Nada Surf Spring Tour - Tix Go On Sale Tomorrow (Wednesday) January 6

Just a note to those who may be interested and do not already have their happy face on...

Nada Surf embark on a string of US dates in March, running through May. The first three shows, all in the NYC area, will see the band perform one album in its entirety each night. The three albums to be featured are Let Go, The Weight Is The Gift, and Lucky. Tickets go on sale tomorrow, Wednesday, January 6th.

Click HERE for more details.

Additionally, the band will be selling a new covers-only CD at the shows entitled, If I Had A Hi-Fi.

Y Kant Tori Re-Issue This One?

One of the few by-products of being signed to a label is that, well, you get free copies of all of the other releases by said label. If it wasn't for that, the truth is that I would have never known the album Y Kant Tori Read even existed. The album was seemingly released and swept under the carpet in the span of five minutes, never to be seen (by my eyes, at least) on a single record store shelf.

Every couple weeks or so, I would get a package of cassettes of upcoming WEA releases, but most were from neo-soul or nu jack funk acts and, thus, went straight into the trash. Others seemed to defy easy classification by glancing at the cover art and, thus, also went into the circular file. And yet a special chosen few seemed so odd that I just had to give them a listen; my morbid curiosity getting the better of me. Y Kant Tori Read was one such album that fell into this latter category.

I can still recall gazing at the album cover, taking in what I perceived to be a ginger-haired metal goddess. Add in a couple intentional misspellings in the name and you have all the makings of an album tailor-made for the banging of thy head. Or so I thought.

What I heard could not have been any further from my expectations. It was big and bombastic, full of venom, passion and grit, but it wasn't metal.

"Someone smashed my window, broke into my brand new car last night/Caught my boyfriend looking at another slender pair of thighs..."

Such lyrics may not have been too far removed from your typical Lita Ford album of the day, but there was something about that voice. By the time Y Kant Tori Read hit the chorus of "The Big Picture", her vocals soaring effortlessly above the pre-programmed synths and drum machines, I was in, baby.

With each song after that, traces of a voice that was much more expressive and refined than your average chick singer began to reveal themselves. "Cool On Your Island", for example, shimmers with a slyly cynical vocal bursting with more exasperation than desperation. In the hands of a lesser singer, lines like "If you don't treat me better/Baby, I'll just run away" would just fall flat, unnoticed. In Tori's, the message is received loud and clear.

"Fayth", of course, is one of those neo-jazz funk tunes that I have tried long and hard to block out of my memories of the late 80's. One is left to surmise that it, more than any other song on the album, is cause for the singer to have quickly washed her hands of the whole thing. Still, it is not without its charms, and a catchy-as-hell chorus to boot.

The one song on the album that most resonated with me was the riveting "Heart Attack At 23", which begins with a simple piano coda and sung-spoken vocal before the requisite synth-bass and drums come in. Tori's double-tracked vocals bring a certain necessary calamity to the chorus, driving home the point that messing with the wrong guy can do a number on a young girl's ticker. While I could have done without the sax solo and the soulful male backing vocals, the tune sounded great in the car when cranked to eleven.


[yep, that The Cult/Guns 'n' Roses/Velvet Revolver drummer Matt Sorum, second from left]

But who the heck was this singer? My promo cassette, as usual, was no help at all. Sure, it had a pic of the album cover, but absolutely no credits or liner notes. Argh!

Of course, I (and those who were unfortunate enough to be caught in the same car with me during the few months in 1988 when this album did not leave my tape player) seemed to be the only one who noticed. As alluded to earlier, I never saw the album in a single store and just figured I'd never hear from the band (or anyone in it) ever again.

Imagine my surprise a couple years later, when a new singer by the name of Tori Amos happened upon the scene with a great debut album called Little Earthquakes. Truth be told, even after I had bought the album, I still didn't connect the dots. It took an interview in some long-forgotten magazine where Tori admitted she'd put out a "dreadful" album a couple years earlier under a different name. The magazine went so far as toi include a pic of that album's cover and my jaw dropped.

Holy crap, it was her!

In giving Y Kant Tori Read a comparative listen, a song like "Fire On The Side" would not have sounded at all out-of-place on Little Earthquakes. Chock full of the glistening piano and tormented lyrical asides that have marked much of her best solo work, the song is an absolute gem.

Y Kant Tori Read, for all of its musical contrivances, is still actually a pretty nice little record that Amos has obviously felt should remain buried (otherwise, it would have seen a proper re-release by now). Maybe some day, she'll give it another listen and, this time, be a little more forgiving of herself. If nothing else, her boundless ambition and ability to sing the hell out of every song makes it an album that's virtually impossible not to like.

The Big Picture
Cool On Your Island
Fayth
Fire On The Side
Pirates
Floating City
Heart Attack At 23
On The Boundary
You Go To My Head
Etiene Trilogy

This Charlie Sheen bid'ness

I'm just going to come right out and say it: there are some bitches out there who don't know when to stop, or when to shut up, or that Christmas Day is no fucking time to drop the d-word (uh, divorce, yo!).

