unequivically the answer is “no” if a fraternal bond is shared between your guitarist and vocalist while happening to be a black crowe, oasis or kink. again there be a “nay” if your brothers bee gibb whereas the deleos and maddens carry on gleefully with one another, a point that invariably accounts for some but not all of their suckitude.

“i am the lizard king – I can do anything!”

“well we’re big rock singers
we got golden fingers
and we’re loved everywhere we go
we sing about beauty and we sing about truth
at ten thousand dollars a show…”

as the apotheosis of talentless hackery, the political pundit cum movie star is a beacon of fatuous demagoguery that the world’s citizenry are beholden to so as to ease the burden of self emanating opinions and the crushing weight of thought. nowhere on earth has the fusion of dasein and nothingness been seamlessly fused than in the good ol’ u.s of a. …and how could it not be? entertainment capital of the world and cultural exporter of vacuous trash, where else but there could bonzo’s paternal influence, cher’s lesser half, a genocidal cyborg and captain stubing’s cabin boy be elected to political office?

facticity established without a doubt and transcendence asserted, it comes as no surprise the critic has climbed onto the stage to share the limelight of the glad-handing entertainer. no longer content to critique, the fray has been joined and many dollar is to be made by the politik of shock and the assertion that i and me now speak for we so that you know who is us and what is them. that money and time has been well-spent engaging the thought of “cash in” should be expected, but its elevation to culturally relevant discord seems to suggest that the punch and judy show has been somehow overlooked for centuries as the proper stage of political debate.

alas, it is now necessary to gambol in the manner of viswanathan cum coulter and assert that we all don’t want to abolish pundits. we simply want them to reduce our minds to the size where we don’t need to drag heads into the bathroom and drown ourselves in the bathtub.

“and did we tell you the name of the game, boy?”

“[i'm] preparing the greatest rock and roll revolution for this generation”

“this is the best music made in decades”

“i’m going to usher in this entire new culture of the youth, obsessed with the future”

on the accompanying movie: “the cgi sequences are epic, and like the music, when it’s action and violence, it’ll be violent, and when there’s love and romance it will give you chills”

thankfully when it’s violence, it’ll be violent while it should be expected the love and romance will give you the shits. an inflated californian self-promoting hyperbole really comes as no surprise, but forcing the issue that art is being created ostentisibly oversteps the bounds of good taste. lo, was it possible for all to work in such an environment:

“we would literally shut the blinds, dim all the lights, put stanley kubricks’s 2001 on the flat-screen tv and take these stephen ambrose world war II books, with these two page spreads of cities burning and people dying, and we’d paste them all over the wall. so on one end of the room, you’d have the endless hope of space, and on the other end you’d have the worst of humanity, and then in the middle, we’d write a love song.”

unfortunately it seems as though dork and along for the ride didn’t stay on the side with the photos, but it is quite evident that the hype machine is methodically marketing the latest insipid project to a space sick generation: want to find out what happened to blink-182? buy the album! want to bear witness to creativity with gas masks and the sun in your eyes? watch the ’short film’ and then buy the album! want to continue to hear a tonal quality somewhere below al jourgensen’s warbling on ‘everyday is halloween’? keep tom delonge on the gravy train and buy the album!

as periodic as the menstrual cycle, some wayward artist’s narcissism erupts in a multimedia extravaganza for all to witness the shallows of their conceit and to world’s dismay, another chris gaines is born.

“so let the haters hate, let the doubters doubt, I stand by my book, and my life, and i won’t dignify this bullshit with any sort of further response.”

with so much bullshit and so little attention, the heart of matter is cut to. while lying, poor literary skills, hackneyed storytelling and pimping out harpo are indubitably commendable, especially when one is capable of the solicitation of the admission that the truth is “to me, [sic] it seems to be much ado about nothing”, it is quite telling the effects that social conditioning have on the psyche when we take a bite and discover in all actuality we’ve ingested usda utility. were it so that we could have been spared the witnessing of the gross theatre of greed and self-interested contrition and in it’s stead, the bull and it’s shit provided the proverbially middle finger to the establishment by proudly standing by a gloriously profitable prevarication? alas we were not privy to the exploitations of a second rate grifter celebrating the naivety of having made a mark, but a churlish display of a lickspittle’s guileless groveling to remain a rail rider on the line of talentless ease. nonetheless the subtext of mister maggot meat’s ostensible ejection from the gravy train is undeniable and the outcome of the yet to be played third act just as predictable…professional makeover.

heretofore an unremarkable footnote most notable for it’s lucrativity in preying on un-actualized females and it’s success in garnering readership of william faulkner outside of university literature courses, the denuding of it’s thin veneer of credibility revealed the artifice of the instrument in the recent attempt to restore the integrity of the ignoble brand. while the durability of the commodities of big jim industries are debatable, it is clear that the labeling of it’s proprietor a fabulist by a habitual wearer of wigs without a hint of irony, but rather, in effort to let the blood desired, with overt theatricality of self-righteous dudgeon, is farcical entertainment, at worst, and, at best, a testament to our end times.

the bifold thrust of the former host of a.m. chicago was that the continued actualization of her cupidity may have been impugned by big jim industries, but more importantly this freighthopper threatened the probity of the gravy train upon which she is a passenger. the hobo’s ticket forgery allowed him to become a passenger of that artless locomotive in which the valueless connive to be perceived their opposite and reap fiduciarily…unfortunately cursory scrutiny by fellow passengers did not reveal his canard, yet once revealed by like-minded sycophants searching for their way on board, his ticket was asked for, demands for his papers were required, and having been found to be out of order, he was summarily remitted to the ordinarity from whence he came, leaving behind an inviolate gravy train for further mediocrity to ride.