Somewhere Inside Everybody, There's Either a Greasy-Haired, Bespectacled Emo Nerd or a Hot Topic Mall Goth

There's little that is more frustrating than when you find yourself liking an album by an artist you hate. I mean, really hate. I mean, like you hate him so much that when you hear his harrowingly strung-out warble, you want to take a pair of scissors and snip through your skull straight through to the auditory cortex. Or better, take a pair of scissors and cut right through those moneymaking, teenage-sigh-inducing vocal cords, and those twanging guitar strings.

Of course, I'm talking about goddamn Bright Eyes. Fucking Conor Oberst, that waifish, tousle-haired, sloe-eyed, pretty little elf of a singer-songwriter; a Costco of everything that is deplorable about hipsters: wholesale indulgence, pretentiousness and self-pity. I've listened to a lot of his stuff: the miserable, gloomy, stressful angst of Fevers and Mirrors, his jumpy squalls on his pompously-named Lifted, or the Story is in the Soil, Keep Your Ear to the Ground. I even listened to his intimate, confessional petulance in his split EP with Son, Ambulance.

And I've secretly loved it. I hate, hate, hate Bright Eyes, possibly because his music makes me realize that somewhere deep inside me, there is a peevish adolescent--an excruciatingly banal model of disaffected American youth, who believes that she identifies with every single lugubrious word that issues from his lips.

And he's cute, too.

What makes it worse is that his new album I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning (how repulsive is that name?) is actually a genuinely good album. Not because it's a sullen lament. Au contraire, it is an alluring alt. country oeuvre, complete with blues, travelling on the open road, sweetly idyllic childhood memories and cameos by Emmylous Harris. For once, I can get past his abrasive, harsh voice and actually enjoy his songs without feeling guilty, because they're artless, sweet and unpretentious. While he still uses some annoying language--"I'm a single cell/On a serpant's tongue/There's a muddy field/Where a garden was," most of his lyrics are still easier to swallow than those of prior albums: "Does he cry through broken sentences, like 'I love you far too much'?" I recommend "Land Locked Blues" and "Poison Oak."

While it's frustrating to like music created by somebody you hate on principle, I feel like I'm justified in actually liking I'm Wide Awake, It' Morning.

Oh, who am I kidding? Bright Eyes sucks.

Listening to: "Poison Oak" by Bright Eyes (NO!)

Happy Quirinalia!

I live in one of the most cosmopolitan cities in the whole of the United States. There are as many international embassies as there are Starbucks, and a veritable hairball of diversity clogs the drainpipes of the historic boulevards and bare, concrete streets. You can barely move for tripping over snooty gay French men with their minute handbag-dogs, tweed hats and custom spatter-bleached Paper Denim jeans.

But did anyone wish me a Happy Quirinalia today? Hell no. I was out there at the crack of dawn making my offerings of corn to Fornax, but did anyone stop by to say a little prayer with me, or maybe burn a little corn? No. Bastards. Everybody just hurried by and averted their eyes. Fornax is watching you. He know, oh yes, he knows--somebody's going to get a little leaf blight in their crops this year.

The world is too secular these days. Take, for example, Lupercalia, which was callously overshadowed by the vile, commercialized ritual of Valentine's Day, with its cloying saccharinity and soggy romance, symbolic of the vapid, gluttonous decline of modern culture. Lupercalia is a heady holiday, masculine, redolent of musk and viality. Everybody else was just too busy eating chocolates and rolling around in rosepetals to celebrate a real holiday. I was standing outside waiting all day for a chortling youth in a loin-cloth with dog blood smeared on his forehead to give me a sound drubbing with a fresh, steaming goat-hide, thus ensuring my fertility.

And why was I the only one partaking in the drinking and general revelry? I spent weeks catching larks and cutting out their tongues so I could marinade them in red wine. And what about my fried sheep's liver? And the souffle of small fishes I made? And the milk-fed snails? Why didn't anybody eat? Sure, people picked at the Lucanian sausage and the lentil stew. I spent ages cooking and preparing! The least they could have done is tried it. I mean, if they didn't like the taste of it, they could have always just poured on some Liquamen, which I made seven days in advance by letting sardines age in a pot with salt.

People have no common courtesy anymore. You're all invited to my next party, which will be Terminalia. We'll go decorate boundary stones with garlands, and have some roast wood pigeon and boiled goose. It'll be fun!

Listening to: "The Power is On" by The Go! Team

Studio Conversation Between Band Members of ...And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead While Recording Their New Album

"Wait a minute, guys, you know how we've just recorded this intensely complex and epic track, with layers of frenetic, blustering guitar, compellingly wistful verses and our distinctive cataclysmic percussion?"
"We sure do!"
"You know what would make it even better?"
"What?"
"If I yelled, 'Hey, fuck you, man!' and then added the sound effect of children giggling!"
"You're a genius! That would improve the song to no end!"
"Hey, and after the next song, let's play a clip of birds twittering, chickens clucking and horses whinnying, despite the fact that it has nothing to do with either the sound or the content of the song, and does nothing for the contiguity of the tracks!"
"Aw man, what would we do without you? This album is going to fuckin' rock!"

Listening to: "Will You Smile Again For Me?" by ...And You Will Know Us by the Trail of Dead

I'm Too Old For This Shit

I am sure at least three of you are familiar with the Lethal Weapon movies. Aren't they hilarious? Danny Glover rocks my world, and do not get me started on Mel Gibson. Amazing, amazing stuff. Naturally, if you are familiar with these masterpieces, you undoubtedly recognize the quote. It pretty much characterizes my state of mind these days.

You know me as the successful, charming editor of one of the Internet's Blogging Bastions. You admire the way I dress, emulate my taste in music and yearn to drive the same cars I drive. Unfortunately, it is not all fun and games. El Rey, everyone's favority superhero, once said, "With great power comes great responsibility. And with great responsibility comes a certain je-ne-sais-quoi that goes very well with Bernaise sauce." His wisdom certainly applies to my situation.

Take my writers, for example. We have Laura, who is brilliant, punctual and responsible. Imagine how hard it is, waking up every single day knowing that you could lose your position to someone infinitely more gifted and competent, who updates regularly and never provides lame excuses? On the other end of the spectrum, we have Sanjay, who is part of the regular rotation yet seemingly takes two weeks to complete his updates. The only advantage to having Sanjay around is that my considerable delays look minuscule by comparison. Finally, we have Tommy. I can't say anything bad about him, actually. He has yet to write a single piece.

(Deep breath.)

(Hyperventilation.)

WHAT AM I DOING HERE? WHY DO I WASTE SO MUCH TIME WRITING INANE UPDATES THAT NO ONE EVER READS?

(Another deep breath.)

Oh right. I actually find it immensely fun to listen to music while inscribing my thoughts on paper. Also, there is the off-chance that some famous, rich publisher (Hello, Mr. Flynt!) will read my words and offer me a multithousanddollar contract. That would be superb. I could finally do all those drugs I have been hearing about for so long!

So, in short, this concludes another update. For those of you who were hoping for something better, I suppose you might prefer watching this.

Listening to: Rock and Roll - Handsome Boy Modeling School