At long last, I have finished Part 2 of Beatlemania. Hope you enjoy it!
1968’s The Beatles (aka The White Album) was the beginning of the end for The Beatles. Whether the appearance of she-devil Yoko Ono was wholly or partly responsible for the discord is open to debate, but my impression is that she was most certainly a monkey wrench in the gears of a previously well-oiled machine. Regardless of the cause of the contentiousness, the studio sessions for The White Album featured a wealth of disagreements, with John and Paul occasionally in different studios recording different songs. Ringo even quit the band for a short period of time before being convinced to come back. The divisiveness of The Beatles at this time is starkly apparent on the double album, which contains a bizarre (yet great) selection of songs.
It’s tough to pare this lot down, but I’ll do my best. I’ll start with George Harrison’s "Piggies", because, as I’ve already mentioned, I love the sound of the harpsichord, I dig the stringed instruments, and get a kick out of the pig sound effects (what can I say? I’m easily amused). "Sexy Sadie" is another great track I just love to sing along to (even those high notes that I can’t hit). Another fun sing-a-long track is "Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da"; a great song to wail in the shower, I’d say. And speaking of wailing, the simplistic yet highly amusing "Why Don’t We Do It In the Road?" features some excellent wailing by Paul. Love this song, and not just because it was inspired by two monkeys in India going at it (but it helps). "Happiness Is a Warm Gun" is supposedly Paul’s favorite song on The White Album, and it’s certainly in my top five. It’s structurally complex, lyrically interesting, and, in the end, just plain fun. "I’m So Tired" may just be my favorite song on the album. While the song isn’t about depression, it certainly strikes a chord in me. I can relate very much with the overriding sentiment of the song (“I’d give you everything I’ve got for a little peace of mind”), and I love the emotion John puts into his vocals (especially around :38-:45).
The White Album is truly great, and there is a wealth of excellent songs that I didn’t mention. If you’re not familiar with it, I highly suggest giving it a listen. And even if you do know it, I suggest revisiting it occasionally. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gone back to it and thought, “How did I miss this song?!”
Yellow Submarine, released in 1969, is an unusual album. Only half of the twelve songs on the album are performed by the Beatles, and of those six, two were previously released on other albums (“Yellow Submarine” on Revolver and “All You Need Is Love” on Magical Mystery Tour). The other six tracks are symphonic tracks from the film Yellow Submarine. I enjoy a good orchestral piece, but I’m not overly impressed by the offerings on this album, and of the four new tracks only "All Together Now" and "Hey Bulldog" (the best new song on the album, in my opinion) regularly make it onto my playlists. If the Beatles made a forgettable album, this one is it.
1969’s second release, Abbey Road, on the other hand, is chock full of goodness. Actually recorded after the majority of Let It Be (the last studio album released by the band), this album represents their final attempt to put their differences aside and “go out on a high note.” I don’t think it’s a coincidence that many of the songs on the album have a wistful feeling to them.
Nevertheless, the album starts off with a bang. The first song, "Come Together" is not only a classic, but also seems to act as encouragement for the band, as if they’re telling each other, “This is the last time, so let’s do this right.” The second track, "Something", is, in my humble opinion, one of the greatest love songs ever written. Too bad Yoko’s in the video. But on a happier note, "Octopus’s Garden", where my blog gets its name, is on the album. It’s a fun bit of nonsense, and probably my favorite Ringo track (not that there are a lot to choose from). And speaking of fun bits of nonsense, you can’t go wrong with the short tale of "Mean Mr. Mustard". An interesting bit of trivia regarding the song "Because": it features the chords of Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata” played backwards. While it’s hard to pick a favorite off the album, "Oh! Darling" may just be it. I recall listening to it repeatedly when I first discovered it, and it doesn’t hurt that it has one of my favorite things in it: Paul screaming his head off. Just a great track.
The final studio album released by the Beatles was 1970’s Let It Be. A documentary of the same name was filmed during the album’s recording sessions. The film ends with the infamous impromptu rooftop concert held on top of Apple’s building (the record company, not the makers of iPods), which was eventually broken up by the police. Apparently London’s business district found the Beatle’s last live performance distracting.
In honor of their last live performance, I thought I’d share the songs they played on that rooftop in London (although the links I provide will be to the album versions). They started off with a couple goes at what was, at the time, meant to be the title track of the album, "Get Back", which was also the last song they played that day. In fact, John’s comment at the end of the recording, “I’d like to say ‘thank you’ on behalf of the group and ourselves and I hope we passed the audition,” was taken from the rooftop recordings and spliced onto the end of the album version. The next song, "Don’t Let Me Down", was recorded during the Get Back (Let It Be) sessions, but ended up being dropped from the album (it appears later on the Past Masters album). I can’t imagine why it wasn’t included, as the raw emotion in John’s vocals makes it one of my favorite Beatles songs. "I’ve Got a Feeling", an amalgam of two different songs (one by Paul, the other by John), was the next song played, and in this case the recording from the rooftop performance actually made it onto the album. On the heels of “I’ve Got a Feeling” came "One After 909", a song that wouldn’t sound out of place on an early Beatles album. This is another track taken straight from their rooftop performance (John’s “Danny Boy” ending being a goofy ad-lib). The last unique song played that day was another of my multitude of favorites, "Dig a Pony". Again, the album version and the rooftop version are one and the same. That “Hold it!” yelled at the beginning is Ringo asking everyone to wait, as he had a cigarette in hand at the time. I can’t say why, but the inclusion of that moment on the album just makes my day. After “Dig a Pony,” they played “I’ve Got a Feeling” again, followed by another performance of “Don’t Let Me Down.” As I said earlier, they finished with “Get Back,” and yes, John, I’m pretty sure you passed the audition.
