alex's comments page and spam the ever loving shit out of him. I'll spam his bitch ass so hard, he'll think he's died and gone to some hellish Monty Python purgatory.
I'm no fool; I know this isn't going to do any good. The way I see it, sometimes you've got to walk a mile in a bot's shoes before you know they're/it's a fucktard. If the only way to do that is to post the word "fucktard" forty times in someone's blog, so be it. This is for your battered inbox. This is for the gNosh guestbook. This is for the companies that aren't paying me to annoy you, even though I can think of no sweeter existence than to be paid by the fucktard. This is for your freedom!
Here endeth the ePISSle.
Edit: Apparently, it's my computer who's really the fucktard. My javascript isn't letting me post on Alex's blog. Oh well, I guess I can always report him as a spammer (like many others who have left quite colourful comments in his blog already) and hope that somebody pinpoints his exact location, boards a plane, knocks down his door, barges in and throws him through a window before inserting shards of glass into his scrotum. Unless, of course, Alex turns out to be a she. In which case, we jam her box with spam of course.
Edit 2: Okay, I've flagged this douche's blog and set my comments for word verification. Believe me, I wanted to keep it as easy as possible for you to comment on my shit, but if you're a spammer, you're going to have to actually be at the keyboard to do it. Carry on.
April 18, 2007
Blast From The Past
While we wait for what I'm sure will go over like Chinese Democracy (if you're lost, maybe you didn't read the full post directly below this one), let's get a little nostalgic, shall we?
While we wait for what I'm sure will go over like Chinese Democracy (if you're lost, maybe you didn't read the full post directly below this one), let's get a little nostalgic, shall we?
Still Rolling...
When I was in college learning all about radio broadcasting, I was taught to beware the "false ending". As you may have assertained from this, a "false ending" occurs when a song fades or stops cold (read: ends) before the song is actually over. The prime example of this is Matthew Sweet's "Sick Of Myself", which stops, starts again, stops again, and starts again before finally actually stopping for real. Now, in these days of CDs and mp3s, a false ending is fairly easy to detect. If the song's four minutes long and it sounds like it's ending at 2:38, chances are that's a flase ending, and the song is about to kick in again. That, or there's a hidden track tacked onto the end (something not commonly found on any track except the last on a CD). As for me, I trained on carts (which are like 8-tracks, but not really) with no timers, and that song burned my ass a few times.
Now that we have that useless lesson out of the way, on to what reminded me of it all in the first place. As avid readers of the site (both of you) may have noticed, my Roll Up The Rim stats are tallying up again, rather than reading "final stats". This is because I experienced a false ending over the weekend. The Tim's I usually frequent on my way to work is pretty much the only one in my area that I didn't get coffee at on Sunday. And, at all of the places I got coffee on Sunday, no Roll Up cups were given. This led me to assume that all the Tim's had run out of cups, and I capped my Roll Up season there, after a strong start and a dreadful finish (for those who kept track, you'll recall I had a losing streak of over 40 cups going over a three week period).
Imagine my surprise when, upon returning to my normally scheduled Tim's en route to work Monday, I got another cup. And, not only that, but I also broke the streak! I'm now proud to say that I've won two coffees in my last three, and that I'm creeping back up toward the 1:9 winning ratio that I was so far ahead of before that brutal, winless three weeks. Of course, it will all be over tomorrow, now that I've taken the time to write all of this out.
At any rate, I thought I should point something out that I feel is semi-important. As meaningless as it's been to keep daily track of my winnings on some stupid annual corporate coffee drive (that's not blasphemy, fuckers, it's seeing the coffee for the beans), Roll Up The Rim has had positive effects far beyond maintaining a caffeine addiction that is ever approaching lethal levels. Throughout the last 7 weeks or so, this inconsequential task of keeping my Roll Up record has given me an excuse to update this blog on a fairly regular basis (read: as compared to the last five years, I've been updating at a breakneck pace). This keeps me posting, keeps me talking, and keeps me in contact.
I'll not beat around the bush here; I'm more aware than anyone that I reached an all-time low in isolation as far as keeping in touch is concerned. I don't know if it was any one event in particular or a whole bunch in a row, but sometime between January and December 2002 I lost pretty much everything and everyone I cared to lose. And make no mistake; it's taken a harsh and permanent toll on my mind. I know that I can never get back to the level of outgoingness (?) that I used to have. Too many brain cells died in the Great Emotional Flood of '02. Between all of the things I've discussed and all of the things I've preferred to keep on the low down, I went through enough bullshit during that year to be fatal to some (and yes, I'm not ashamed to say I thought about it).
