I’ve been busy with a few things, so today I am turning this space over to my boyfriend Sean, who apparently drank a lot of coffee this morning and had a few things to get off his chest. A little bit about him…Sean is a talented graphic designer and Marine Corps veteran. Also, I think he’s super cute.
Sometimes I like to divulge in a fresh cup of coffee loaded with sugar and creamer, open up my laptop, and rant about whatever’s on my mind. This usually happens around eight-thirty in the morning, right after I’ve awoken from my melatonin-induced coma. I’ll sip that cup of coffee, check my e-mail, click around and read the news before eventually letting my fingers whirl about the keyboard as they relay the thoughts which fly about my caffeinated head. Maybe I’ll leave a clever post on Facebook which I spent five minutes conjuring up, only to delete it thirty seconds later because I didn’t like the way it sounded. I might also Tweet something that I instantly trash because I hate Twitter and only kept the account activated because I won tickets to The Colbert Report last week because of a Tweet they liked about the Golden Girls and now they follow me–a moment that is now in my top ten list of thing’s I’m proud of, right next to the time I got third place in Carnival Cruise’s “Hairiest Chest Competition,” which included being in a conga line with a woman who taped her husband’s hair on her chest to compete. You can’t make that shit up. Fuckin’-A, that caffeine is kicking in.
So anyway, I figured I would give the caffeine rant a shot on Lauren’s blog–it’s longer than 140 characters and I’ll spare everyone on my newsfeed from seeing me post six revisions of the same thing. Today’s topic:
Top Three Caffeine-Fueled Music-Related Complaints Of The Month.
1. We get it, overzealous music enthusiast at the local dive bar who played the Old Crowe Medicine Show version of “Wagon Wheel” on the jukebox. You like the original song, compared to the new Darius Rucker rendition. We get it. We get the fact that you’re so well-rehearsed and have such a database of music that you went in the backlog files of your elitist brain and wanted to show-off your knowledge and vast taste in a song made in 2004 and get all cocky about it and look around in the sea of people and feel liberated and high and mighty that you were the one who chose to enlighten our pathetic brains that Darius Rucker was not the creator of that song and that it was, in fact, Old Crowe Medicine Show. Well, fuck you. I don’t care. I like Darius’ version better. He’s a cool dude who had some of the cast from ‘Duck Dynasty’ in his video and drove around in an old truck and yeah the video is kind of stupid because they just drive around in an old truck, but I don’t care. I like the song. I don’t care about Old Crowe or their fucking Medicinal Show. I’m sure they’ve got some other good songs. I’m sure they’re a good band. I’m sure I’ll download their shit off of Pirate Bay in the next twenty minutes and like it, but shut up.
2. Next? Radiohead. I hate Radiohead. There, I said it. A cat in a litter box could compose the same moans and groans over instrumentals and keyboard beats. I don’t like listening to a band who blatantly tries to make me feel inferior while listening to them. Their interviews make me want to punch a small bird. I don’t care about your depression. I get depressed. I get anxiety. It comes and goes. It’s good to talk about it, it’s good to relate about it, but I don’t need to hear you whine about it in multiple songs of self-pity or sorrow, Thom Yorke. Even your name is pretentious, buddy. Thom with a fucking “H”? Get out. Just GET OUT. I don’t have anything against the fans of Radiohead, to each their own, I just can’t stand the band. I could make a Radiohead song in four minutes; open up the Garage Band App, choose a bunch of depressing noises, then moan and groan for ten hours while sounding like I am high on Oxycontin. Next.
3. Lastly, for some reason we tried to give pop culture another try, so we watched The MTV VMAs that aired last night. We watched only ten minutes before I had to slap myself and take a whippit of Glade potpourri in attempt to erase what I saw. First off, Betty Ford must be rolling over in her grave. Whoever can go back in time and stop Billy Ray Cyrus from fornicating 20 years ago and producing the attention-whore we now know as “Miley,” should automatically get a Nobel Peace Prize and be bathed in riches and gold for the rest of their lives. My God. And hey, apparently Beetlejuice was summoned last night by the one and only Robin Thicke. He looked like a sleazy Michael Bublé knockoff who just slipped a date-rape drug in a middle-aged woman’s cocktail at a Palm Springs nightclub. His wife must have enjoyed witnessing a party-crazed Miley grinding on her husband’s NFL referee pants. A couple rappers also joined on stage to participate in the visual regurgitation that took place, so let’s talk about that for a minute. Apparently the term “rapper” is very loosely defined these days. I suppose anyone with nothing to say can get a record deal in that industry. Since the show took place in Brooklyn, New York City, I also feel horrible for all the 80’s & 90’s rappers who worked hard to build up the once-respected, street-credibility-thriving borough which was once home to the legendary Notorious B.I.G. Quite a lot has changed Brooklyn’s image since then.
The morning after the VMAs, Brooklyn awoke in Robin Thicke’s hotel room and did the walk of shame down hipster-populated streets. Gone were the echoes of pride once found in L.L. Cool J’s “I represent Queens, she was raised out in Brooklyn.” No more were The Beastie Boys to be found, taking pride in getting “No Sleep till Brooklyn.” She strolled to Starbucks, ordered a mocha latte and sat down, putting on her sunglasses to hide the shame. Then, to add insult to injury, a coked-out Miley Cyrus noticed her and sat down at the end table with her, bantering about last night’s after party. MTV had ruined a lot of things. This time, they ruined Brooklyn.
Phew. The End.