1988 saw the release of the Past Masters album, 33 tracks on two CDs that included all the bits and bobs that hadn’t made it onto the previously listed albums. Perhaps “bits and bobs” is a deceptive choice of words, since the album contains such seminal Beatles songs as "From Me To You", "She Loves You", "I Want To Hold Your Hand", and "I Feel Fine". And that’s just Disc 1!
The second disc is full of Beatles classics as well. You can never go wrong with "Hey Jude", and if you can hear “na na na na-na na na” without singing along then you, my friend, have a soul as black as the night. The disc also contains 1965’s lighthearted "Day Tripper", a tongue-in-cheek ditty about half-assed hippies, and "We Can Work It Out", which was originally released on the same single. Another song close to my heart is "Paperback Writer", mostly because it’s a fun song, but also because I wouldn’t mind being a paperback writer myself. You're probably unfamiliar with the song unless you’re a big fan, but I’ve grown quite attached to Harrison’s "Old Brown Shoe". I just wish the audio was better; it definitely sounds like an old "Brown Shoe." Despite Satan’s minion, Yoko, being a prominent feature of the song, I can’t help but enjoy "The Ballad of John & Yoko". If only Mark David Chapman’s aim had been off.
The three Anthology albums were released in late 1995 and early 1996. Not for the casual fan, the albums contain a wealth of alternate versions, demos, live performances, and the like. For Beatlemaniacs, it’s a fascinating look at the creative process of the Beatles. There are recordings of rehearsals where it’s obvious that the lyrics were yet to be finalized (I just hate it when doctors smink of gin), takes featuring false starts, and even a take completely derailed by a giggle fit (I have a feeling all were not sober at the time). And remember “Old Brown Shoe” and it’s bad audio? Oddly, the demo sounds quite a bit better.
In 2006, Cirque du Soleil began their show Love, based upon the music of the Beatles. To the extreme pleasure of this Beatles fan, they tapped George Martin and his son Giles to remix a wonderful selection of the Beatles catalogue. The hard work of the Martins (and George’s intimate familiarity with the music) produced a work of sheer genius.
This album introduced me to a song I had previously overlooked: "Lady Madonna". I fell in love immediately, and, while biased by hearing this version first, I feel that it’s an improvement over the original. I wish I could present "Lucy In the Sky With Diamonds" and "Octopus’s Garden" as a single piece, because the way they are tied together by the string portion of “Good Night” is absolutely beautiful. Instead, try queuing them both up and starting “Octopus’s Garden” as soon as “Lucy” is done; you’ll get the general idea. For those of you who think “Hey Jude” is too long (and I won’t blame you if you do), give this version a try. Not only is it significantly shorter, but it’s also got a sweet bass line added in for most of the last minute. The bass line actually appears ever so faintly in the last six seconds or so of the original, but bringing it to the fore makes for quite an improvement (as does dropping everything but the vocals and percussion prior to the bass line’s appearance). As mush as I love the revamped “Hey Jude,” I think the new "Strawberry Fields Forever" is the pinnacle of the album (Strawberry Peak?). The original is surely a classic, but I’m batshit crazy for the way the last two minutes or so of this song turned out, seamlessly integrating parts of “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,” “In My Life,” “Penny Lane,” “Piggies” (did I mention that I love the harpsichord?), and, most notably, the “Hey-la” section of “Hello, Goodbye.” This, my friends, is a work of art.
And so we end Beatlemania on as high a note as I can think of. I hope I was able to shed some light on an unfamiliar song or two. I think the Beatles are the high water mark of music, a brilliant mixture of the profound and the profane, the ordinary and the sublime. And as I said before, I dare you to find another band who evolved so much in so little time, and who has inspired so many, both musicians and laymen alike.
Now will someone please perform the ritual that sends Yoko back to her place among the nine circles of Hell?
*I should note that I have once again leaned on Wiki for many of the facts used in Beatlemania. All opinions are my own.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Thoughts On Campaign Finance Reform
American politics today is a joke. It is awash in partisanship and corporate money. Every election year, instead of ads espousing a candidate’s position on actual issues, we all must suffer through endless attack ads paid for by candidates and special interest groups alike. This year the Supreme Court had a chance to reign in part of this problem and failed miserably.
This is an incredibly serious problem. Multi-billion dollar corporations now have the right to flood us with ads for their choice of candidate. This wouldn’t be such a problem if the electorate were well informed and voted according to a candidate’s stance on important issues. Unfortunately, this is not the case.
Politics have become a popularity contest, American Idol: Politics. People vote according to whom they know the best or what party the candidate is in, regardless of the candidate’s stance on issues of import. Hell, I’d argue that most people wouldn’t know an “issue of import” if it bit them on the ass. Candidates don’t even need to talk much about their beliefs, their backgrounds, or what they consider to be important in today’s political world. They just hit the talking points that we’ve all been conditioned to care about: abortion, immigration, taxes, and so on. A candidate’s chances of election hang as much on superficialities—such as whether he wears an American flag lapel pin—as they do on anything the guy’s actually said. It’s pathetic.
I don’t know how we can fix the problem of superficiality in today’s politics. My guess is that ensuring a better education for all would help, but good luck with that. I do believe, however, that enacting stringent campaign finance reform can start things moving in the right direction.
As it stands, politicians must spend large amounts of time and energy raising funds for their campaigns. They’re essentially whores, exchanging the promise of favors in return for money. “You give me X amount of dollars, and I promise to look out for the Elderly Jewish Star Trek Fans of Pensacola Florida!” I suppose that’s all well and good when the benefits are promised to aged geeks, but we start to have serious problems when it’s corporations who are owed the favor. This is how corruption breeds in Washington.
So what do we do? We can’t take the money out of politics, right? I don’t think we have to. All we have to do is make contributions to specific candidates illegal. I say we allow people and corporations to donate however much they want, but it must all go into one large pot, to be divided up equally among the candidates. In this way, we have no politician beholden to anyone. At least not due to the campaign process.
I’m unsure on the specifics of this; I’m no expert when it comes to this area. But why can’t it work? I suppose there are at least a couple of ways it could be done. One, all money is contributed to the same large pot, and then divided up among the states and candidates according to population statistics and so on. Or each state or district could have its own fund to be divided equally among the candidates.
And in an effort to educate the electorate and get them focused on what matters, a ban on third party ads should also be enacted. I don’t care what the “Committee For Killing Commies” has to say about the candidates. If we have to endure political ads on TV, let them be solely from the candidates involved. We could even go so far as to ban TV ads altogether and instead allow for specific times for candidates to publicly debate the issues at hand. I’d say campaign money would be much better spent on a series of debates—that include third party candidates, mind you—than on endless attack ads that are generally misleading and beside the point.
What do you think about this idea? That’s not rhetorical; I really want to know. Obviously there’d be a lot of kinks to work out, but I think that this would go a long way towards cleaning up American politics. It could even have the added benefit of allowing third party candidates to get their message out and break the monopoly the Democrats and Republicans have on our political system. Yes, I’m sure there are flaws in this plan (if you can call something so basic a plan), but I think it’s better than the current system. Special interests would still be allowed to delude the masses through mailing leaflets and such, so no whining about the First Amendment (corporations shouldn’t be included in the First Amendment anyway). They could spend their money on reams of lies and misinformation, and hopefully these lies would be relegated to the trash where they belong.
This is an incredibly serious problem. Multi-billion dollar corporations now have the right to flood us with ads for their choice of candidate. This wouldn’t be such a problem if the electorate were well informed and voted according to a candidate’s stance on important issues. Unfortunately, this is not the case.
Politics have become a popularity contest, American Idol: Politics. People vote according to whom they know the best or what party the candidate is in, regardless of the candidate’s stance on issues of import. Hell, I’d argue that most people wouldn’t know an “issue of import” if it bit them on the ass. Candidates don’t even need to talk much about their beliefs, their backgrounds, or what they consider to be important in today’s political world. They just hit the talking points that we’ve all been conditioned to care about: abortion, immigration, taxes, and so on. A candidate’s chances of election hang as much on superficialities—such as whether he wears an American flag lapel pin—as they do on anything the guy’s actually said. It’s pathetic.
I don’t know how we can fix the problem of superficiality in today’s politics. My guess is that ensuring a better education for all would help, but good luck with that. I do believe, however, that enacting stringent campaign finance reform can start things moving in the right direction.
As it stands, politicians must spend large amounts of time and energy raising funds for their campaigns. They’re essentially whores, exchanging the promise of favors in return for money. “You give me X amount of dollars, and I promise to look out for the Elderly Jewish Star Trek Fans of Pensacola Florida!” I suppose that’s all well and good when the benefits are promised to aged geeks, but we start to have serious problems when it’s corporations who are owed the favor. This is how corruption breeds in Washington.
So what do we do? We can’t take the money out of politics, right? I don’t think we have to. All we have to do is make contributions to specific candidates illegal. I say we allow people and corporations to donate however much they want, but it must all go into one large pot, to be divided up equally among the candidates. In this way, we have no politician beholden to anyone. At least not due to the campaign process.
I’m unsure on the specifics of this; I’m no expert when it comes to this area. But why can’t it work? I suppose there are at least a couple of ways it could be done. One, all money is contributed to the same large pot, and then divided up among the states and candidates according to population statistics and so on. Or each state or district could have its own fund to be divided equally among the candidates.
And in an effort to educate the electorate and get them focused on what matters, a ban on third party ads should also be enacted. I don’t care what the “Committee For Killing Commies” has to say about the candidates. If we have to endure political ads on TV, let them be solely from the candidates involved. We could even go so far as to ban TV ads altogether and instead allow for specific times for candidates to publicly debate the issues at hand. I’d say campaign money would be much better spent on a series of debates—that include third party candidates, mind you—than on endless attack ads that are generally misleading and beside the point.
What do you think about this idea? That’s not rhetorical; I really want to know. Obviously there’d be a lot of kinks to work out, but I think that this would go a long way towards cleaning up American politics. It could even have the added benefit of allowing third party candidates to get their message out and break the monopoly the Democrats and Republicans have on our political system. Yes, I’m sure there are flaws in this plan (if you can call something so basic a plan), but I think it’s better than the current system. Special interests would still be allowed to delude the masses through mailing leaflets and such, so no whining about the First Amendment (corporations shouldn’t be included in the First Amendment anyway). They could spend their money on reams of lies and misinformation, and hopefully these lies would be relegated to the trash where they belong.
Friday, April 23, 2010
It's Time For a Change
It's a little over a year into Obama's presidency, and I must admit to being surprised and dismayed by the national mood, most notably the rhetoric from the right. I understand that Obama is not their guy, but is it really necessary to vilify him and undermine everything that he does? Is it necessary to hate him, just because you disagree with him? That’s what conservatives seem to be doing. They are inciting hatred of Obama.