Of course, Charlie Sheen's brainless, but no less conniving trophy of a wife knew damn well what she was doing in that hotel room in Aspen. I don't buy her story for one Brazilian waxed second, though. For one thing, if Sheen was holding a knife to her throat or she was in any other danger, how did she manage to, oh I dunno, CALL THE COPS? Did he allow her one phone call?

Pfft.

The chick is playing the Sheen man, obviously trying to ensure she gets full custody of their kids - but, much more importantly, more of Chuck's money in the divorce. Mark my words. The truth will come out.

In all fairness, I must say that I like Charlie Sheen. We crawled around in some of the same gutters in L.A. for a time, we both have what I believe to be a somewhat addictive personality (so no bottles of booze for Christmas or birthdays, thank you), and, well, we both have admittedly mercurial tempers. Mine, with a lot of hard work and dedication is finally behind me, knock on wood...

To Charlie, I just wanna say: "Hang in there, man. This too shall pass, but, fuck, dude, stop marrying these money-grubbing streetwalkers."

Daily Soapbox: It's Fun To Cheat

So a friend called and asked me if I wanted to go see a movie. They then proceeded to suggest the new Meryl Streep-Alec Baldwin "rom-com" "It's Complicated". The rest of the conversation went like this:

ME: So what about the film looks interesting?

THEM: Oh, I dunno...it looks fun, light-hearted.

ME: Yeah, nothing like a little light-hearted extramarital fun.

THEM: Uhhh...

ME: And based on the trailer, it also seems to be light-hearted extramarital fun that Meryl Streep's character actually celebrates, going so far as to brag about it to her gaggle of no doubt thrice-divorced friends.

THEM: Yeah...

ME: I love how Meryl Streep brings credibility to any movie in which she appears, somehow rendered the subject matter so palatable as to erase any sense of moral wrongdoing. Thankfully, she has chosen to only use her powers for good, but heaven forbid she choose to star in a movie about kicking puppies down multiple flights of stairs for fear millions of otherwise sane people will also rush out to see it the next time they want a little "lighthearted fun".

THEM: Or we could go see "Sherlock Holmes".

Nice show the Bears put on last night. Seriously, either the Vikings have been overachieving all season and have finally fallen back to earth or the Bears chose Week 17 to awaken from their hibernal slumber.

The funny thing is, I am such a big fan of Brett Favre's style of play that I found myself rooting against my own team and was actually sorry to see the Bears win. I mean, the win could not be any more meaningless at this point and that, my friends, is what I think the Bears problem has been all season. Jay Cutler, for all of his natural talent, does not seem to truly rise to the occasion until there is no occasion at all. If there is anything at all riding on the game, near as I can tell, he goes into the huddle with his head half unscrewed and comes out firing INT's faster than the other team can catch them and run them back for touchdowns. Still, I can't help feel that 99% of the blame for this season's poor performance rests on the shoulders of one Lovie Smith. Seriously, who the fuck names their kid Lovie? And if your name isn't Lovie, why the hell would you go by such a name? Poor judgment, perhaps. Quite frankly, it's just that kind of poor judgment we can do without. Oh yeah, Darren? Well, who would you rather see coaching the Bears?? I'm glad you asked and I will be happy to tell you that my choice also suffers from a really, really bad name. Dick Butkus. Who hasn't whispered to themselves "Dick Butt Kiss? Did his mother already hate him that much to bestow upon him a name so hilariously harsh? Well, if she wanted to give him a name that would make him tough, it worked. So, yeah, I'd rather have a mean pit bull named Dick Butt Kiss prowling the sidelines than an emotionless turd named Lovie standing there like a dead tree.

Anybody else come down with a slight case of the flu around Christmas? While I could easily do without the constant evacuation of phlegm from my stuffy nose holes and rampant runs for the restroom, I did drop a cool ten pounds. Beat that, Jenny Craig!

One of the things I most remember as a kid was the eternal build-up to Christmas, followed all-too-quickly by the slamming car door of reality signifying only 365 more days until the next one. Seriously, did we not all somehow mourn the unwrapping of that last Christmas gift? Oh,. and when Mom or Dad would pull out that one final gift that they'd "forgotten" to place beneath the tree, it was sheer heaven to reawaken the wonder of Christmas only long enough to rip the paper to shreds, exclaim "Awesome, an XBox!", and return to the icy depths of post-Xmas depression. I knew my childhood was fading when the gifts went from "fun shit" to "socks, underwear and dress shirts. At that point, gifts became absolutely pointless to me. The one thing that kept Christmas fun, though, was the look of absolute glee in the eyes of the children, and the look of absolute horror in the eyes of whoever's house it was, when I brought out my annual "Bag O'Silly String". It is amazing how quickly ten kids and one adult can go through twenty cans of silly string...and how long it takes to clean up afterward. Ah, but it has always been worth it. My favorite memory is of launching a huge silly string war in my parents' new house just as the glassy-eyed look of horror washed over my mom's face. Before she could scream, "Noooooooooooooooo!!!", somebody (and I'm not naming names) ripped the top off of their can and sprayed a full blast of string into the face of the nearest kid and, the next second, it was total pandemonium. Absolute chaos ruled for at least the next twelve seconds, as every adult immediately ran for their camera. They would then play back the video footage laughing again and again while I spent the next two hours picking silly string shrapnel out of the carpet

