Striving for the absolute worst

I’m a solitary creature. That nature is especially pronounced when it comes to the creative process. When I was a kid, I used to lock myself in my room and draw for hours. I didn’t emerge until my little comic book was done.

Years later, I was the principal songwriter in one of my bands. I rarely collaborated with the rest of the guys. We didn’t have productive jam sessions, for the most part. I would hand them complete demos that I recorded in my bedroom: vocals, guitar, bass, drums, explosions, etc. My friend Chad and I co-wrote a handful of songs together, but those partnerships were infrequent and the end product was usually very silly. Anyone who ever had the (mis)fortune to hear our magnus opus “Rock Woman, