Time for a Christmas Rant!!!

I'm sure where you are, you also have radio stations that play Christmas music all day and all night. I'm fine with this. This is not the nature of this rant. I actually kind of like the Christmas music all day and all night, especially if the kids and I are out having one of those special moments together. You know the ones: where daddy is fighting through traffic and the kids are picking up new and creative swears to share with their friends. Ah, the holidays.

No, instead, my gripe rests with the lack of variety in Christmas songs. It's the same thing, time and again. Every 45 minutes, we start back with the same goddamned seven Christmas songs, three of which are three different versions of "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree". I'm about to burn an effigy of Brenda Lee; I don't care that she's 64 years old. Someone spread a rumor that Brenda Lee hates America. Maybe we can go all Dixie Chicks on her and burn every fucking copy of that song ever made.

I will say that, fortunately, we've gotten away from the "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" song that plagued the airwaves for a few years. If it makes a resurgence, then I'm definitely leaking to someone that Elmo and Patsy have links to al Qaeda.

And, yes, people, I know that "Carol of the Bells" is fucking awesome. I love it. You love it. I don't love twenty different fucking versions of it playing 24 hours a day. We all tend to love things a lot less when they are raping our ears over and over again. Take note, please. Mannheim Steamroller, I'm looking at you.

But, perhaps the most perfidious of all the "Christmas" songs comes from everyone's favorite Glitter star, Mariah Carey. Ugh. Can anyone possibly ruin a season of love and harmony like her? I mean, honestly. "All I Want for Christmas Is You" is ear-bleedingly bad. In case you're one of the very few people blessed enough not to have had this thing violate your ear canals, let me give you a brief summary of how it goes: fourteen stray cats are placed in a burlap bag; someone swings the bag against a wall, thus pissing off the mangy, flea-ridden felines; music ensues; someone chants "Christmas" over and over again in the back ground.

There's another one that she mangles, but I can't think of what it is. Maybe yet another version of "Santa Claus is Coming in my mouth to Town". I'm not sure. I feel an aneurysm threatening to burst right now just thinking about the first song. Please don't make me do the research on the second one.

But here's the thing: I don't mind Mariah Carey that much, when she's not ruining Christmas music. I'm not saying that I own all of her albums or anything (I might still have a tape copy of Vision of Love somewhere, don't judge). It's just that her holiday music that makes my stomach tie itself into knots and my testicles to recede into the safety of my body as if a solid punting is imminent. I would naturally assume that I'm just not hip or cool, but these fucking songs have been plaguing us since 1994, when I was a senior in high school, arguably at the pinnacle of my hipness and coolness. So, it can't even be that.

So there. While I love Christmas, and while I don't mind the Christmas music playing at all hours of the day, the monotony is what kills me. Plus, the screechy implications that "you" can satisfy what I need and want for Christmas (maybe if "you" came with, I dunno, a PS3 and maybe a 47-inch flat panel television, then we're getting close) just don't do it for me.

Fortunately, someone else has done my bitching for me in regards to Dan Fogelberg, everyone's favorite leather mug maker from the Renaissance Fair.

I Need Someone, Not Just Anyone

Okay, I need some help from you happy folk. I don't care if you're not happy, I still need some help. This is dire and, without your assistance, I might not be able to have sex this weekend. Somewhere, a towel just shed a single tear.

Anyway, let me give you the story here.

My wife works for a bookstore that has an ampersand in the middle of the name (and no S on the end, dipshit). People leave shit there all the time, like harmonicas and lipstick tubes and half drunk lattes and little cars and children. All of these things get chucked into a box (except the children; they get sold to witches in the Black Forest of Germany) cleverly called "Lost and Found". Once a month, or so, they go through the box and shitcan things that have been in there for a while--usually something like three months. If it's something grand and glorious (like, say, a quarter), the employees lay claim to it and if, after the three-month grace period is up, no one claims it, the employee with first dibs on it gets to keep the grand and glorious loot.

Well, a few months ago, some nimrod left his iPod at the store. His 30-gig iPod. I think you can see where I'm going with this, but the public schools have left us all drooling, simpering idiots, so I better spell it out for you, just in case.

The Buxom and Comely and Easily Terrified Boudicca is all woman, trust me. I've inspected. Several times. Thoroughly. However, when she saw this sweet 30-gig iPod in the box, she popped a boner. Right there, in the middle of her shift, in the store. Very awkward, as you can imagine, but that's a story for another day. My wife put her name on the 30-gig iPod that Nimrod had left behind while jetting off for some general douchebag activity, I'm sure. Right after Christmas, the three-month period was up, and my wife came home, happy as a clam at high tide, sporting her treasure. I haven't seen her so happy since the doctor told me I shouldn't have sex for about two weeks after my gall bladder surgery.

I can tell that Nimrod was a douchebag because of his musical selections. Plus, the 30-gig iPod had video capability and photo storage, and yet not one hint of pornography could be found. Not that I checked. Several times. Or anything. Anyway, the point here is that Nimrod's musical tastes are pretty...fucking lousy. Who the hell puts Alan Jackson and Snoop on the same iPod? This poor electronic device needed to be purged of the shit that had been thrust upon it.

The Buxom and Comely and Easily Terrified Boudicca had bought adapters and cords to be able to begin the purging of said iPod. We downloaded the iTunes bullshit. We couldn't clean the thing off. I went and bought a different program that was "guaranteed" to fix everything on my iPod. It doesn't work, either.