"The Hangover" And The Search For Intelligent Life On Earth

When I was a kid, Roger Ebert and Gene Siskel were THE most famous movie critics on the planet. Both had been long-respected journalists in the Chicago media long before they stepped in front of the cameras. Now, thanks to the success of their weekly TV show “At The Movies”, the fate of every new movie rested in their popcorn-scented hands. To people in the movie business, the three greatest words in the English language weren’t “I love you”, but, rather, “Two thumbs up”. Even better was the esteemed five-word version, “Two thumbs up. Way up!”

The thing is, Siskel and Ebert didn’t always agree. In fact, sometimes they got downright nasty with each other arguing over the movies they reviewed. As a kid, I couldn’t understand how a little thing like a movie could reduce two grown men to name-calling.

I mean, a movie is either good or bad, right? And sometimes a movie is so good as to be called great. So, what was I to think when two guys whose opinions I both respected could not agree on whether a film was good or bad?

The reason I ask this question now is because I just saw “The Hangover”, which was released this week on DVD and Blu-Ray. From the moment it opened in theatres, I began hearing glowing reviews from a few critics whose judgment I normally trusted.

What troubled me more was that I was hearing the same thing from those whose judgment I would not in a million years trust; frat boys, office chicks, and a group of teachers that met in the local coffee shop where I was borrowing some wi-fi. The teachers were there to meet with a DJ they were hoping to hire for this year’s Christmas party.

After meeting with the guy, who could barely get a word in edge-wise, they voted unanimously to hire him. He then made a hasty exit, at which point they then reminisced about the one teacher who didn’t show up for the meeting who apparently got a little too drunk and went home with last year’s DJ – much to the chagrin of her husband – before moving on to the topic of Christmas gifts that still needed to be purchased for some of the staffers.

One teacher commented that “The Hangover” was coming out on DVD and the gals suddenly burst with enthusiasm, all talking about how much they’d enjoyed the movie. Then one of them asked if the others had seen “This Is It” yet and, again, the air was filled with glowing praise.

Egads, I thought to myself, “This Is It” is a half-baked piece-of-shit assembled for the sole purpose of cashing in on the death of Michael Jackson. Nothing more, nothing less.

That the same dilrods who find such flicks "moving" also think so highly of “The Hangover” should come as no surprise. I’ll bet, to a woman, every last one of them not only saw “Kangaroo Jack”, but liked it. Some probably even own it on DVD or, gasp, Blu-Ray.

But what am I to make of the fact that Roger Ebert raved about “The Hangover” to such an extent that some of his praise is printed upon the very packaging that the DVD comes in? What the fuck is going on here? I can’t help think that if Gene Siskel were still alive, he and Ebert would have come to blows over this one.

For starters, the script is unimaginative (unless you consider a tiger in the bathroom or Mike Tyson air-drumming to "In The Air Tonight" groundbreaking), the casting is lame (Bradley Cooper playing a jerk, how original), and the attempts at humor are just not funny. When I chuckled for the first time about fifty minutes into the film, when the fat guy got tasered, it was more a pity chuckle than anything.

When I spend ninety minutes waiting for a movie to get funny, or go somewhere, and then it is revealed that the guy the other dimwits have been looking for was on the roof of the very building they left to begin their search, I I am not entertained. Nor do I decide right then and there that this is the sort of movie I will willingly pay to own the day it comes out on DVD or Blu-Ray.

Of course, there are people on this planet who liked “Kangaroo Jack” when they saw it in the theatres that they’ve since purchased it on DVD and, gasp, Blu-Ray. To them, “The Hangover” must seem like the most awesome thing ever and who am I to take that away from them…along with the scissors and anything else with a sharp edge? Never mind that the script seems to have been scribbled upon a single napkin from a San Fernando Strip Club not only gets made, but connects with such a large and audience.

I honestly don’t wish to insult anyone who honestly liked “The Hangover” (like my own sister, or her husband, or a number of my friends and people I have to work with five days a week), but there is just no way around it, I’m afraid. When did I become the discerning voice of reason? I never asked for that. All I asked for were movies that offered something new. Of course, considering such theatrical success stories as the Spider Man trilogy and this year’s Star Trek re-boot, I guess such a request was just way too much to ask.