The point is, I suffered a lot. I'm not asking for pity, and I'm not making excuses. All I'm saying is that after all of that, there was at least a moment that I didn't expect to speak to anyone ever again, let alone be typing this for anyone in the world to read. With that in mind, it's kind of funny and incredibly satisfying to me that something as simple as a coffee cup can reopen the connection we've lost. Now, through this blog and Facebook, I'm seeing people I haven't talked to in years reach out and offer themselves as friends. And, even if it's only a scheme to raise their numbers, it's still a hell of a lot better than saying no.
It's weird; I had no intention of rambling on like this. I was posting the coffee shit and going to bed. Now, I've got my heart on my sleeve, spouting blood and burger grease all over the keyboard... and I'm smiling. I'm so emo.
Hey, that reminds me... new Pissing Vinegar coming soon. Good night, all.
When I was in college learning all about radio broadcasting, I was taught to beware the "false ending". As you may have assertained from this, a "false ending" occurs when a song fades or stops cold (read: ends) before the song is actually over. The prime example of this is Matthew Sweet's "Sick Of Myself", which stops, starts again, stops again, and starts again before finally actually stopping for real. Now, in these days of CDs and mp3s, a false ending is fairly easy to detect. If the song's four minutes long and it sounds like it's ending at 2:38, chances are that's a flase ending, and the song is about to kick in again. That, or there's a hidden track tacked onto the end (something not commonly found on any track except the last on a CD). As for me, I trained on carts (which are like 8-tracks, but not really) with no timers, and that song burned my ass a few times.
Now that we have that useless lesson out of the way, on to what reminded me of it all in the first place. As avid readers of the site (both of you) may have noticed, my Roll Up The Rim stats are tallying up again, rather than reading "final stats". This is because I experienced a false ending over the weekend. The Tim's I usually frequent on my way to work is pretty much the only one in my area that I didn't get coffee at on Sunday. And, at all of the places I got coffee on Sunday, no Roll Up cups were given. This led me to assume that all the Tim's had run out of cups, and I capped my Roll Up season there, after a strong start and a dreadful finish (for those who kept track, you'll recall I had a losing streak of over 40 cups going over a three week period).
Imagine my surprise when, upon returning to my normally scheduled Tim's en route to work Monday, I got another cup. And, not only that, but I also broke the streak! I'm now proud to say that I've won two coffees in my last three, and that I'm creeping back up toward the 1:9 winning ratio that I was so far ahead of before that brutal, winless three weeks. Of course, it will all be over tomorrow, now that I've taken the time to write all of this out.
At any rate, I thought I should point something out that I feel is semi-important. As meaningless as it's been to keep daily track of my winnings on some stupid annual corporate coffee drive (that's not blasphemy, fuckers, it's seeing the coffee for the beans), Roll Up The Rim has had positive effects far beyond maintaining a caffeine addiction that is ever approaching lethal levels. Throughout the last 7 weeks or so, this inconsequential task of keeping my Roll Up record has given me an excuse to update this blog on a fairly regular basis (read: as compared to the last five years, I've been updating at a breakneck pace). This keeps me posting, keeps me talking, and keeps me in contact.
I'll not beat around the bush here; I'm more aware than anyone that I reached an all-time low in isolation as far as keeping in touch is concerned. I don't know if it was any one event in particular or a whole bunch in a row, but sometime between January and December 2002 I lost pretty much everything and everyone I cared to lose. And make no mistake; it's taken a harsh and permanent toll on my mind. I know that I can never get back to the level of outgoingness (?) that I used to have. Too many brain cells died in the Great Emotional Flood of '02. Between all of the things I've discussed and all of the things I've preferred to keep on the low down, I went through enough bullshit during that year to be fatal to some (and yes, I'm not ashamed to say I thought about it).
The point is, I suffered a lot. I'm not asking for pity, and I'm not making excuses. All I'm saying is that after all of that, there was at least a moment that I didn't expect to speak to anyone ever again, let alone be typing this for anyone in the world to read. With that in mind, it's kind of funny and incredibly satisfying to me that something as simple as a coffee cup can reopen the connection we've lost. Now, through this blog and Facebook, I'm seeing people I haven't talked to in years reach out and offer themselves as friends. And, even if it's only a scheme to raise their numbers, it's still a hell of a lot better than saying no.
It's weird; I had no intention of rambling on like this. I was posting the coffee shit and going to bed. Now, I've got my heart on my sleeve, spouting blood and burger grease all over the keyboard... and I'm smiling. I'm so emo.
Hey, that reminds me... new Pissing Vinegar coming soon. Good night, all.
