06 May 2006
♥ Money Becomes King
If you reach back in your memory
A little bell might ring
'Bout a time that once existed
When money wasn't king
If you stretch your imagination
I'll tell you all a tale
About a time when everything
Wasn't up for sale
There was this cat named Johnny
Who loved to play and sing
When money wasn't king
We'd all get so excited
when John would give a show
We'd raise the cash between us
And down the road we'd go
To hear him play that music
It spoke right to my soul
Every verse a diamond
Every chorus gold
The sound was my salvation
It was only everything
Before money became king
Well I ain't sure how it happened
And I don't know exactly when
But everything got bigger
And the rules began to bend
And the TV taught the people
How to get their hair to shine
And how sweet life can be
If you keep a tight behind
And they raised the cost of living
And how could we have known
They'd double the price of tickets
To go see Johnny's show
So we hocked all our possessions
And we sold a little dope
And went off to rock and roll
We arrived there early
In time to see rehearsal
And John came out and lip-synched
His new lite beer commercial
And as the crowd arrived
As far as I could see
The faces were all different
There was no one there like me
They sat in golden circles
And waiters served them wine
And talked through all the music
And paid to John paid little mind
And way up in the nosebleeds
We watched him on the screen
They'd hung between the billboards
So cheaper seats could see
Johnny rock that golden circle
An all those VIP's
And that music that had freed us
Became a tired routine
And I saw his face in close-up
Trying to give it all he had
And sometimes his eyes betrayed him
You could see that he was sad
And I tried to rock on with him
But I slowly became bored
Could that man on stage
With everything
Somehow need some more?
There was no use in pretending
No magic left to hear
All the music gave me
Was a craving for lite beer
As I walked out of the arena
My ears began to ring
And money became king
A little bell might ring
'Bout a time that once existed
When money wasn't king
If you stretch your imagination
I'll tell you all a tale
About a time when everything
Wasn't up for sale
There was this cat named Johnny
Who loved to play and sing
When money wasn't king
We'd all get so excited
when John would give a show
We'd raise the cash between us
And down the road we'd go
To hear him play that music
It spoke right to my soul
Every verse a diamond
Every chorus gold
The sound was my salvation
It was only everything
Before money became king
Well I ain't sure how it happened
And I don't know exactly when
But everything got bigger
And the rules began to bend
And the TV taught the people
How to get their hair to shine
And how sweet life can be
If you keep a tight behind
And they raised the cost of living
And how could we have known
They'd double the price of tickets
To go see Johnny's show
So we hocked all our possessions
And we sold a little dope
And went off to rock and roll
We arrived there early
In time to see rehearsal
And John came out and lip-synched
His new lite beer commercial
And as the crowd arrived
As far as I could see
The faces were all different
There was no one there like me
They sat in golden circles
And waiters served them wine
And talked through all the music
And paid to John paid little mind
And way up in the nosebleeds
We watched him on the screen
They'd hung between the billboards
So cheaper seats could see
Johnny rock that golden circle
An all those VIP's
And that music that had freed us
Became a tired routine
And I saw his face in close-up
Trying to give it all he had
And sometimes his eyes betrayed him
You could see that he was sad
And I tried to rock on with him
But I slowly became bored
Could that man on stage
With everything
Somehow need some more?
There was no use in pretending
No magic left to hear
All the music gave me
Was a craving for lite beer
As I walked out of the arena
My ears began to ring
And money became king
I love Tom Petty. My parents played him all the time when I was little, and when I became conscious of the music I was listening to, I bought every album he's put out - solo, with the Heartbreakers, with the Sundowners, with the Traveling Wilburys, you name it. I love Tom Petty. I saw him in concert when he came to Red Rocks with Jackson Browne. I'd never smelled weed in my life, and one of our friends (I was there with my mother) hooked up with this bald guy, and I could hardly stay awake at school the next day because I was 12 and I didn't actually know the meaning of the words "being an adolescent" yet. But it was 5th row, and you could see the spit flying out of his mouth. It was amazing.