When I was a kid dreaming of life as a grown-up, I so looked forward to living in a world that continued to challenge the boundaries of art and culture. Did The Beatles not reinvent popular music? Did George Lucas and Steven Spielberg not reshape the world of cinema? Yet here we are in the 21st Century, with decades of technological advancement at our disposal, and “The Hangover” is the best we can do?

If, when I was a kid, someone had told me that in the year 2009, cars won’t yet fly, but “The Hangover” will be considered the year’s funniest movie, I think I probably would have felt like screaming and running out of the room, never to return.
Of course, having finally seen “The Hangover”, I look back at that little kid - his eyes so full of hope and possibility – and think that the world has completely let him down. Not only is he all grown up and trapped in a world full of more shitty cinema than ever, he’s surrounded by people who love it and laugh at its lame jokes.

The more I think about it, the more I feel like screaming and running out of the room, never to return, but then I realize that if I left the moment someone else walked in and allowed their idiocy to envelope the room like a burrito fart, well, I’d spend all my time leaving rooms.

Before posting this little rant, I let a friend of mine read it because if anyone was going to call me a negative bastard and not get slugged for it, it would be him. He read it, though, and accused me of pulling numerous punches and, you know, he was right. This little rant, in fact, was Draft #2. Draft #1 was a complete attack upon the dumbing down of the American public to the extent that you can make a movie about idiots hitting each other with baseball bats and have it be a huge hit. “Jackass”, anyone? “Jackass 2”, anyone? My buddy did point out that such movies (“The Hangover” included) are geared towards a younger audience and, while I concede this point to an extent, I’ve heard a lot of people my age and older rave about the movie too.
What, if I may be so bold as to ask, is their excuse?

Career In A Nutshell: Dada

I became familiar with the California trio Dada the same way I came to know about a lot of my favorite bands in the 80's and 90's; I happened upon their first album in the bins, flipped it over, and saw the esteemed IRS Records logo. I then walked with great purpose to the cashier, whom I then allowed to remove as much money from my wallet as was necessary for me to procure said album. I then headed straight home to listen to the album.



Of course, I knew not what to expect, which is what made hearing each new IRS Records act such an adventure, but I fully expected to like it. Astonishingly, as I drove home, the local radio station played a song called "Dizz Knee Land" that I thought was completely kitschy and lame on first listen. When the DJ announced that the song was by a new band called "dada", my heart half-sank.

Aw, man...

Still, when I got home, I figured I may as well get it over with and listen to the rest of the album. Truth be told, the needle never actually landed on the song I'd heard on the radio ever again. Sure, I could understand how a song like that could be seen by cock-eyed IRS exec Jay Boberg as "the song that's gonna break this band wide open, baby", but it wasn't my cup of tea, nor what I had come to expect from IRS.

Thankfully, there was a lot more to like about the album in songs like "Dim" and "Here Today, Gone Tomorrow". Both songs seemed to so completely embody the sound of the seemingly endless number of indie-level L.A. bands that had come and gone through my record collection over the years. These bands came with so much promise and hope, but never quite put all the components together in such a way as to blow my hair back. Each one came close, but, ultimately, no cigar.

In dada's case, it was obvious they had the chops (not necessarily a prerequisite for four-on-the-floor rock & roll and post-punk that I tend to favor) and wrote decent songs. Still, there was a certain generic vibe about them; the lack of personality in both presence and in the singing department. I could tell the guys could play...to a virtuosic level even...but it all sounded somewhat rote and by-the-numbers.

I liked them, but I wasn't crazy about them the way I'd been crazy about Wall Of Voodoo, The Police, or the Go-Go's, among others associated with the Miles Copeland empire, if you will. To my ears, dada was a sure signal that the IRS I knew and loved its edge. However cutting edge anyone may have ever thought Jay Boberg was back in the day, the truth was that I always saw him as nothing but a corporate suit. In the world of IRS, he was a rooster in the hen house, and as he began to wield more influence at the label, shit began to roll downhill.

The writing had been on the wall a few years before signing dada, when IRS added a metal label in order to sign (and promptly bury, it would seem) mid-level hair metal bands like Shok Paris and Lillian Axe. The move was such an obvious result of seeing fellow indie Enigma Records score huge with Poison in the mid-80's.

To their credit, they had also formed Primitive Man Recording Company (the initial of the label being PMRC, get it?) and releasing brilliant but poor-selling albums by Adrian Belew's band The Bears and the Balancing Act. By this point, my estimation of IRS as a label had gone from complete awe to one that saw recent decisions by the label fall into the "two-steps-forward-one-step-back" category.

As a result, dada's debut album "Puzzle" was just that; a puzzle. Back in the day, dozens of like-minded bands had succeeded at creating a moderate buzz on the L.A. scene, releasing an EP or two for the likes of Posh Boy or Restless Records, and getting a few spins on KROQ's Rodney on the ROQ before momentum faded and such bands called it a day. What made dada different and, therefore, worthy of a deal with IRS and the resulting national AOR and Modern Rock radio airplay?

