
If not the most over-rated band in the history of rock & roll, certainly one of the least listenable.
Fanzine poses, Keanuesque mumblings and hashpipe poesy do not a great legacy make: Frontman Jim Morrison's seemingly permanent place in Spencer poster displays have done far more to establish this band's place in the collective unconscious than its fratboy junkie art student persona (let alone cruise-ship quality music) ever did.
Most probably otherwise written off or ignored as just another forgotten embarrassment (alongside the likes of the Jefferson Airplane, Country Joe and Hot Tuna) in the dustbin that was Sxities California Rock, this crap enjoyed something of a popular resurgence in the early '90s when wacko filmmaker Ollie Stone made it the subject of a truly fetid docudrama that not only severely damaged Meg Ryan's previously indefatigable babe factor but proved at least somewhat responsible for the (thankfully short-lived) cult of Val Kilmer.
Double yuck with a bullet.

The seed from which this cancer grew.
Where celebrity bung-sniffing was once relegated to the garish covers of newsprint tabloids where one waited for his mother's turn at the checkout, the past couple decades have seen this unseemly obsession inflate to obscene proportions, largely on the calluses of Mary Hart's shapely heels.
Seems one can't catch the morning weather report anymore without enduring some actor's DUI photo or another of Robin Williams' annoying free-associative, masturbatory monologues.
People Magazine for illiterates.

Violent, homoerotic swill.
Respected friends and critics alike hold this modern exploitation flick in particularly high regard, as though skank posturing, dated pop-culture references and rote class criticism are - in a constipated era of diminished standards and smug detachment - somehow closer to Dickens or Conrad than, say, "Billy Jack".
To entertain, cerebral unpleasantness must be either divinely cartoonish (i.e.: "Monty Python & the Holy Grail"; "Evil Dead"; the career of Curly Howard) or uniquely unsettling ("Pulp Fiction"; "Pink Flamingos"; the career of Gary Busey). Looking to "Fight Club" for social or artistic relevance is like asking Ted Nugent for his opinion on the inherent moral ambiguity of existentialism (or just about anything else).
Those seeking something deeper are advised to look elsewhere.

If this arid, artificial hotbed of sleaze, sex and greed manages to make it through the end of the year, someone upstairs owes the people of Sodom one hell of a fucking apology.

Ever since his early guest spots on Letterman and that irritating "What's Your Beef" gimmick, Leno has consistently made all the wrong moves, providing the Presidential cabinet, countless CEOs and middle managers with a national figure on which to model the principle of upward failure.
His blatant Republican ass-kissing and excessive automobile fetish only serve to underline his overall rancidness.
A pox on Western culture.

Support our troops? F that.
I mean, there's no draft anymore, right? No one forced anybody to go anywhere. Hell, if Our Troops had all refused to report for duty or re-enlist, this shameful period of American history would have been over and done with, whether by draft or exodus or firing squad or whatever. The result would be different, that's for damned sure.
Was it not Our beloved Troops who wiped out the Native Americans, introduced the world to nuclear holocaust, trained snipers to off their fellow countrymen?
I for one was against this stupid fracas to begin with.
Since it was these bozos who signed on to become hired guns, my only hope is that God grants them the humility and humanity to put the degradation and racism and brutality behind them and resist killing others until their safe return.
All in all, an awfully shitty way to pay for college.

Enough with the flippin' liturgy already.
We spend so much time in the preparation there's no time left to think and talk about God.
What if the National Anthem and Pledge of Allegiance and message from our sponsor were expanded to the point that when all was said and done there were but three innings left in the game, often with the Visitors' side getting only two at-bats? Who'd be up in arms then?

Demon spawn with spatula and ball peen.
Notoriously coarse, Martha did her best to bring back Reagan-era, greed-mongering chic by emerging from the hoosegow better off than ever before.
That she will most probably be remembered as a proto-feminist icon and marketing genious only provides Hillary Clinton with another rival and Satan with another feather in his widow's peak.

Sitting inside for three hours used to mean a healthy grown man had become deathly ill.
Save the carpet and take the same group of testosterone-fueled boozers boating instead.

Hemingway. George Sanders. Cobain. Now Hunter S. Thompson.
Good thing they did their best work early.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home