So when my boyfriend told me that The Last DJ, Petty's latest work, was his "sellout album," I looked at him blankly and pretended not to hear.
And when I heard he was coming again with Pearl Jam, well, I couldn't help but dance in circles and call everyone I knew. Now there, I thought, is a concert you can't miss.
So what if it's at the Pepsi Center, the venue I've always considered to be for sellouts? I mean, sure, he'll be here in early July and the weather will be perfect. Sure. It's not for sellouts, right?
Maybe I'm being too harsh, I thought. I mean, I'm the girl who insists that Bob Dylan is a sellout. The six-volume autobiography? The Victoria's Secret commercial? Come on. I want to like Bob Dylan; I want to think it's nothing. I mean, the fact that he's become totally egocentric and sold a lot of push-up bras doesn't change the fact that he's changed the face of music; at this point, nothing can really change that. Nothing can really change my opinion of Bob Dylan the musician. But things can change my perception of Bob Dylan as a man.
But what do I matter? I'm a sixteen-year-old girl living in suburbia. What power do I have? Not much. This blog that three people read. My position at the Spectator. But does a high school journalist really have much to say about anything? Of course not. Fewer people read that than this blog, but deliberate social ignorance will have to be saved for a later posting, because right now I'm too distraught over this loss.
Because whether or not I choose to believe that the Pepsi Center is a venue for sellouts changes nothing. I bought Conversations with Tom Petty, that Paul Zollo book that's just a big interview with Tom Petty. He talks about drugs, his early days, his parents, you name it. There's an extensive section on his fabulous new wife, Dana, who is considerably younger than him, but Zollo says Petty made a disclaimer before the interviews even began that he would not speak of his nasty divorce from his first wife, Jane.
I'm not judging him for his divorce. I'm not even judging him. I just think it's ironic to refuse to include the event for which you've had the most publicity in a supposedly tell-all interview biography.
This is beside the point. The price of tickets for decent seats at Petty's upcoming Pepsi Center show are twice what we paid last time I saw him. He's playing at the big indoor venue, and the only seats I'll be able to afford will be in the nosebleeds, where I'll have to watch him on a screen between the billboards.
Nothing can change my opinion of Tom Petty the musician. But this has permenantly tarnished my perception of Tom Petty the man.
So when my boyfriend told me that The Last DJ, Petty's latest work, was his "sellout album," I looked at him blankly and pretended not to hear.
And when I heard he was coming again with Pearl Jam, well, I couldn't help but dance in circles and call everyone I knew. Now there, I thought, is a concert you can't miss.
So what if it's at the Pepsi Center, the venue I've always considered to be for sellouts? I mean, sure, he'll be here in early July and the weather will be perfect. Sure. It's not for sellouts, right?
Maybe I'm being too harsh, I thought. I mean, I'm the girl who insists that Bob Dylan is a sellout. The six-volume autobiography? The Victoria's Secret commercial? Come on. I want to like Bob Dylan; I want to think it's nothing. I mean, the fact that he's become totally egocentric and sold a lot of push-up bras doesn't change the fact that he's changed the face of music; at this point, nothing can really change that. Nothing can really change my opinion of Bob Dylan the musician. But things can change my perception of Bob Dylan as a man.
But what do I matter? I'm a sixteen-year-old girl living in suburbia. What power do I have? Not much. This blog that three people read. My position at the Spectator. But does a high school journalist really have much to say about anything? Of course not. Fewer people read that than this blog, but deliberate social ignorance will have to be saved for a later posting, because right now I'm too distraught over this loss.
Because whether or not I choose to believe that the Pepsi Center is a venue for sellouts changes nothing. I bought Conversations with Tom Petty, that Paul Zollo book that's just a big interview with Tom Petty. He talks about drugs, his early days, his parents, you name it. There's an extensive section on his fabulous new wife, Dana, who is considerably younger than him, but Zollo says Petty made a disclaimer before the interviews even began that he would not speak of his nasty divorce from his first wife, Jane.