I understand feeling frustrated by the policies of the President. The Bush Administration frustrated liberals for eight long years. Bush and Company stole an election to gain the Presidency. They instituted policies that went against everything we stood for. They started two wars, one on false pretenses. They lied to our faces, oozed arrogance in their dealings with other countries, and generally made a mockery of America.
But we didn’t hate Bush. We made fun of him (it’s not like he made it hard). We rallied against his attitudes and policies. We condemned his short sightedness. But I really don’t think that we hated him. He seemed like a nice enough guy, just not the guy we wanted running our country. He seemed like the kind of guy you could go out and have a beer with (or do a little blow with, if that’s your thing—it’s not mine), but he was, in our estimation, too simple-minded to be in charge of the most powerful country on the planet. The President needs the ability to distinguish between shades of grey, and Bush was most definitely a black and white kinda guy.
But we put up with him, and when 2008 rolled around we got our guy into office. Obama is as imperfect as any human, and I haven’t agreed with everything he’s done since taking office, but I believe that he is heading us in the right direction. He’s shown respect to the leaders of the world, rather than acting like a superior. He’s done his best to keep our economic crisis from worsening. He’s made a giant, albeit imperfect, step towards universal health care in this country. You may not agree with these decisions, but I’ll take a President who is trying to save a country (our own) over someone trying to invade one (or two).
And yet conservatives genuinely seem to hate him. The Tea Party types call him a communist (he’s not). They insist he wasn’t born in America (he was). They insist he’s going to take away their freedoms (this is just ridiculous). It’s as if the fear-based culture encouraged by the Bush Administration has infected the populace, and now anything that doesn’t fall in line with someone’s view of the world is something not just to be disagreed with, but hated with wholehearted sincerity. It’s as if there’s no middle ground anymore, no agreeing to disagree and maintaining a healthy respect for one another. It’s frightening.
Worst of all, this is an attitude that is not just shared, but encouraged by the conservatives in government. It’s one thing for an uneducated layman to insist that Obama is going to make fishing illegal. It’s another to have hate, lies, and misinformation being spread by those in charge of things. They should know better.
It is not the job of Republicans to agree with Obama. It is, however, their job to work with him in an effort to make this country a better place. And they’re not doing their job. They are sitting on the sidelines, spewing hatred, and refusing to join in. They have taken their ball and gone home.
So they didn’t like the health care bill. Fine. But they don’t have the right to whine and complain about Obama passing it anyway when they made no real effort to change it for (what they perceived to be) the better. Many Republicans rallied against Obama’s stimulus plan, fought it tooth and nail, and then the hypocrites took the money offered by it anyway. Why? Because they didn’t truly oppose it. They understood its necessity. But by opposing it they can say to their constituents come election time that they fought it. The fact that it actually ended up helping many communities will surely be overlooked, somehow.
And this is what disturbs me about the current Republican regime. They aren’t trying to help this country; they’re trying to help themselves. They have been obstinate opponents of Obama’s every move not because they disagree with him, but because they’re afraid he will succeed, despite the fact that his succeeding would help this country. They want him to fall flat on his face so that they can regain power and things can return to “normal.” It has nothing to do with a better America, and everything to do with power. It’s self-serving bullshit, and it’s despicable.
Think about it. Whether you agree with those in power or not, wouldn’t you rather have your party working to find some middle ground on important issues, rather than causing it to erode? If there’s no middle ground then there are only two options: you get what you want or they do. That’s not what checks and balances are for. It is not the job of the minority party to work against the majority party. It’s their job to work with them. And that’s where Republicans have failed mightily.
You don’t have to like Obama. But he’s not Hitler. He’s not Pol Pot. He is a man trying his best to do what he believes is right, just like Bush was. You don’t have to agree with him. But you shouldn’t have to hate him, either, and you sure as hell should be willing to work with him.
So I urge the conservatives of this nation to take a good look at the actions of those who control your party. Do you really want your party run by a schoolyard clique? If the answer is no, then let those guys know that it’s time for a change of attitude. If the answer is yes, then god help us all.
I understand feeling frustrated by the policies of the President. The Bush Administration frustrated liberals for eight long years. Bush and Company stole an election to gain the Presidency. They instituted policies that went against everything we stood for. They started two wars, one on false pretenses. They lied to our faces, oozed arrogance in their dealings with other countries, and generally made a mockery of America.
But we didn’t hate Bush. We made fun of him (it’s not like he made it hard). We rallied against his attitudes and policies. We condemned his short sightedness. But I really don’t think that we hated him. He seemed like a nice enough guy, just not the guy we wanted running our country. He seemed like the kind of guy you could go out and have a beer with (or do a little blow with, if that’s your thing—it’s not mine), but he was, in our estimation, too simple-minded to be in charge of the most powerful country on the planet. The President needs the ability to distinguish between shades of grey, and Bush was most definitely a black and white kinda guy.
But we put up with him, and when 2008 rolled around we got our guy into office. Obama is as imperfect as any human, and I haven’t agreed with everything he’s done since taking office, but I believe that he is heading us in the right direction. He’s shown respect to the leaders of the world, rather than acting like a superior. He’s done his best to keep our economic crisis from worsening. He’s made a giant, albeit imperfect, step towards universal health care in this country. You may not agree with these decisions, but I’ll take a President who is trying to save a country (our own) over someone trying to invade one (or two).
And yet conservatives genuinely seem to hate him. The Tea Party types call him a communist (he’s not). They insist he wasn’t born in America (he was). They insist he’s going to take away their freedoms (this is just ridiculous). It’s as if the fear-based culture encouraged by the Bush Administration has infected the populace, and now anything that doesn’t fall in line with someone’s view of the world is something not just to be disagreed with, but hated with wholehearted sincerity. It’s as if there’s no middle ground anymore, no agreeing to disagree and maintaining a healthy respect for one another. It’s frightening.
