I’ve got it coming. Eventually it will come. Everything is cyclical. The history of our planet proves this theory. We, being the idiots that we are, remain helpless to do anything about the inevitable reoccurrence of our stupidity. Because if that wasn’t the case then a great many things would be different. Like a certain chocolate bar, that will remain nameless, for example. Who, in their right fucking mind, puts chocolate and coconut together. Who?

I am perhaps the stupidest person who has ever lived. It’s true, ask anyone. There are examples of my stupidity that I have attempted to share with you. I failed, of course, but did try. Actually, failed is the wrong word, I didn’t fail. I succumbed to the better judgment of others. This, of course, is something that you should never do when it comes to things of a creative nature. It’s always best to trust your guts. Unless you’ve just taken some kind of antacid. Then you might want to wait a while and make sure you’re thinking straight.

I have no idea why I let myself be influenced in such a way. Then again, I can’t really remember most of 1991 either, so I’m really not one to talk. But I have come up with a solution to that problem. I simply got rid of my friends. It’s clear sailing from here on in.

I am confident that one day I will be assassinated by a right-wing organization of some kind. I have, in the past, done many things to test the bounds of my stupidity and the stupidity of others. I have come to realize that those boundaries may be endless. I have done so at the expense of others on occasion. Some years ago, while working at home one afternoon, I answered my phone and found myself caught in the web of a telephone evangelist. Instead of politely telling her that I was disinterested in her jargon, I decided to play along.

Tele-evangelist: Do you own a bible?

Myself: I think so.

Tele-evangelist: So I take it that you don’t read it.

Myself: No, not recently. But I’ve read it before.

Tele-evangelist: But you don’t read it often?

Myself: No, not really. Why?

Tele-evangelist: Do you own a computer?

Myself: Yes.

Tele-evangelist: Well, it’s like learning to use your computer.

Myself: What is?

Tele-evangelist: The word of God.

Myself: Are you saying that God’s in my computer?
Tele-evangelist: No, no, no!

Myself: Oh.

Tele-evangelist: Did you know how to use your computer when you first bought it?

Myself: No, not really.

Tele-evangelist: So you had to read the manual to learn how to use it?

Myself: Yes.

Tele-evangelist: Well, the same goes for God’s word. You have to read his manual to learn how to live your life!

Myself: I see. So what you’re saying is that God lives in my computer?

My Theory About Music Critics

I was thinking about music critics the other day. This is not a topic that I usually waste time pondering.

Music critics are a strange lot. A large percentage of them are failed musicians actually. This has always perplexed me. If most of them are failed musicians then who, in their right mind, would give them a job critiquing musicians that aren’t failures? It has nothing to do with their writing abilities whatsoever. I have never read a music review that possessed the satirical wit of say a Vonnegut or the texture of someone like James Joyce. True, both are legendary authors, so why compare music critics to them? Why not? They seem to have no trouble doing it to bands. But that’s beside the point. My theory concerning music critics is actually rather simple, and it’s this: if music critics seem to possess the secret knowledge of what components are necessary to make a record great, then why don’t they just do it themselves and spare us the torture of being subjected to their less than entertaining writing skills?

Perhaps bands, as we know them, don’t even exist. Maybe they’re nothing more than fronts for genius music critics who have been forced to take matters into their own hands because the state of modern music is in shambles. Maybe, and this might be a stretch, but what if there are only ten of them in the entire world, each covering a specific genre of music. One does classical, one does pop, one does techno, and so on. Have you ever seen more than two music critics in the same room at the same time? It’s odd.

And this goes back to what I was saying about their writing abilities. If you really examine most reviews they all seem to share a common thread. It’s as if they are only familiar with a small portion of the English language. I have come to the conclusion that all music critics are either from a distant planet inhabited by a race of musical geniuses or they are members of a secret organization, not unlike the Masons, who meet once a year in the basement of Berkeley. I know it sounds absurd, but if you examine this closely it’ll start to make sense. You’ll also get a headache.

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