i guess i don't have time to get all creative as of yet with this new blog. but here are some boring old blogs i wrote way back in 2005:
Jan 4, 2005
remaking vince neil
lol. i can't believe he could agree to doing this 'reality' show. someone told me it was on and i flipped the channel. there it was, in all it's radiant glory.
i missed whatever part there was about sucking the fat out of his face and lifting his eyes through surgery. but he almost looked the same. everyone on the television was talking about how great he looked, over and over. he even had his own "queer eye" type of team to help him pick some sexy stage clothes.
apparently he quit drinking and lost weight too. good for him. then they take him to the best hair stylist and hair color master in Hollywood, where they cut his hair shorter and dye it brown. again, he doesn't look any better to me, but they're all raving about it. "VINCE LOOKS SO GOOD, I'M SO IMPRESSED!" bellowed his fiance with her ever present fake tittery, caked on makeup, and redrawn eyebrows.
he goes to the studio to work with desmond child, hitmaker to the stars. where, much to nobody's surprise, he can't sing. he can't hit the notes, he's getting frustrated, and there is a camera in his face. beautiful. desmond child says "i don't feel sorry for superstars." well no shit, mang. and to top it all off, the song is a celine dion type of ballad. so much the better.
finally he gets ready for his debut concert after being "remade." he has a new harley, and the gay stylists tell him they're going to get a form fitting wifebeater and cut it short, because under no circumstances is he allowed to tuck his shirt in. hell, even his bimbette knows that much.
when they're at the rehearsal for it, vince is having problems with his in ear monitors. they don't seem to be working correctly, and he's leaning down as a tech guy is talking to him. in my mind, here's the conversation:
"vince, can you come a little closer? (whispers) we have a slight problem, um... i know we lipo'd your jowels and got you to quit drinking, and i realize that you've lost some weight, but we just realized something. you have no talent. no matter how hard we try, we are unable to cover it up, and contrary to those around you, you CAN'T SING. i apologize for this inconvenience. it's the only thing we weren't able to change for you." of course this wasn't the case, though, i'm sure. he's the greatest.
then it's on, they're playing an outdoor concert. vince comes out, and he "looks so good! we're so proud!" his stylists are worried that his "long term fans" might be angry and poke them with "pitchforks" for turning this "rock and roll icon" into a chunky metrosexual. well, they weren't. the crowd loved it (or so we're told). he hits the stage singing motley crue favorites, and it is noted that people are "jaw dropping" cause he looks so good and sounds so good.
"i've never sang so good in my life, i felt better than when i was 18!" vince says after the show. his boobie-girl is so moved, she begins to weep tears of joy. oh happiness. or maybe that was silicone coming up out of her tear ducts, i don't know.
anyway, they got me, i watched the stupid thing. good job VH1. looking forward to the remaking of HR Pufnstuf.
Jan 6, 2006
bloggin' it. bleh.
i don't have any topic to rant about today, and i wish i did. that way, when things go wrong, i can blame it on the tsunami, or what they're now saying was some secret weapon test. uh huh.
regardless of how talentless Vince Neil is and how lame Motley Crue became (or how lame they WERE for the haters), their book, "the Dirt" is a fantastic read. i finished it. i laughed, i cried. i couldn't put it down. Bob Deal is my new hero. i can't imagine how they managed to keep people around them for so long. oh right, MONEY.
what will it take for ashley simpson to retire? i'm tired of looking at her stupid face. why dimebag and not this stupid fake little poser-bimbette with nothing to say? rock and roll is going to come back one day, and when it does, i hope there are casualties. (not literal casualties, mind you, but DEAD DEAD careers of todays sickening superstars) i will it to be.
the stepford wives. the movie. can someone explain how they were still human but had atm machines installed inside them? that's dumb. ruined the movie, imo. it's like two writers were fighting over that part of the script, and both lost, cause a producer said, "we'll compromise!" i mean, if they're robots, make them robots. if they're still women with chips in their heads, don't make them spit cash out of their mouths. i mean damn.
myspace. what's the problem here? i don't think i'm getting my money's worth out of this site. it's always jammed up during the day and slow like peanut butter covered molasses turtle glaciers. and i have BROADBAND. (heh, that would be a sweet stupid name for an all girl biker cover band.) myspace should pal up with google and use their servers, it's time to stop piddling around guys...
indie radio promotion. i read this article today someone posted from Salon.com, saying that the days of the indie promoters (i.e. todays quasi-legalized radio payola) is over. yet they went on to say, just as these middlemen will stop getting rich off the labels, the radio stations won't know what to play without them. they'll play even less and less new music, for fear of losing ratings, and losing listeners to all other forms of media, satellite radio, the interweb, or whatever else comes along. that's just sad. it's like some sort of sick heroin habit, where you come out of rehab and realize you're a boring, stupid asshole, which was the reason you shot up in the first place. corporate radio is in the hospital in a coma, and you should call in the family to say goodbye.
i can't find my mp3 of "Muskrat Love." and my mp3 of Little River Band's "Reminiscing" only has the last 4 seconds. that pisses me off.