Worst of all, this is an attitude that is not just shared, but encouraged by the conservatives in government. It’s one thing for an uneducated layman to insist that Obama is going to make fishing illegal. It’s another to have hate, lies, and misinformation being spread by those in charge of things. They should know better.
It is not the job of Republicans to agree with Obama. It is, however, their job to work with him in an effort to make this country a better place. And they’re not doing their job. They are sitting on the sidelines, spewing hatred, and refusing to join in. They have taken their ball and gone home.
So they didn’t like the health care bill. Fine. But they don’t have the right to whine and complain about Obama passing it anyway when they made no real effort to change it for (what they perceived to be) the better. Many Republicans rallied against Obama’s stimulus plan, fought it tooth and nail, and then the hypocrites took the money offered by it anyway. Why? Because they didn’t truly oppose it. They understood its necessity. But by opposing it they can say to their constituents come election time that they fought it. The fact that it actually ended up helping many communities will surely be overlooked, somehow.
And this is what disturbs me about the current Republican regime. They aren’t trying to help this country; they’re trying to help themselves. They have been obstinate opponents of Obama’s every move not because they disagree with him, but because they’re afraid he will succeed, despite the fact that his succeeding would help this country. They want him to fall flat on his face so that they can regain power and things can return to “normal.” It has nothing to do with a better America, and everything to do with power. It’s self-serving bullshit, and it’s despicable.
Think about it. Whether you agree with those in power or not, wouldn’t you rather have your party working to find some middle ground on important issues, rather than causing it to erode? If there’s no middle ground then there are only two options: you get what you want or they do. That’s not what checks and balances are for. It is not the job of the minority party to work against the majority party. It’s their job to work with them. And that’s where Republicans have failed mightily.
You don’t have to like Obama. But he’s not Hitler. He’s not Pol Pot. He is a man trying his best to do what he believes is right, just like Bush was. You don’t have to agree with him. But you shouldn’t have to hate him, either, and you sure as hell should be willing to work with him.
So I urge the conservatives of this nation to take a good look at the actions of those who control your party. Do you really want your party run by a schoolyard clique? If the answer is no, then let those guys know that it’s time for a change of attitude. If the answer is yes, then god help us all.
Friday, April 9, 2010
It Burns (Tik Tok Parody)
This is my first (and probably last) music video. Yes, I am mind-blowingly awesome.
P.S. If you like this version of the song spread it far and wide, my friends!
Lyrics
Wake up in the mornin' and I turn on the tube
Then I turn to MTV to try and get in the groove
I see this skanky chick crawlin' up out the bath
I can't believe my eyes, just shake my head and laugh
I'm talking this girl's a train wreck (wreck)
Got hickeys on her neck (neck)
Has lost all self-respect (ect)
I tell ya I start to avert my eyes (eyes)
But what I don't realize (ize)
My bathroom holds a surpriiiiiise
It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)
It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)
Had not a care in the world till I saw this chick
Now I got some milky discharge comin' out my dick
What do you have to do to earn that kind of funk?
Bet her coochie smells like old meat that's been left in the trunk
Im talking serious E. coli (I)
Feel sorry for the guy (guy)
Who next unzips her fly (fly)
I bet it knocks him on his ass (ass)
Like skanky sarin gas (gas)
Be better if he passed (passed)
It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)
It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)
(Girl) you gave me pus
I can't believe
You did it
From long distance
We've never met
Yet here I sit
Hoping I
Don't have herpes
(Girl) You gave me pus
I can't believe
You did it
From long distance
We've never met
You piece of shit
You piece of shit
Now I can't ethically get my freak on
It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)
It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)
P.S. If you like this version of the song spread it far and wide, my friends!
Lyrics
Wake up in the mornin' and I turn on the tube
Then I turn to MTV to try and get in the groove
I see this skanky chick crawlin' up out the bath
I can't believe my eyes, just shake my head and laugh
I'm talking this girl's a train wreck (wreck)
Got hickeys on her neck (neck)
Has lost all self-respect (ect)
I tell ya I start to avert my eyes (eyes)
But what I don't realize (ize)
My bathroom holds a surpriiiiiise
It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)
It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)
Had not a care in the world till I saw this chick
Now I got some milky discharge comin' out my dick
What do you have to do to earn that kind of funk?
Bet her coochie smells like old meat that's been left in the trunk
Im talking serious E. coli (I)
Feel sorry for the guy (guy)
Who next unzips her fly (fly)
I bet it knocks him on his ass (ass)
Like skanky sarin gas (gas)
Be better if he passed (passed)
It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)
It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)
(Girl) you gave me pus
I can't believe
You did it
From long distance
We've never met
Yet here I sit
Hoping I
Don't have herpes
(Girl) You gave me pus
I can't believe
You did it
From long distance
We've never met
You piece of shit
You piece of shit
Now I can't ethically get my freak on
It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)
It burns when I pee
Think I got an STD
Watching her video
Man, is that poor chick a ho
Discharge from my head
Who is payin' for my meds?
(That stupid ho)
(That skanky ho)
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
The Skydiving Incident
This story is completely true. Until we get to the skydiving part, that is.
In his book Red Dragon, Thomas Harris said (I’m paraphrasing) that fear is the price of imagination. This rung true for me because most of my fears are indeed based upon my ability to imagine the worst.