Turns out I had been vaguely familiar with the guitarist/singer Michael Gurley from his stint in the short-lived L.A. band Louis & Clark (resulting in a single EP for Posh Boy Records), which also featured ex-Three O'Clock (a band I adored that, coincidentally enough, released two albums for IRS in the mid-80's) and future Mary's Danish guitarist, Louis Gutierrez.

After many listens, I realized that what set dada apart from any number of L.A. also-rans was that singer/guitarist Michael Gurley is a blues guy at heart. In hindsight, I can't believe I hadn't noticed it from the start. His crisp, clean Strat tone and bluesy licks are everywhere. Me not being that into "da blues" at the time had been what kept me from really connecting with the band. Today, though, I find his blues influence oddly refreshing. What I had initially seen as a drawback was what had initially set them apart from the dozens of other L.A. bands mining a similar territory.

But I digress...

In a tune like "Here Today, Gone Tomorrow", it's easy to be sidetracked by the spoken-word verses that are part and postal of a handful of late-great L.A. radio favorites like "Detachable Penis" or "88 Lines About 44 Women", but dig a little deeper and you'll hear Gurley's blues pedigree coming through loud and clear.

At the time, I just chalked it up to a lack of imagination - I was more a fan of the aforementioned Adrian Belew or latter day Bowie accomplice Reeves Gabrels. I had little appreciation for guys who took such a straight-ahead approach, guitar-wise, and thus my initial interest in dada never quite took flight.

Sadly, never did the band's career as a typhoon calling itself grunge had cleared the landscape of any and all comers.



1994's "American Highway Flower" came at a time when grunge was just beginning to subside enough to allow for other rock sub-genres to gain their little slice of the radio airplay pie. Jam bands had long been favorites on the college scene and acts like Dave Matthews Band, the Samples, and Blues Traveler were beginning to reach mainstream audiences.

With a more pronounced blues vibe and meatier, more muscular performances, dada had created an album that should have fit right in on the radio playlists and Billboard Top 40 charts. Unfortunately, despite promising radio play for first single "All I Am", IRS Records was unable to effectively promote the album, much less albums by any other current artists.



Their third album, "El Subliminosa", one of the last to be released by IRS before the label's untimely demise, came and went without seemingly causing a ripple upon the water. That's a shame because the album is easily their most ambitious musical outing, with real gems to be found in the prophetic (and timely) "The Spirit of 2009" and "The Fleecing Of America". Most notably, Gurley was employing a more distorted and angular guitar approach, giving the band a stunning ferocity that stood as an intriguing juxtaposition to their soaring choruses and trademark vocal harmonies

Of course, it was all for naught as the band soon found itself touring in support of an album that was not to be found in most stores along the tour route. Soon, they were without any label backing to promote further touring. After three critically-acclaimed albums and four years of hard work on the road, dada was back at square one.

Now this is just my opinion, but I am certainly not alone in sharing it, but IRS Records died the moment they parted ways with A&M Records and inked a distribution deal with MCA (they didn't call the label "Music Cemetery Of America" for nothing). The label's inability to break dada and several other IRS acts at the time fell squarely on a lack of cooperation on the part of the parent label...again, MCA.

So, after IRS was shuttered, dada inked a deal directly with, you guessed it, MCA Records. If anyone can name three rock bands MCA has successfully promoted in the last thirty years, I'll buy you lunch. Mind you, in that time, they've signed and released albums by hundreds. Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers...okay, that's one. Elton John...well, technically, he's not a rock band, but we'll give you that one anyway. Now, uh, number three...wow. Not as easy as you thought it was going to be, now, is it?



Thus, it should not surprise you that the album with the obtuse cover and the boring title ("dada") should also carry the MCA label. Sigh.

Everything about the album seems like an attempt to reboot the system in hopes of achieving different results. While I personally think the album had a great deal of commercial potential, more than a few songs seem to be stylistic re-writes of songs they'd recorded before. "Playboy In Outerspace", while one of the albums highlights, still sounds like a leftover from the "El Subliminosa" sessions. "Information Undertow" also sees a return to the jam-band vibe they used to great effect on "American Highway Flower".

For most of the rest of the album, they seem to be spinning Their wheels, which makes the appearance of a song called "Spinning My Wheels" all the more apropos. Still, it's one of two standout tracks on the album - the other being the spoken-sung rocker with the killer chorus, "Beautiful Turnback Time Machine".

Sadly, the album soon disappeared without a trace and the band parted ways with MCA.

Unable to land another major label deal, the band eventually when on a hiatus that lasted five years. "Live Official Bootleg, Vol. 1" (which includes a pretty cool live take of "Dizz Knee Land") was issued independently in 2003 and brought longtime fans back into the fold in time for the release of their first studio album in six years, "How To Be Found". Budget CD artwork aside, the album lacks the energy of their last two studio efforts. Also long gone is the distorted guitar sound Gurley had been favoring. Perhaps it was no longer necessary to keep up with the Pearl Jams and Third Eye Blinds, both bands having faded from the spotlight themselves.

