(Editor’s Note: I started writing this six weeks ago, before my face had been splashed all over everywhere as one of “The 1%.” I got the email that my face was on The View and I prepared for my future life as a pundit, as surely they would want to hear from one of the folks they specifically requested explain their “actions” – to the extent that going to a fucking party is an “action” worthy of explanation. Of course, no one at The View responded to me, so here I am, still toiling as an unpaid internet hack. I guess punditry wasn’t in the cards – I could’ve fucking been taping I Love The 00s right now, but nooooo, I’m finishing this column.
Additional backstory (whether you like it or not): Chillyvile has undergone significant personal upheaval in recent weeks. I re-inherited my beloved dog (from an XSO’s Dad, don’t ask), which required me to fly to Milwaukee, drive to Memphis, get her used to me again, then drive to NYC. After a month in NYC, the aforementioned significant personal upheaval led me to rent yet another car and drive back to Arkansas, beloved dog in tow. I am now a man without a country, hanging out with my dad in the nursing home as much as possible to reduce some of the strain on my mom (not completely altruistic, also want her not to freak the fuck out about the fact there’s another dog in the house) and to enjoy the good days he has. So the happy-go-lucky days are somewhat a distant memory, but I’m gonna get back on top of shit. Right now I guess I’m gonna finish this, to the extent that I don’t boil in my own skin while drinking some Stump Jump. Friendly tip: do not drink red wine if the thermostat is controlled by an 82 year old.)
The original title of this post was going to be “I’ve Had Just About Enough of Bruno Mars” until I learned that he doesn’t sing the song that inspires homicidal vitriol in my heart. I’m in Memphis at the moment, via an early flight yesterday into Milwaukee to reclaim The Greatest Dog Ever (TGDE) followed by a drive through various and sundry midwestern states including Wisconsin (my least favorite accent in the U.S. and second only to Cockney for worst ever), Illinois (very polite with the construction signs – “there will be some barrels on the road in 4 miles” followed by “two miles to barrels” then “danger: approaching a couple orange barrels” and then, sure enough, two barrels, followed by “Thanks for not fucking speeding in this construction zone”), Missouri (pretty sure I caught some secondhand meth smoke as I crossed that Winter’s Bone bridge), Arkansas (where the damn day started) and then T-T-T-Tennessee. I’m pretty sure this isn’t proper paragraph construction as none of the follow-on sentences had anything to do with the opening.
(So I’ll go to the parenthetical – not just to talk about my heartland travel day, but because typing “parenthetical” gives me kind of a self-satisfied rush. Anyway, one recurring theme whenever I had to talk to someone today was that person’s fascination with what brought me to their fine state. It’s kind of an invasive question; I prefer to reveal stuff to strangers only in the murky anonymity of the internet. Explaining that you flew to get a dog and then were renting a series of one-way cars to decide where that dog would ultimately reside was a little too much for me to give the car rental lady. I did learn, however, that car rental ladies in Wisconsin don’t have a great capacity for processing obviously absurd answers like “came here to help a friend bury a dead hooker.” Lesson learned. I just went with “here to visit my uncle” for the next series of gas station attendants, toll booth operators, etc who were mystified by the presence of such an exotic foreigner in their midst.)
So I’ve been listening to a fair amount of regular old FM radio, which has loosened up somewhat from last year’s rigid “we play Katy, Gaga, Ke$ha and Rihanna, then somebody else, then start back over with more K,G,K and R” playlist. Now they play a whole range of stuff including Lady Gaga, Britney Spears, Ke$ha, Katy Perry, Rihanna, Pitbull, Jason Derulo* and Lil Wayne (who I think is now just soliciting random strangers at the mall as guest rappers – call me, Lil!). But the one f*cking trend that I cannot stand is the song where people just talk about their day – and I mean just talk. I get that it’s a little hypocritical since I tend to like rap music – “Today Was A Good Day” is a classic – but it’s clear up front that rapping is basically just talking about one’s day in some kind of rhyming manner. But I cannot tolerate that Taylor Swift sh*t where she is talking about how the other chick wears short skirts and she wears jeans or whatever – not just for the idiotic lyrics, but Taylor Swift is supposed to be this amazing vocal talent and I don’t get it.
Anyway, there are several examples of this phenomenon that I could cite, but I hate them so much that I just change the station. There is one that stands above all others though – I will not name it since it’s the (supposedly) lyrical equivalent of inciting Beezlebub. The one that starts with “I had a really, really messed up week.” (If you don’t know it, and hear it come on, I suggest somehow muffling the sound for the next four minutes to prevent aneurysm.) I don’t know who sings it (I’m stunned it’s not Bruno Mars though, I hate “The Lazy Song” as well and thought it was the same guy as that piece of sh*t.) There are songs that make you change the station or maybe turn down the volume; this song makes me turn off the radio and pull over in the nearest open area; I have to pace like an expectant parent for a few minutes to get the hatred out of my system. Again, I won’t go into detail about how awful this fucking thing is, but it’s got so many ridiculous “this song is right now” conventions to it – mentions Zach Galifianakis, Twitter**, California Dimes***. Words are not the appropriate medium to express my detestation. Fuck I hate it.
Anyway, there’s only one song that can get away with the whole “I’m a singer, but I’m just gonna talk about what I did today and you can do fuck all about it.” As everyone in the fucking world knows, that song is “Tom’s Diner.” More on that later.
* What the fuck is up with Jason Derulo and that whole “Jjjjjjjjason Derulo” effect in every one of his songs? Does anybody else make their name a sound effect thing like that? It’s like that Playstation noise, except much more annoying. Although, if I ever get a guest rapper gig, I’m definitely getting the “Chchchchchillllyyy Seventeen” effect.
** Okay, the song doesn’t really mention Twitter, it’s “quit her” but it’s close enough for me to hate it even more for not going there when I guarantee the first 875 drafts of the lyrics had “Twitter” in there.
** I’m cool with the objectification of women (or men, for that matter), in general. But the concept of localized rankings is annoying – if there’s a scale, it should be universal. Not “Vegas 10” just “10.” And “dime” is stupid slang for “10” – dime is already widely recognized as “assist” so fuck off with that jargon. It isn’t the BCS, there shouldn’t be regional debate. Objectify nationally, volunteer locally.
Chilly17 aka .01