I'm not judging him for his divorce. I'm not even judging him. I just think it's ironic to refuse to include the event for which you've had the most publicity in a supposedly tell-all interview biography.
This is beside the point. The price of tickets for decent seats at Petty's upcoming Pepsi Center show are twice what we paid last time I saw him. He's playing at the big indoor venue, and the only seats I'll be able to afford will be in the nosebleeds, where I'll have to watch him on a screen between the billboards.
Nothing can change my opinion of Tom Petty the musician. But this has permenantly tarnished my perception of Tom Petty the man.
5/06/2006
02 May 2006
♥ Oh, Celebrity Gossip, How I Love Thee
A lot of celebrities irritate me. Few have climbed to the ranks of Mariah Carey or, though his fame is more local, Dave Fraser (I've actually mellowed out a bit on that one), but more of them bother me than don't. And it's not just one kind of celebrities. I'm no more a racist than the next guy (quite the opposite, in fact), I don't dislike sports stars more than any other particular group (though I simply can't stand it when they complain about their unreasonably "small" paychecks), and even my opposition to trashiness doesn't keep me from having a tiny inkling of respect for talk show hosts who spend all their time with smelly people.
But if there's one thing I can't stand, can't stand, it's grammatically incorrect "disses," if you will. Consider this recent attack on talk show host Oprah Winfrey by R&B artist 50 Cent:
"I think she caters to older white women. Oprah's audience is my audience's parents. So, I could care less about Oprah or her show."
Whatever. Sure, a lot of old white ladies watch Oprah. I'm not really sure why that's a bad thing, because I bet a lot of other old ladies of various cultures watch her too. I bet if you Googled Oprah, which I didn't because I don't want to see 24682948762987469824 site about how amazing lots of old technologically proficient ladies think she is, you would find that her show is translated into 709752479846987 languages and broadcast in at least as many countries.
While my philosophy is "If it's too loud, I'll pretend I don't hear you telling me how loud it is," his is apparently "If it's too loud, I hate you because you must be older than me."
At least, that's what I'm guessing it is.
Because 50 Cent doesn't make it clear. "I could care less," he says. Oh really? You could? I'm guessing, my toothless and apparently illiterate friend, that what you meant to say is "I couldn't care less," right? Because that would mean that nothing is lower on your list of priorities than sitting down at four o'clock every afternoon when you get home from Thug School or wherever it is you spend your time and spending an hour with Oprah Winfrey.
In addition, "...about her or her show" is also incorrect. If he cares about neither, the correct verbage would be "I couldn't care less about her and her show."
Finally, I would like to point out that 50 Cent, by his very nature, is incapable of grammatical correctness, as "50 Cent" is not a real amount. You could have fifty cents or half of a dollar, or two quarters, or five dimes, and so on down the line. Perhaps Mr. Cent should change his stage name to "Two Bits" or some such equally degrading name.
Because until I see some grammatical correctness, I'm going to be forced to side with Oprah. And I don't dig that.
But if there's one thing I can't stand, can't stand, it's grammatically incorrect "disses," if you will. Consider this recent attack on talk show host Oprah Winfrey by R&B artist 50 Cent:
"I think she caters to older white women. Oprah's audience is my audience's parents. So, I could care less about Oprah or her show."
Whatever. Sure, a lot of old white ladies watch Oprah. I'm not really sure why that's a bad thing, because I bet a lot of other old ladies of various cultures watch her too. I bet if you Googled Oprah, which I didn't because I don't want to see 24682948762987469824 site about how amazing lots of old technologically proficient ladies think she is, you would find that her show is translated into 709752479846987 languages and broadcast in at least as many countries.
While my philosophy is "If it's too loud, I'll pretend I don't hear you telling me how loud it is," his is apparently "If it's too loud, I hate you because you must be older than me."
At least, that's what I'm guessing it is.