Having spent a great deal of time with the album, it is a listenable, but ultimately unremarkable effort that lacks any ability to re-ignite the band's career, forever destined to line the budget bins of 9 out of 10 used CD stores.

2006's abbreviated album "A Friend Of Pat Robertson" is built around a song of the same name, which seems to be at odds with Robertson's staunch anti-gay stance. Again, the cover art (like the song itself) is cheesy and amateurish, scaring off most who might be interested in some of the much better material to be found on the album, like the beautiful "72 Hours" (which I can't help think would have been a hit for the band if they'd released it around the time of "American Highway Flower").

Lo and behold, that is the last we've heard from dada, although Gurley and dada drummer Phil Leavitt did record an album together for Vanguard under the name Butterfly Jones which has remained a very well-kept secret, so much so that I did not know of the project's existence until I happened upon the band's Wikipedia page.

While the band's output is out-of-print on CD, you can download tracks from all of their albums at Amazon.

TigerWatch 2009, Part 3

Each day brings yet another skeleton from the closet of Tiger Woods and, while many (myself included) may be on the verge of tiring of the subject altogether, the ramifications of his numerous infidelities and the poor handling of the situation once it broke say more about the real Tiger Woods than we'd like to admit.

After all, if an icon of such perceived integrity and discipline can fall, what does that say about the rest of us?

In scanning the local talk radio shows since this story broke, I can't help but feel that both men and women are taking a purely selfish and/or self-preservational interest in Tiger's transgressions.

One woman caller actually went so far as to ask, "If Tiger can cheat, what does that say about my husband? The next time he goes on a business trip, what am I to think if I call his room at night and he doesn't answer?" That's right, Tiger not only made life tough for himself, but for the rest of us as well. Thanks a lot, pal.

Up until women starting internalizing the story and allowing it to feed upon their own insecurities, we men were unabashedly finding a certain solace in Tiger's undoing because, quite frankly, we knew the guy was too squeaky clean, and too perfect. In a nutshell, the guy just wasn't human. He was a golfing machine.

Now we know that he was all too human, and a ho' bangin' fuck machine to boot.

What I always found odd about Tiger was his decision to marry because it was painfully obvious to me that golf was his life from a very early age. While other kids were going to school dances, getting to second base, and feeling their way around in the dark (literally and figuratively), Tiger was on the golf course practicing...and practicing...and practicing some more.

However great a golfer he may have been, my hunch was that his social development was incredibly stunted. Having read some of the texts he sent to one of the ladies he had on the side, such suspicions were confirmed. He may be a Tiger on the golf course, but he's a total pussy when it comes to the ladies.

In one instance, an alleged lady-on-the-side described a particularly memorable romantic evening that involved watching "Desperate Housewives" before making love. That's just not something any real man would ever do. Can you imagine Toby Keith sitting still for such nonsense, even with the prospect of wild sex dangled in front? Kid Rock, sure, but not Toby Keith.

Jay Z? Probably. P. Diddy? Only if you set the TV in front of a mirror so he can watch himself at the same time, douche that he is.

If I had a slutty little chick-on-the-side that wanted to watch shitty TV during our coveted time together, she had better be down with doing so bent over the back of the couch while I tag her from behind (props to Liz Phair for giving me the idea). Or, better yet, TIVO the fucking thing and watch it after I've come (!) and gone.

What also seems to confirm Tiger's immaturity is the way he's handled the whole thing from the minute the story broke. First off, he lied. Badly. Then he apologized for supposedly wrecking the car, but, in doing so, apologized to his family for "letting them down". Then, somehow thinking it was the right thing to do, he chose to run off to some undisclosed location, where he has been hiding ever since.

Who the fuck does that besides someone who still thinks like a child? By comparison, when David Letterman's bed-hopping came back to bite him in the ass, he immediately came out and publicly admitted what he had done. In doing so, he took permanent control of the incident and was the better for it (although I cannot surmise how his life may have been at home). Tiger has chosen to do the exact opposite, losing more and more respect in the eyes of his public with every passing day.

To any woman who chooses to measure her man against Tiger's action, I wish only to say "Get a fucking clue." Until your man can drive a his ball 300 fucking yards and land it within feet of the hole (and, yes, I know that sounds dirty), nobody's going to confuse him with Tiger Woods. If I were to suspect your man of anything, it would be that he's involved with a neurotic hose bag who needs a serious reality check. Are you a former Swedish swimsuit model married to one of the greatest athletes to ever step onto a golf course? No? Then chillax, sister.

If I were someone who had Tiger's ear, I would tell him the following:

- Come clean. Immediately. Admit it all. Your wife is in the process of hiring a private investigator. Anything she finds out that doesn't come from your mouth first will cost you dearly. And, just so we're clear, that's "dearly" with a capital "$".