The best example of this is my fear of heights. It’s one of those primal, crippling fears that I rarely even attempt to overcome. Don’t misunderstand; my acrophobia isn’t so bad that I steadfastly remain on terra firma regardless of the situation, like John Madden’s long-lost son. I’m not that much of a pussy. My phobia simply means that, on the occasions that I do tempt fate, I cannot help but imagine the horrible and gruesome death that my hubristic ascent into the heavens must surely lead to.
For example, anytime I find myself on a plane I inevitably picture the plane losing all power and dropping from the sky like the multi-ton hunk of metal that it is (airplanes are unnatural; surely only witchcraft of the most evil sort keeps them in the sky). I imagine my subsequent descent into madness, in which I lose all control over my mind and bodily functions, for the long wait between the realization that I am going to die and my actual death is what truly terrifies me about heights.
I have repelled into an open cavern (with no walls or stalactites nearby to provide even the slightest comfort), the only thing between me and my piñata-style death being a terrifyingly thin bit of climbing rope. I tried to enjoy the experience of hanging hundreds of feet above a cave floor, and I might have done so for about 6.3 microseconds, but the rest of the descent was spent in the company of an extreme surety that, any second now, that thin rope was going to snap and send me plummeting to a grisly death in which I would (with my luck) end impaled upon a stalagmite.
Then there was the trip I took to Italy with my family. We were in Florence, I believe, and decided to climb to the top of a bell tower or something. The stairs are on the inside of the building, you say? No problemo. Up we went. And up. And up. Until that point, I was convinced that only an Escher drawing had that many stairs. I was mistaken. When we finally reached the roof, we found ourselves approximately 80,000 feet above the city of Florence. It was beautiful. Pants-wettingly beautiful. Try as I might, I couldn’t help but imagine the inevitable earthquake that the gods would send to punish me for climbing to such unnatural heights. The earthquake would topple this tower of Babel, sending me racing towards the earth with thousands of tons of rubble at my flailing heels, just in case the drop somehow spared my life.
Despite this healthy and justifiable fear of a horribly protracted death, I occasionally get it into my head to tempt the Fates. This explains the repelling. It also explains the skydiving trip I recently took. Deciding that I once again needed to face my fears, I took a friend up on an offer to go skydiving. Sounds like fun, right?
We arrived at the airport at 9:00 AM and the process began. We signed waivers. “Something something undersigned…something something liability…blah blah high risk…blah blah see you in the afterlife…” Wait—what?! I re-read the end and was relieved to see that that last bit was merely a figment of my overactive imagination. I signed at the bottom, feeling the mild unease that one must surely experience when signing one’s own will. A little spooked, I began climbing into my jumpsuit, beginning to feel like a man who was being prepared for execution, but oddly giddy as well.
Our instructors did their instructy thing, telling us what to expect, how not to hurt ourselves when leaving the plane and landing, and generally psyching us up for a “bitchin’ time, dudes!” It worked. I was excited. You always jump tandem on your first jump, so I had a talk with my instructor before getting on the plane.
“Look, I’m kinda afraid of heights, so I might need a little help out the door. No matter what I do or say, I want you to please make sure we jump out of that plane as planned, okay?”
“No problem, bro. I’ve jumped with plenty of people like you. We always end up jumping and they always thank me for the help with that first step. It’s gonna be epic!”
I thanked him for his assurances and we all climbed into the plane. We took our seats and off we went into the wild blue yonder. The first thing that I noticed is that this aircraft, a medium-sized prop plane, was decidedly less steady than your average passenger plane.
“Okay,” I told myself, “I should have expected this. It’s a lot lighter than the other planes I’ve been on, so I’m sure that this alarming increase in bumps and noise is perfectly normal.” I tried to calm myself.
Up and up we went. It felt like an eternity. Finally we leveled out and I took a peak out of a window. I’m pretty sure I see stars. And was that a satellite that just cruised by at a bajillion miles per hour? The first creeping tendrils of mind-numbing terror began to wrap around my mind.
What the fuck am I doing?! I’m terrified of heights, and I’m about to jump out of a perfectly functional airplane! Good lord, I’m gonna die! The parachute is going to fail and my instructor and I are going to race each other towards our deaths. We are going to become one, in the most inescapable and appalling manner, with the earth and each other. Oh shit, I am officially freaking out!
Then someone opened the door.
It was as if they opened the door to Hades itself. The wind shrieked like a banshee, buffeting everyone inside with icy cold. I swear I could hear the screaming of the damned in that wind, and they’re all saying the same thing: “You’re gonna die, honky!”
“Dude, I can’t do this!” I yelled over the wailing wind. “I appreciate this opportunity to laugh in Death’s face, but I think I’m going to pass, ride down with the sane people piloting this thing, and live the rest of my life with a healthy and responsible fear of Death instead.”
The instructor laughed and told me everything would be fine. That son of a bitch! I decided that if I live through this I’m going to kill him and everyone he’s ever loved. Twice.
My friend and her instructor positioned themselves at the door. She gave me the thumbs up, turned back to the door and jumped out. I’m convinced that it’s the last time I’ll ever see her, unless, of course, you count the quick glimpse I’ll get of her mangled corpse embedded in the ground before I hit and become one myself.
We began walking towards the door. At this point I am nearly insane with fear. I beg. I plead. I threaten. Nothing fazes this guy.
“Oh no you don’t,” he said with a laugh. “Don’t think I forgot what you told me! ‘No matter what I do or say, I want you to make sure we jump.’ I’m helping you face your fears, dude! Have fun with this!”
The small sliver of me that has managed to remain sane makes a mental note to invent time travel with the intent of going back in time and kicking my own stupid ass for uttering what was clearly the stupidest thing I’ve ever said. I’ll give me a beating I won’t soon forget!