Jan 12, 2005
the game. challenger. QVC. and automechanics.
so sunday i got the early call that there was an extra ticket for the game. it was a football game, and i like football. COLTS vs. BRONCOS. i hadn't slept all night. (don't ask)
at the dome, the upper level isn't seats, but rather benches with numbers where your ass goes. so if you get some chunky butts up there, all in the same row, it's going to be tight. we get up there, and i squeeze into the "spot" where my butt goes, right next to my friend heather and this big fanboy. as the football field sized flag is unfurled and star spangled banner is sung(by some unknown country superstar wannabe) heather goes to get her breakfast. nachos. the nachos are covered in dark orange cheese and some indefinable meat chunks, with a side of jalapenos. after the national anthem, they draw your attention to a bald eagle named CHALLENGER (after the shuttle), who's job it is to fly around the arena and land on his trainer's arm. it's always bugged me that the symbol of our nation was an endangered bird. i don't know why exactly, maybe because we raped the eagle's natural environment so bad that its own freedom was threatened.
the game starts, and every time there's a play, people stand up and cheer, and i have to stand up too, as i can't see... and fanboy is getting up and down too. but, i have to be careful, as heather is precariously holding her nacho tray and there's a huge drink on it. get up, sit down, get up again, sit down. boo, cheer, etc. repeat.
at halftime we get a little video on the giant telescreens about CHALLENGER, how he was rescued and couldn't be returned to the wild, because he had so much human contact when he was little that he thinks he's human. now i am picturing him getting wasted, bitching about his job and racking up massive credit card debt. poor bastard.
third quarter, fanboy has his nachos, so there's that do deal with, along with trying to do "the wave." the crowning peak of human achievement, i believe. a girl goes past up into the stands, and fanboy, whom i'm assuming is sitting next to his "wifey" or "best gal," says loudly, "DAMN, DID YOU SEE THE TITS AND ASS ON THAT CHICK? DAAAAAMN!" i did my best to ignore him.
later i'm sitting there looking around, and i notice some girl wearing a number 13 jersey, which is the stupid kicker. i turn to heather and say "what kind of person wears that moron's jersey?" she just looks at me and pulls her jersey out so i can see it. it's also number 13. DOH. my bad.
during the fourth quarter, renta-cops start popping out of the entrance below us and standing around looking upwards. apparently a heavy set lady had passed out, and up came two EMTs and a stretcher. at one point, the entire corner of the upper stadium is rubbernecking trying to see this situation and how they're going to carry this big lady down these little steps.
i went home yesterday to my folks house cause our van needed work, and my mom's puter needed defragged. when i get there, she's sitting watching one of her favorite channels, QVC. if she's not watching QVC, she's watching the Food Network. i have learned to accept the Food Network, at least it teaches you something, but QVC is like crack for old people. my mom just sits there watching it, listening to them babble. i asked her a couple questions and i had to yell it after 3 times, she's blocking me out. i really don't understand it. at least, when you can shop for whatever you'd like from wherever you'd like online, why would you sit for hours and watch a shopping network? the deals? it seems like a huge scam. they bought one of those VHS-C cameras because of that crap. (VHS-C is the crappy format where you can only record 1/2 hour at a time on a tiny tape with a VHS ribbon in it. AND to watch it you need to put that tape into another tape that fits the VCR.)
i feel like there should be an intervention.
these guys are like meteorologists. they have a good idea what's going on, but when it comes down to it, you can't really believe everything they say. they all think it's something else, and you don't know shit about barometric pressure, so you have to bite your tongue and probably picnic in the rain. it's hard enough finding one you can trust, and even then they make mistakes, mistakes that cost you plenty. it only makes it worse that i was forced to stay in marching band instead of taking auto-mechanic classes in high school, so it's all greek to me. i'd have better luck arguing existentialism with a creationist.