- Get back on the golf course ASAP. The one thing you're good at is golf, dude. You suck at everything else. I know that's not what you want to hear, but there's a reason Keith Richards doesn't run marathons. Give that guy a guitar, though, and stand back. The thing you will always have on 99.995% of most people is that you found the one thing you're really fucking great at and you've forged from it a life that others dream about (including the coven of whores on the side). You need to find some happiness in that.

- If you honestly don't love your wife, let her go. She deserves happiness and, well, if you can't give it to her without also giving it to ten other chicks, then end it. Sure, it's gonna hurt. It won't hurt her any more than finding out her husband is a ten-timing fool and it surely won't cramp your style, you crazy Blasian, you.

Open Letter To MTV (re: Jersey Shore)

To Whom It May Concern,

I just thought I'd drop a note and remind you guys that the name of your network is MTV and that, from day one, MTV has stood for "Music Television". When your network first started blasting out of cable boxes all across America in 1981, it was a breath of fresh air that connected almost immediately with a generation that was, perhaps unbeknownst to them, looking for something new.

While television and music industry insiders had their doubts about a network that did nothing but show music videos 24 hours a day, seven days a week, by 1983, it had not only stuck around long enough to prove all naysayers wrong, but single-handedly reshaped the entire music industry in the process. Video hadn't actually killed the music star, but, rather, ushered in a "new wave" of stars that included Duran Duran, Cyndi Lauper, and Billy Idol, to name but a few.

MTV wasn't just a television network, though, it was a runaway pop culture phenomenon adored by millions of kids across the country who rushed home after school to get their daily fix of mind-bending videos and likable chatter from popular on-air personalities Martha Quinn, J.J. Johnson, Nina Blackwood and Mark Goodman.

As a result, the music industry, which had long been mired in a state of declining sales and self-pity when the channel emerged in 1981, was completely revitalized.

While few music executives could bring themselves to admit it, much of the credit for this resurgence lay squarely on the shoulders of MTV, which was now more influential than radio when it came to breaking new music. While artists certainly benefited from radio airplay, with very few exceptions, a song wasn't a smash hit until MTV added it to medium/heavy rotation.

Record labels, now competing against one another for valuable airplay slots, soon went from making videos that were little more than low-budget performance pieces to outlandishly extravagant undertakings that proved more expensive than most entire albums cost to record.

The mindset amongst label brass was that if you spared no expense to come up with a head-turning video, MTV would have to play it and, in turn, the song would become a monster hit and sell millions of copies. That may have worked a time or two, but, before long,, it was not out-of-the-ordinary for labels to drop $500,000 on a rock video and then see MTV choose not to play it at all.

By that point, MTV had the industry, and viewers, eating out of the palm of its hand. The network was generating millions of dollars in ad revenue, with minimal production costs, and the videos that were their very lifeblood were provided by the record labels free-of-charge. In hindsight, such an arrangement was a stroke of luck bordering on genius. What other commercial undertaking has had their main product furnished to them at no cost by other companies? I can think of none.

So, naturally, you guys began fucking with a perfectly well-oiled machine, as if there wasn't already enough money coming in. Like a rock star with more money than they've ever seen, MTV began doing the broadcast version of hookers 'n' blow and began financing their own original content.

While this had initially been limited to cheesy lo-fi efforts such as the collegiate-based game show "Remote Control" (featuring a young Adam Sandler, among others) and the dance-oriented "Club MTV".

With the introduction of the first season of "The Real World" in 1992, MTV knowingly and quite willingly sold their soul. It wasn't enough that their only expenses were those they chose to shell out for akin to someone like Elvis Presley doing the same for something he already had, rather than something he did not.

Needless to say, the show left millions of devoted viewers scratching their heads. For starters, the show had nothing to do with music. Secondly, it was a show that shined the spotlight on the sort of individual seen getting off the short bus, if you catch my drift. MTV touted it as a reality show, but surreptitious editing was employed to create story lines that differed from that which had actually taken place during filming.

Reality television eventually became the method-of-choice for new programming, not only on networks such as MTV, but also the Big Three (ABC, NBC, and CBS) and beyond. Why bother hiring a team of writers, actors, and technical crew when you can slap together a skeleton crew, set up in a rented house, and roll the cameras?

Knowing that there are millions of people who would kill their own parents for a shot to be on TV, these shows have broadcast the ugliest sides of human nature to a planet of willing and avid watchers. Each season, it seems, the bar is lowered by the actions of the cast of one show or another, causing many to pause in absolute horror, but to by no means stop watching.

I honestly don't know who is the most to blame, MTV for airing such junk, or those who watch it religiously. Does either party have no shame?

[Um, spray tan much, guidette?]

Of course, just when I thought the bar couldn't be dropped any lower, MTV proudly unveiled "Jersey Shore", a show that chose to shine quite undeserved light upon the low-brow, but high-living Italian-Americans known as "guidos". While the show is no different than any other off-shoot of "The Real World", I couldn't help but feel that MTV had gone out of their way to exploit one distinct American sub-culture.