April 11, 2007
Crash Course: Bjork
Earlier today, for some totally random and bizarre reason, I felt like listening to Bjork. I don't own any Bjork albums, nor would I call myself the biggest fan of the Icelandic firecracker. But, after absorbing a few tunes, I became strangely drawn to her steadfast resistance to mainstream influence and her flair for the... shall we say, quirky.
With this in mind (and, if for no other reason, because her new disc drops on May 8), I've decided to install this new (hopefully reoccurring) feature.
Here's how it works. I'll pick an artist/group whom some of this site's viewers may or may not be terribly familiar with. Then, I'll provide a list of videos for you to watch as a quick way to get acquainted with the works of said artist/group. Kind of like the Spotlight on MuchMusic... you know, back in the long long ago when there were no commercial interruptions and minimal interviews, just videos. I miss the long long ago...
Anyway, here's a selection of clips from Bjork's solo repertoire (I've excluded her stuff with the Sugarcubes since who the hell remembers them?). Watch them, listen, and enjoy the crash course.
"Human Behaviour", from Debut (1993):
"Big Time Sensuality", from Debut (1993):
"Army Of Me", from Post (1995):
"It's Oh So Quiet", from Post (1995):
"I Miss You", from Post (1995):
"Joga", from Homogenic (1997):
"Bachelorette", from Homogenic (1997):
"Hidden Place", from Vespertine (2001):
"Pagan Poetry", from Vespertine (2001):
WARNING: CONTAINS NUDITY.
"Oceania", from Medulla (2004):
I'd throw in a video for Bjork's new single ("Earth Intruders", from the upcoming album Volta , but there isn't one yet. If only there were a way to listen to it...
Earlier today, for some totally random and bizarre reason, I felt like listening to Bjork. I don't own any Bjork albums, nor would I call myself the biggest fan of the Icelandic firecracker. But, after absorbing a few tunes, I became strangely drawn to her steadfast resistance to mainstream influence and her flair for the... shall we say, quirky.
With this in mind (and, if for no other reason, because her new disc drops on May 8), I've decided to install this new (hopefully reoccurring) feature.
Here's how it works. I'll pick an artist/group whom some of this site's viewers may or may not be terribly familiar with. Then, I'll provide a list of videos for you to watch as a quick way to get acquainted with the works of said artist/group. Kind of like the Spotlight on MuchMusic... you know, back in the long long ago when there were no commercial interruptions and minimal interviews, just videos. I miss the long long ago...
Anyway, here's a selection of clips from Bjork's solo repertoire (I've excluded her stuff with the Sugarcubes since who the hell remembers them?). Watch them, listen, and enjoy the crash course.
"Human Behaviour", from Debut (1993):
"Big Time Sensuality", from Debut (1993):
"Army Of Me", from Post (1995):
"It's Oh So Quiet", from Post (1995):
"I Miss You", from Post (1995):
"Joga", from Homogenic (1997):
"Bachelorette", from Homogenic (1997):
"Hidden Place", from Vespertine (2001):
"Pagan Poetry", from Vespertine (2001):
WARNING: CONTAINS NUDITY.
"Oceania", from Medulla (2004):
I'd throw in a video for Bjork's new single ("Earth Intruders", from the upcoming album Volta , but there isn't one yet. If only there were a way to listen to it...
April 9, 2007
Make Your Own Punk Rock!
For anyone who's ever been told punk rock was a difficult form of music to make, prove those suckas wrong by making your own!
The novelty wears off after a few minutes, but those few minutes are a rockin' good time. Enjoy!
For anyone who's ever been told punk rock was a difficult form of music to make, prove those suckas wrong by making your own!
The novelty wears off after a few minutes, but those few minutes are a rockin' good time. Enjoy!
April 5, 2007
Listen to Year Zero... NOW!
What's better than finding a leak of the creepynoisycool new Nine Inch Nails record (street date: April 17) on the internet? Why, being allowed to stream the creepynoisycool new Nine Inch Nails record guilt-free directly from the Year Zero web site, of course!
When you think about it, this an amazingly awesome thing for Mr. Reznor to do. In an age where every other week we hear about some rich bitch musician pissing and moaning about grubby little geeks "stealing" their music, it's nice to see at least one high profile artist that doesn't give two shits how much you're willing to pay to listen to their music, as long as you're listening.
With that in mind, I hope that the majority of people who enjoy this new record go out and support the NIN initiative by buying it. If Year Zero is a "hit", not only will it show that a lot of people still dig on cool music, but it will also show the grabass record industry what people like me have known for years; the internet is a good thing for music.
All that having been said, upon first listen I thought Year Zero was a strong Album of the Year contender right up until track 12, the brooding and wounded mostly-instrumental "The Greater Good". Not that it's a bad piece of music, but it does tend to slaughter the momentum of the album. After this point, the songs just kind of limp along and sputter out (with the exception of the truly excellent "In This Twilight"), bringing a lackluster close to a blockbuster album. All told, though, this record is by no means bad. In fact, it's quite handily the greatest thing Trent Reznor has produced since 1994's manical masterpiece The Downward Spiral. With a little tweaking in the sequencing, I truly feel it could have been NIN's new benchmark. Instead, Year Zero is merely a very good record, especially if you're a fan of dystopic subject matter, elaborate concepts (the sequel is due out sometime in '08, not to mention talk of a movie and all those crazy futuristic web sites), weird sonic experiments and shaking your booty. Oh, and fighting the power. Word.
What's better than finding a leak of the creepynoisycool new Nine Inch Nails record (street date: April 17) on the internet? Why, being allowed to stream the creepynoisycool new Nine Inch Nails record guilt-free directly from the Year Zero web site, of course!
When you think about it, this an amazingly awesome thing for Mr. Reznor to do. In an age where every other week we hear about some rich bitch musician pissing and moaning about grubby little geeks "stealing" their music, it's nice to see at least one high profile artist that doesn't give two shits how much you're willing to pay to listen to their music, as long as you're listening.
With that in mind, I hope that the majority of people who enjoy this new record go out and support the NIN initiative by buying it. If Year Zero is a "hit", not only will it show that a lot of people still dig on cool music, but it will also show the grabass record industry what people like me have known for years; the internet is a good thing for music.
All that having been said, upon first listen I thought Year Zero was a strong Album of the Year contender right up until track 12, the brooding and wounded mostly-instrumental "The Greater Good". Not that it's a bad piece of music, but it does tend to slaughter the momentum of the album. After this point, the songs just kind of limp along and sputter out (with the exception of the truly excellent "In This Twilight"), bringing a lackluster close to a blockbuster album. All told, though, this record is by no means bad. In fact, it's quite handily the greatest thing Trent Reznor has produced since 1994's manical masterpiece The Downward Spiral. With a little tweaking in the sequencing, I truly feel it could have been NIN's new benchmark. Instead, Year Zero is merely a very good record, especially if you're a fan of dystopic subject matter, elaborate concepts (the sequel is due out sometime in '08, not to mention talk of a movie and all those crazy futuristic web sites), weird sonic experiments and shaking your booty. Oh, and fighting the power. Word.
April 4, 2007
New stuff from John Butler Trio!
If you haven't yet heard of John Butler Trio, shame on you! Born in the states but living in Australia since age 11, John Butler has been laying down hot licks and writing simple, effective, funky music for over ten years. Now, with his new album Grand National finally out in Canada, he's taking his sound global. Ranging from the familiar (think Jack Johnson, but waaaaay more talented musically) to the unexpected (think bluegrass disco) effortlessly, Butler's new disc may not be ultimately as satisfying as 2004's phenomenal Sunrise Over Sea, but it's certainly more intriguing. Lay your eyes on the video for "Good Excuse", which you won't hear on North American radio for a few more months (if at all); it's currently zooming up the charts in Paul Hogan's turf, while we're stuck with the passable though painfully mainstream-minded "Better Than".
"Good Excuse":
"Better Than" (from some TV show in France, as his North American record label apparently decided that no official video for the band's lead single was necessary, and that they'd leave all promotion for John Butler Trio this side of the pond to me):
And, in case you were hoping to see something not related to music today, watch this sick ass new Die Hard trailer. Yippie ka ye, muthafucka!
If you haven't yet heard of John Butler Trio, shame on you! Born in the states but living in Australia since age 11, John Butler has been laying down hot licks and writing simple, effective, funky music for over ten years. Now, with his new album Grand National finally out in Canada, he's taking his sound global. Ranging from the familiar (think Jack Johnson, but waaaaay more talented musically) to the unexpected (think bluegrass disco) effortlessly, Butler's new disc may not be ultimately as satisfying as 2004's phenomenal Sunrise Over Sea, but it's certainly more intriguing. Lay your eyes on the video for "Good Excuse", which you won't hear on North American radio for a few more months (if at all); it's currently zooming up the charts in Paul Hogan's turf, while we're stuck with the passable though painfully mainstream-minded "Better Than".
"Good Excuse":
"Better Than" (from some TV show in France, as his North American record label apparently decided that no official video for the band's lead single was necessary, and that they'd leave all promotion for John Butler Trio this side of the pond to me):
And, in case you were hoping to see something not related to music today, watch this sick ass new Die Hard trailer. Yippie ka ye, muthafucka!
April 3, 2007
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