I continued begging anyway. I was now crying, complete with snot running down my face. The instructor, hooked to my back, couldn’t see this. He patted me on the shoulder and we were out, falling towards the earth at what will soon be terminal velocity.
I screamed like a 5-year old girl who has just watched an axe-murderer butcher her favorite pony.
I flailed like an epileptic spider monkey.
Never in all my life have I experienced such mind-altering terror. My mind couldn’t even begin to process the enormity of the fear I was experiencing as I plummeted towards what was surely my death. And, oh great zombie Jesus, did I just…
Yep. I just wet myself.
At first it was warm, a somehow soothing feeling that spread from my nether regions. This did not last long. The thing about the air at that height is that it’s cold. The warmth of my ever-spreading urine is no match for the bitter cold of the air and wind at several thousand feet. The icy hands of fate quickly turned my naughty bits into a crotchsicle. I began to fear that, even should the parachute properly deploy, my now frozen penis might just snap off upon landing.
I estimate that it was at about this time that my instructor noticed something was wrong, because he suddenly yelled, “Dude!” He yanked the chord, and, much to my surprise, the parachute unfurled without a hitch.
“Dude, did you piss yourself?!” are the first words I’m able to hear once the wind dies down.
“Um, no!” I yelled back, trying to find a way to save my dignity. “I think we hit a duck! That must be blood!”
He wasn’t buying it. “Dude! Uncool, man! Uncool! I’m covered in man-piss!”
And without warning, my instructor began to retch uncontrollably.
This was an extremely unfortunate situation for me, as I was directly in front of him. As warm, chunky vomit covered my head and back I did what came naturally. I myself began to puke. Violently.
“BLAAARGH! OH GOD!” I screamed. “BLAAAAAARGH! SOME OF YOUR PUKE GOT IN MY MOUTH! BLAAAAAAAAAARGH!”
And so we descended back to earth, an ever-dwindling twin fountain of bile and breakfast. We landed and crumpled to the ground, two men covered from head to toe in vomit and urine, dry-heaving in the puke-splattered grass.
“Never—HUUUUUAAH—again—HUUUUUGGGGH,” I said between heaves.
“You got—HUAARGH—that right—HUUUAAAAH—buddy!” came my instructor’s reply.
And thus was I banned from skydiving in Colorado. I attempted to get my money back, citing the unprofessional manner in which my instructor unloaded the contents of his stomach onto me, but they would hear nothing of it.
Apparently a little pee puts the blame squarely on me.
*I would like to thank Tucker Max for inspiring me to move past simple urination and go for the gold--a full on floating vomitfest.
In his book Red Dragon, Thomas Harris said (I’m paraphrasing) that fear is the price of imagination. This rung true for me because most of my fears are indeed based upon my ability to imagine the worst.
The best example of this is my fear of heights. It’s one of those primal, crippling fears that I rarely even attempt to overcome. Don’t misunderstand; my acrophobia isn’t so bad that I steadfastly remain on terra firma regardless of the situation, like John Madden’s long-lost son. I’m not that much of a pussy. My phobia simply means that, on the occasions that I do tempt fate, I cannot help but imagine the horrible and gruesome death that my hubristic ascent into the heavens must surely lead to.
For example, anytime I find myself on a plane I inevitably picture the plane losing all power and dropping from the sky like the multi-ton hunk of metal that it is (airplanes are unnatural; surely only witchcraft of the most evil sort keeps them in the sky). I imagine my subsequent descent into madness, in which I lose all control over my mind and bodily functions, for the long wait between the realization that I am going to die and my actual death is what truly terrifies me about heights.
I have repelled into an open cavern (with no walls or stalactites nearby to provide even the slightest comfort), the only thing between me and my piñata-style death being a terrifyingly thin bit of climbing rope. I tried to enjoy the experience of hanging hundreds of feet above a cave floor, and I might have done so for about 6.3 microseconds, but the rest of the descent was spent in the company of an extreme surety that, any second now, that thin rope was going to snap and send me plummeting to a grisly death in which I would (with my luck) end impaled upon a stalagmite.
Then there was the trip I took to Italy with my family. We were in Florence, I believe, and decided to climb to the top of a bell tower or something. The stairs are on the inside of the building, you say? No problemo. Up we went. And up. And up. Until that point, I was convinced that only an Escher drawing had that many stairs. I was mistaken. When we finally reached the roof, we found ourselves approximately 80,000 feet above the city of Florence. It was beautiful. Pants-wettingly beautiful. Try as I might, I couldn’t help but imagine the inevitable earthquake that the gods would send to punish me for climbing to such unnatural heights. The earthquake would topple this tower of Babel, sending me racing towards the earth with thousands of tons of rubble at my flailing heels, just in case the drop somehow spared my life.
Despite this healthy and justifiable fear of a horribly protracted death, I occasionally get it into my head to tempt the Fates. This explains the repelling. It also explains the skydiving trip I recently took. Deciding that I once again needed to face my fears, I took a friend up on an offer to go skydiving. Sounds like fun, right?
We arrived at the airport at 9:00 AM and the process began. We signed waivers. “Something something undersigned…something something liability…blah blah high risk…blah blah see you in the afterlife…” Wait—what?! I re-read the end and was relieved to see that that last bit was merely a figment of my overactive imagination. I signed at the bottom, feeling the mild unease that one must surely experience when signing one’s own will. A little spooked, I began climbing into my jumpsuit, beginning to feel like a man who was being prepared for execution, but oddly giddy as well.