I spent a good hour and a half last night trying to clean the iPod off and load all of her CDs and some of my CDs that she likes onto her iPod as a Valentine's Day gift. You know like, "Look, I took the time to do something sweet and romantic and kind for you. Doesn't that moisten you right up?" Or something to that effect. The problem was, despite having charged the iPod and connecting it via the cords she bought, the computer would not recognize the device. I kept getting an error message saying that no iPod could be found, despite using every single trick I knew in order to get the computer to talk with the little bastard machine.

Pay attention; this is where you come in. I beseech you, good folks (see, it sounds more dire with the big, fancy word): Is there a trick that I'm missing here? Or could it be that Nimrod left this thing in the store on purpose because it was fucked up? Also, I've heard that you can exchange an iPod if it breaks or malfunctions or joins al-Qaeda or something; I've heard that they'll even exchange it if it's been soaked in a base bath. Is this true? Can anyone confirm this malicious rumor for me?

And, finally, does anyone have any other advice for how to work this device? Or am I doomed to listen to "Summertime Blues" and "Who Am I?" for the remainder of my days?

I realize that this pretty much ruins the surprise I had in mind, so any thoughts of autolubrication that I had fantasized about once I presented her with an iPod loaded with Barenaked Ladies, Harry Connick, Jr., and Ben Folds is pretty much out the window. Still, any help would be appreciated.

The well-being of my towels are at stake here, people. Help a brother out.

New Music: Apparently, Still Being Made

Liz over at Gingers is the Watchword posted a list of the albums of the year for 2008. Awesome, right? Sadly, I've never even heard of these groups/singers. In fact, it was news to me that new music is still being made.

Well, that is, except for country. Lots of country albums still being cranked out. I guess songs about shootin', dyin', drivin' in circles and blonde girls with big, floppy tits are still popular. To be fair, there's the occasional times when I feel in a "country mood" and will toss in a Garth Brooks CD or get seriously old school with a George album (take your pick, Strait or Jones), but those times are few and far between. Typically, if I'm in need of the equivalent of lyrical suicide notes, I turn to R.E.M.

But, to say that there's new music out there...wow. Blow me over, or whatever it is that Popeye mutters shortly before knocking the shit out of Bluto. See, I wouldn't know that, mostly because I have some of the most corporate of corporate radio shoved down my throat, and even then, it's nothing new. Sad, but true. A few years ago, all of the radio stations down here underwent format changes. The good classic rock station got turned to country and they stole my beloved Bob & Tom and replaced them with John Boy and Billy. Now, you might think Bob & Tom suck, and I wouldn't be able to argue with you very passionately or for very long, but Bob & Tom compared to John Boy and Billy is like comparing the collective works of Shakespeare to the contents and RDA information on the side of a box of generic Lucky Charms. Also, I will add here, the classic rock format that it was prior to being switched was actually filled with good music from a by-gone era, as in Elton John did not tickle the airwaves in between thunderous anthems by AC/DC and Black Sabbath.

This, of course, left a void on the airwaves for good to decent music. Unfortunately, we had two radio stations that decided to fill that void. One was a new rock/alternative station, the other was an adult alternative station. The new rock station suddenly became the classic rock station, except not. Everything's watered down now, and every third song is Metallica followed by Ozzie Osborne (gotta cling to the popularity of the reality television series, I guess) followed by more Metallica, I think. I don't know. I actually heard Space Odyssey on there the other day, and while I haven't anything against David Bowie--except maybe that his dick is much bigger than mine--it isn't the sort of thing I want to rock out to when I'm feeling angry, bitter, or just like turning the volume up. For some unknown reason (oh wait...we do know...they're lying to us!), the radio station dubbed themselves "96 Rock: Everything that Rocks!", when really they should be called "96 Suck: Everything that Sucks!" Probably won't sell as many t-shirts that way.

The adult alternative station turned over to a classic rock format, as well, except this one is like pussy classic rock. Lots and lots of Elton John. And Queen. But, not like the good Queen, no, we can't have any of that. It's Bohemian Rhapsody. All. The. Fucking. Time. If it's not Sir Elton or Freddy Mercury, we throw the door wide open and let in a lot of arena rock. *shudders* There's a constant mixture of Yes, Boston and Styx with a healthy injection of ELO playing all the fucking time! Again, not that I have anything against Elton John, but seriously, I can't take anymore Tiny Motherfucking Dancer, alright.

The remainder of the dial is littered with oldies (tolerable), 80s--and not the good 80s, either, mind--country (argh), religious (no thanks), jazz (passable, at times), and classical (soporific). As you can see, it's pretty much a radio wasteland down here. This is why I'm pretty much forced to listen to talk radio and sports talk radio. Even then, I can only take those in small amounts because the sports talk guys around here are pretty much douchebags. The only good sports talk personality down here is Bomani Jones, and he takes over during the lunch hour, so I don't even get the pleasure of listening to him.

This all brings me back to Liz's post. I pretty much have to rely on the rest of the world filling me in on the music scene because I am pretty limited on my music sources. Oh, sure, I could get back on the Pandora radio thing--and I just might, when Santa delivers unto me the new computer--but that would be pro-active. I would just rather you guys do all the work and then I can read about your thoughts on the music and then I can go out and sample these things. See how this is? It's give/take: You give; I take. Simple as that.

One final thought on the paucity of good radio around here: You'd think that, if you're such a badass that your on-air personality that you've createded for yourself is "Bob the Blade", you'd sound more like said badass and less like a fourth grader with allergies. Just a thought.