Saturday, September 16, 2006

Saturday Afternoon, Angry Thoughts

The only time I am Catholic is when I watch Notre Dame games. Nothing against the One True Faith, except for, you know, its doctrine, its hierarchy, its more conservative adherents, its rules for the priesthood - okay everything up to the divinity of Christ but not including his teachings. Anyway, it's as I watch the heathens of Ann Arbor get the tradewinds of luck over and over again that I realize myself thinking things like "I bet they're all Protestants" and "In the dawn of our Third Awakening (see previous post), God, George W. Bush, and the taskmasters of the NCAA cannot stand to see the Catholics get the post position" and so Notre Dame is punished. It's not talent, because, well, see the results of the past few ND-Michigan games. It's an eschatalogical conspiracy.

I stopped listening to Tom Hammond and Pat Hayden pretty quick, because, since NBC is the flagship station for Notre Dame, they go out of their way to kiss the other team's ass. What's worse is when they deserve it. And Pat Hayden's timbre gives me seizures. So I slapped on some John Cale, Paris 1913, and am quite impressed. First time I've ever heard this album, or actually any Cale project not overshadowed by Lou Reed. I cannot critique music, so I won't even try.

Publications/Websites to have taken potshots at Pitchfork this week: all of them. Especially Idolator, which in turn faced a quick backlash from some other site. They jump all over the shitty, nonsensical metaphors Pitchfork reviewers tend to use, which I actually find adorable. It's like a little kid who discovers bigger words and tries to use them in everyday conversation, only to mangle their meaning. Most of these reviews are intentionally impenetrable, and are, of course, intended to sound imperious - the sort of thing you cannot respond to because you wouldn't know with what obscure reference, uneven metaphor, or made-up word to start with. I love that site. I go to it everyday - there's no better resource for new music. And any reviewer who has ever used the "word" "soundscape" cannot complain about the hautiness of anyone else's review. Many people complain about how Pitchfork makes bands, which I can see, but tend to disagree with. What publication doesn't try to do this? There is a danger, of course, that some deserving bands suffer from getting a 6.0 or whatever, and some less-deserving bands (I'm looking at SunO))): Dear Pitchfork, 'droning' is not a pleasant sounding word and does not promise a pleasurable listening experience. It in fact connotes jackasses with Excalibur tattooes making "dark" music that goes positively nowhere) get popular. Such an effect, with popular sites (or sites that influence other popular media) is unavoidable, and sometimes undesirable. But, it' s a fact.

What happened to that promising looking movie about the high-stakes underground hoops scene starring Wayne Brady?

"How I Met Your Mother" makes my skin crawl, because its protagonist reminds me of a seventeen-year old me, which is no compliment to either of us, and it's a thousand times more maddening because he's somehow successful with women. He's obsessive, is less funny than the original Ross on "Friends", and does a rain dance so that his lady love won't go on this camping trip with Wesley from Angel despite the fact that Wesley, though a wet blanket on the show, is still more righteous than the douchey lead actor.

The president looked like a petulant child at his press conference yesterday, which is kind of what I think he's like every Christmas. My favorite thing about his presidency: Laura. Unlike the 1950s paradise that Laura no doubt dreams about every night, women no longer have to defer to their husbands. I don't think she realizes this. If George W. is a cocky frat boy, the country is his '57 Buick and the presidency is the empty bottle of bourbon in the back seat. But Laura can't take the wheel because that is just not the ladylike thing to do. I no longer think she looks so dim because there's not much going on inside that creepy pointy-nosed head of hers, but because she's paralyzed with fear.


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