Our instructors did their instructy thing, telling us what to expect, how not to hurt ourselves when leaving the plane and landing, and generally psyching us up for a “bitchin’ time, dudes!” It worked. I was excited. You always jump tandem on your first jump, so I had a talk with my instructor before getting on the plane.
“Look, I’m kinda afraid of heights, so I might need a little help out the door. No matter what I do or say, I want you to please make sure we jump out of that plane as planned, okay?”
“No problem, bro. I’ve jumped with plenty of people like you. We always end up jumping and they always thank me for the help with that first step. It’s gonna be epic!”
I thanked him for his assurances and we all climbed into the plane. We took our seats and off we went into the wild blue yonder. The first thing that I noticed is that this aircraft, a medium-sized prop plane, was decidedly less steady than your average passenger plane.
“Okay,” I told myself, “I should have expected this. It’s a lot lighter than the other planes I’ve been on, so I’m sure that this alarming increase in bumps and noise is perfectly normal.” I tried to calm myself.
Up and up we went. It felt like an eternity. Finally we leveled out and I took a peak out of a window. I’m pretty sure I see stars. And was that a satellite that just cruised by at a bajillion miles per hour? The first creeping tendrils of mind-numbing terror began to wrap around my mind.
What the fuck am I doing?! I’m terrified of heights, and I’m about to jump out of a perfectly functional airplane! Good lord, I’m gonna die! The parachute is going to fail and my instructor and I are going to race each other towards our deaths. We are going to become one, in the most inescapable and appalling manner, with the earth and each other. Oh shit, I am officially freaking out!
Then someone opened the door.
It was as if they opened the door to Hades itself. The wind shrieked like a banshee, buffeting everyone inside with icy cold. I swear I could hear the screaming of the damned in that wind, and they’re all saying the same thing: “You’re gonna die, honky!”
“Dude, I can’t do this!” I yelled over the wailing wind. “I appreciate this opportunity to laugh in Death’s face, but I think I’m going to pass, ride down with the sane people piloting this thing, and live the rest of my life with a healthy and responsible fear of Death instead.”
The instructor laughed and told me everything would be fine. That son of a bitch! I decided that if I live through this I’m going to kill him and everyone he’s ever loved. Twice.
My friend and her instructor positioned themselves at the door. She gave me the thumbs up, turned back to the door and jumped out. I’m convinced that it’s the last time I’ll ever see her, unless, of course, you count the quick glimpse I’ll get of her mangled corpse embedded in the ground before I hit and become one myself.
We began walking towards the door. At this point I am nearly insane with fear. I beg. I plead. I threaten. Nothing fazes this guy.
“Oh no you don’t,” he said with a laugh. “Don’t think I forgot what you told me! ‘No matter what I do or say, I want you to make sure we jump.’ I’m helping you face your fears, dude! Have fun with this!”
The small sliver of me that has managed to remain sane makes a mental note to invent time travel with the intent of going back in time and kicking my own stupid ass for uttering what was clearly the stupidest thing I’ve ever said. I’ll give me a beating I won’t soon forget!
I continued begging anyway. I was now crying, complete with snot running down my face. The instructor, hooked to my back, couldn’t see this. He patted me on the shoulder and we were out, falling towards the earth at what will soon be terminal velocity.
I screamed like a 5-year old girl who has just watched an axe-murderer butcher her favorite pony.
I flailed like an epileptic spider monkey.
Never in all my life have I experienced such mind-altering terror. My mind couldn’t even begin to process the enormity of the fear I was experiencing as I plummeted towards what was surely my death. And, oh great zombie Jesus, did I just…
Yep. I just wet myself.
At first it was warm, a somehow soothing feeling that spread from my nether regions. This did not last long. The thing about the air at that height is that it’s cold. The warmth of my ever-spreading urine is no match for the bitter cold of the air and wind at several thousand feet. The icy hands of fate quickly turned my naughty bits into a crotchsicle. I began to fear that, even should the parachute properly deploy, my now frozen penis might just snap off upon landing.
I estimate that it was at about this time that my instructor noticed something was wrong, because he suddenly yelled, “Dude!” He yanked the chord, and, much to my surprise, the parachute unfurled without a hitch.
“Dude, did you piss yourself?!” are the first words I’m able to hear once the wind dies down.
“Um, no!” I yelled back, trying to find a way to save my dignity. “I think we hit a duck! That must be blood!”
He wasn’t buying it. “Dude! Uncool, man! Uncool! I’m covered in man-piss!”
And without warning, my instructor began to retch uncontrollably.
This was an extremely unfortunate situation for me, as I was directly in front of him. As warm, chunky vomit covered my head and back I did what came naturally. I myself began to puke. Violently.
“BLAAARGH! OH GOD!” I screamed. “BLAAAAAARGH! SOME OF YOUR PUKE GOT IN MY MOUTH! BLAAAAAAAAAARGH!”
And so we descended back to earth, an ever-dwindling twin fountain of bile and breakfast. We landed and crumpled to the ground, two men covered from head to toe in vomit and urine, dry-heaving in the puke-splattered grass.
“Never—HUUUUUAAH—again—HUUUUUGGGGH,” I said between heaves.
“You got—HUAARGH—that right—HUUUAAAAH—buddy!” came my instructor’s reply.
And thus was I banned from skydiving in Colorado. I attempted to get my money back, citing the unprofessional manner in which my instructor unloaded the contents of his stomach onto me, but they would hear nothing of it.
Apparently a little pee puts the blame squarely on me.
*I would like to thank Tucker Max for inspiring me to move past simple urination and go for the gold--a full on floating vomitfest.
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