Because 50 Cent doesn't make it clear. "I could care less," he says. Oh really? You could? I'm guessing, my toothless and apparently illiterate friend, that what you meant to say is "I couldn't care less," right? Because that would mean that nothing is lower on your list of priorities than sitting down at four o'clock every afternoon when you get home from Thug School or wherever it is you spend your time and spending an hour with Oprah Winfrey.
In addition, "...about her or her show" is also incorrect. If he cares about neither, the correct verbage would be "I couldn't care less about her and her show."
Finally, I would like to point out that 50 Cent, by his very nature, is incapable of grammatical correctness, as "50 Cent" is not a real amount. You could have fifty cents or half of a dollar, or two quarters, or five dimes, and so on down the line. Perhaps Mr. Cent should change his stage name to "Two Bits" or some such equally degrading name.
Because until I see some grammatical correctness, I'm going to be forced to side with Oprah. And I don't dig that.
5/02/2006
♥ Finger-Eaters Strike Back
Possibly I have a bizarre obsession with people eating each other, but when I noticed the headline "TGI Friday's: Human Flesh in Hamburger," I felt compelled to have a gander. Apparently Wendy's is not the only chain careless enough to serve fingers (though, in their defense, it was a creepy insurance scam, not their gross chili).
The story is pretty straightforward: guy chops lots of steaks, guy gets tired, guy slices off part of finger, guy's friends take guy to emergency room, unsuspecting customer finds slice o' finger in his burger.
What I find really disturbing here, however, is not the finger bit. The guy who found a finger in his burger called the police. I mean, yeah, it's disgusting, but wouldn't you just tell your waitor first? I mean, did the guy eat around the finger and finish his fries and go home and be like, "Hey, I found a finger in my burger at TGI Friday's tonight"? The minute I bit into that fleshy little digit, I would call a waitor over and be like, "Excuse me, but there appears to be a piece of human finger in my hamburger. Check, please," wouldn't you? Actually, I'd just equate fingers in my food with free dinner.
But not this guy, he actually called the police! Did he really think it was a criminal matter? "Those damn communists are putting fingers in people's food again!"
Or at least, that was what I thought at first.
But then I thought about it, and I remembered that the last finger-in-food incident was a criminal thing, too! Remember? That creepy lady with the leopard-training friends took a finger and put it in there!
So that got me all riled, because I thought maybe I'd found a downfall-of-the-chain-restaurant -please-obsessed soulmate!
But then I realized that if he'd actually known about the Wendy's lady, wouldn't he have realized that SHE did it to her OWN food? *sigh*
Letdown.
So, in my disappointment, I leave you with this: May all your endeavours be finger-free, and, if in doubt, may you resort to vegetarianism.
The story is pretty straightforward: guy chops lots of steaks, guy gets tired, guy slices off part of finger, guy's friends take guy to emergency room, unsuspecting customer finds slice o' finger in his burger.
What I find really disturbing here, however, is not the finger bit. The guy who found a finger in his burger called the police. I mean, yeah, it's disgusting, but wouldn't you just tell your waitor first? I mean, did the guy eat around the finger and finish his fries and go home and be like, "Hey, I found a finger in my burger at TGI Friday's tonight"? The minute I bit into that fleshy little digit, I would call a waitor over and be like, "Excuse me, but there appears to be a piece of human finger in my hamburger. Check, please," wouldn't you? Actually, I'd just equate fingers in my food with free dinner.
But not this guy, he actually called the police! Did he really think it was a criminal matter? "Those damn communists are putting fingers in people's food again!"
Or at least, that was what I thought at first.
But then I thought about it, and I remembered that the last finger-in-food incident was a criminal thing, too! Remember? That creepy lady with the leopard-training friends took a finger and put it in there!
So that got me all riled, because I thought maybe I'd found a downfall-of-the-chain-restaurant -please-obsessed soulmate!
But then I realized that if he'd actually known about the Wendy's lady, wouldn't he have realized that SHE did it to her OWN food? *sigh*
Letdown.
So, in my disappointment, I leave you with this: May all your endeavours be finger-free, and, if in doubt, may you resort to vegetarianism.
5/02/2006
