My (Two) Weekends Were Better Than Yours

To your left, you see the reasons for my truancy over the last two weeks. Actually, it's the wrong picture because the wristband from the Strawberry Park Bluegrass Festival is not included, but I was there, too. But you get the idea. I also didn't get a picture of the tick that I extracted from my bodice last weekend, but I'm not sure he really would have worked with the collage, potentially making for a muddled... assortment of... various... artifacts. Too late.

Anyway, I've spent so much time on Landsdowne St. over the last few days that they're considering naming a street corner after me... Probably the one that I managed to vomit upon not once, but two times during my various exploits over the last few weeks.

This kind of post comes dangerously close to those bullshit, masturbatory tweets that the kids seem to love so much these days, but I felt the need to explain myself a little better in lieu of the rapid drop off in posted content. Or, I just wanted to let you know how much cooler I am than you are. So fuck off.

This weekend is recoup time, so I'm gonna rest up and come up with some good ideas to get this show back on the road and once again make sure that this blog is better than yours... Not that the opposite was ever the case. What's that? Game 7 of the Stanley Cup playoffs is on tonight? Sounds like a one-way ticket to the Boneyard. More to come...

Lyme Disease is Vastly Overrated

Or so says my doctor, at least.

This is gonna be a tough week for FSD, unless Deuce is feeling strong enough to hoist this bastion of high art onto his robust shoulders and carries us into the mid-month. Unfortunately (for you), your trusty editorer is embroiled in an epic music orgy this week. I promise that if my drug-addled mind is capable of escaping the delirium, which excess is sure to induce, then I will certainly be pumping out all the posts that I can... Unless the tick that I just extracted from groin yesterday has anything to say about it.

I know, this is really bad timing considering that two of our favorite sports are climaxing, and especially in lieu of the fact that we have learned Tom Brady is a mutant this week. I promise to do what I can, and I promise to give Deuce as much shit as possible if he is unable to keep you entertained, and in turn, forces you to actually do some work for a change. And trust me, he suddenly has A LOT of time on his hands.

But never fear, for once I finally run this gauntlet, I should have some smashing stories for all of you... Or at the very least I will have plenty of gloating to jam down your gullets. And fuck ticks, man...

Drugs!

Rock CriDick - The Hazards of Love by The Decemberists

Concept albums are a difficult chore. Specifically when they become a chore. The artist works so hard to fit the pieces of the puzzle together that the vision is so often squandered beneath a pile of frustration and a heap of overwrought expectations. Sometimes the subject matter is so obscure that the listener is completely unable to even grasp the common theme at play. Perhaps it is cohesive, perhaps it is a masterpiece... But the consumer is left wondering, "just what the fuck is it?"


This is what makes The Hazards of Love so appealing. Colin Meloy and company are not trying to reinvent the wheel, they are simply telling a story. And no doubt thanks in part to Meloy's background in literature, they are pretty good at it. What the Decemberists' did was to keep everything simple. None of the songs, standing on their own, are overly complex, and the album itself follows similar patterns and themes, even to the point of simply using the same song structure on multiple occasions throughout the album. Melodies are rehashed, themes recur, and songs repeated. Like any story, told in any medium... And it's done so easily

Aesthetically, the piece is moody. Some of the songs are angry, some peaceful, some are longing and regretful, and some are downright evil. But even while working with such an array of emotion, the collective work flows seamlessly, transitioning from different perspectives and their correlative passions, effectively and without the slightest hindrance, or even notice. Perhaps this is a result of flawless production, clear vision, or the poetic form in which these songs were crafted and are delivered. Or perhaps it is because the album never stops. After the initial silence of the first track, the music never stops. And no matter who is employed to sing the story, be it Meloy or one of the other two vocalists, the shifts are never cumbersome or alarming.

Sure, Meloy can not but help but indulge, whether it is by referencing obscure synonyms for barren wastelands or his reliance on words such as "thistle". And while such tendencies will surely send the critics howling into the night, it is exactly this willingness to be ridiculous that allows the project to be successful, by allowing the listener to immerse themselves in the world unfolding before them over the course of the album. He sells the concept, and this is why he succeeds in his goal, whether one fancies the final product or not.

And this is what is so amusing, the Decemberists have been targeted for years because of their tendency toward pretension. But does the simple fact that they have released a concept album, position them in this category once again? The songs on this album are laid out simply and the music remains well within the folk and rock genres with definite allusions to the progressive era. If the songwriter having a formidable grasp of the English language is sufficient qualification for considering him vain, then so be it. But check your criteria, you may fall into the same category yourself by simply employing the term.

One final note, and even some homework: if you put on the track titled Hazards of Love 3, and then close your eyes, you can actually see Colin Meloy, in the flesh, with middle-finger extended while others remain clenched, directed squarely at every AV Club commenter and outdated rock critic there is. Gotta love a brazen display, especially when delivered with a wink.

Would the Kind, Ignorant Gentleman Please be so Kind as to Sit Down and Never Talk Again?

Okay, one more non-sports-related blog before we try and get back into it. Oh, and if you're wondering; there really are other writers on this site... They're just lazy and mentally unstable. I'm actually going to talk about them below.
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So, my philistine friends feel the need to get all haughty and righteously retarded after the Oscars by saying things like:

"Congratulations, Slumdog, you just won an award that no one cares about!"

And...

"If a movie is played at a cinema and no one goes to see it, do I still get to watch Grey's Anatomy?"

And...

"How come My finger smells like my asshole?"

So you get the idea as to what I'm dealing with on a daily basis.

Now folks, maybe you never saw the movie "Milk" or "The Wrestler", and maybe you never intend to. That's fine, you don't have to. They'll probably just make your small brain hurt anyway. But please, given that you've never seen the movie, and due to the fact that the last movie you saw in the cinema starred a guy in a mask, or featured four old women pretending to be hot and interesting, you should probably just bite your lip on this one.

The Academy surely has it's agendas. Sometimes they're overridden by fear (eg. why a flaming, platitude-laced, shitbrick like "Crash" can beat out "Brokeback Mountain"). Sometimes Tom Hanks exerts mind control over them like when Forrest Gump beat Shawshank Redemption for Best Picture back in '94. But I'd still prefer to leave the decisions to them, rather than handing the reigns over to a borderline adolescent like yourself.

But let's play a little game. What if, the "average guy", or the "regular gal", or the "simple folk" (my personal favorite), got to make the decisions? What if, "they" got to choose what was best and who gets the "pat on the back?" Let's just see how this would unfold:

2009 Academy Awards Best Picture:

Tyler Perry's Madea Goes to Jail
Bride Wars
Yes Man
Wall-E
Dark Knight

I'm actually impressed that they even selected Dark Knight. Quick! Name the director... Oh... Right.

2009 Best Restaurant:

Papa John's
McDonald's
Long John Silver's
KFC
Krispy Kreme

My money is on Krispy Kreme since I, myself eat it for both breakfast and dinner every day.

2009 Car of the Year:

Chevy Silverado
Ford F-150
Toyota Tundra
Chevy Impala
Hummer H3

Mmmmm, so many good choices. I'm glad to see that NFL advertisements have had such a profound effect on our purchasing habits .

The point is, you don't know shit and no one is better off with Joe the Plumber at the helm. After all, you're the same people that voted for Allen Iverson more than 4x as much as Joe Johnson (the GZA... JZA?) for the NBA All-star game, voted 4 of Les Habitantes to the starting lineup of the NHL All-star game (leaving the best player in the league OUT of the starting lineup), selected Brett Favre to the Pro Bowl, and have been served billions and billions of times by McDonald's. Forgive me for disrespecting your sorry opinions. Viva La Academy!

My Weekend was Better than Yours

Sorry, I was unable to get a picture of an RBV, a G & T, or a tall boy Pabst into the picture, but now you know...