Thus far, the "highlight" and defining moment of this show has been the "sucker punch seen round the world", wherein "Snooki" (a "guidette" who had earlier alienated herself from the rest of the cast via an impromptu hot tub encounter with the, ahem, "male members" of the cast) verbally lays into a stranger in a bar who promptly punches her in the face.

The footage has swept the internet like a wildfire, fueled by ceaseless public fascination over how far her head jerks back when the punch lands. Sadly, I can just imagine how excited the powers-that-be at your network must have been when the incident occurred. After all, you did air the footage, going so far as to also include the incident in promotional trailers for the episode. What boggles my mind is that you, MTV, saw nothing at all wrong with the airing of such footage. You knew damn well it would result in a ton of hype and inflated ratings for the show. Your advertisers would be lining up to give you their money.

Oh, but wait, advertisers you already had started complaining. Domino's Pizza went so far as to pull their ads. It was as if the potential for this sort of backlash had never occurred to you. That's probably because you've long believed that there is nothing you can't get way with, MTV.

I, for one, am appalled by the complete lack of intelligence and class displayed by everyone affiliated with your network. You've gone from being a force that once changed the world for the better to one that unabashedly drags it down into the gutter for profit.

Heaven forbid a network should attempt to profit from a show that doesn't make light of the lowest form of human plankton simply because they're so willing to line up for the chance to make idiots of themselves. We've proven that there is endless money to be made underestimating the intelligence of the American viewing public, but at what cost? At some point someone has to say, "Enough is enough".

Whoever it is, it certainly won't be MTV.

Revisiting One Trick Pony

Paul Simon - One Trick Pony

If someone were to ask me what the first three things are that come to mind when you mention the name Paul Simon, I would say without hesitation:

- Art Garfunkel has every right to hate the guy's guts, if only for the fact that he took what was to be their comeback studio album and, at the eleventh hour, erased all of Garfunkel's vocals and released it as a solo album called Hearts & Bones.

- Los Lobos and a number of African artists have every right to hate the guy for co-opting their ideas as his own and releasing them as the breakthrough Grammy-winning solo album "Graceland".

- Edie Brickell? Really?

Setting all of that aside, I will admit to having a soft spot in my heart for Simon's foray into the cinematic world, "One Trick Pony". Many a night I've been flipping through the channels at some late hour only to find the movie playing and every time I can't help but stick it out to the very end. Despite a somewhat wooden acting performance, there is something oddly likable about the flick.

Despite my affinity for the film, I've balked at picking up the soundtrack album for decades, having bypassed it in the cut-out bins at least a thousand times (literally). Then one day recently I finally found the strength to throw caution to the wind and picked up a copy of the album.

Of course, I am not alone in my initial derision of the album,. Because the film itself was written off as a somewhat hokey, semi-autobiographical vanity project, the album was subject to a similar lack of respect by many...myself included.

One glance at the track listing, though, and you can't help but notice at least two bonafied gems in Simon's solo canon; "Late In The Evening" and the jaunty title cut.

Well, the rest of the album must be filler, right?

Not so fast, dismisser of soundtrack albums by overly insecure and self-indulgent halves of popular singing duos.

What I have found about much of his early solo output was, no matter how credible the performance, I couldn't help think that it would have been better with Garfunkel's angelic harmonies. I liken Garfunkel's absence to Eddie Van Halen's decision to carry on without Michael Anthony...times ten.

Anyone who feels so threatened by the possibility of being upstaged by a voice that is superior, not realizing that they owe it to themselves and their fans to make each song the best that it can be, is a king-size boob. Simon, of course, is a king-size boob with a screaming Napolean complex that has led him to continually fail to acknowledge the valuable input of others.

On "One Trick Pony", though, I gotta hand it to the guy. He finally pulls off a solo album that doesn't leave you wishing there was another voice in the room. It bristles with a warmth and intimacy that comes from a singer/songwriter momentarily comfortable enough in his own skin to go wherever the songs may lead him.

"That's Why God Made The Movies" and "Jonah" are subtly inviting interludes that ebb and flow with a cinematic quality of their own. Close your eyes and you can't help hear the latter selection playing as a couple walk into the sunset arm-in-arm against the backdrop of Central Park in the mid-Seventies, the leaves just starting to fall.

If you're not a Paul Simon fan, there's probably no changing your mind, but if you're willing to give the guy - and this album - a chance, you may find a lot more to like than you ever imagined.

Kick-Ass Song of The Day: Aimee Mann "Mr. Grinch"

Being a fan of Aimee Mann, yet also knowing that she has spent the past decade or so spinning her wheels in a mildly depressed/jaded mid-tempo territory, the thought of an Aimee Mann Christmas album did not immediately appeal to me.

I gave it a listen, though, and it now ranks as one of my favorite Christmas albums.

A highlight for me is her reading of the Dr. Seuss nugget, "You're A Mean One, Mr. Grinch".

Enjoy!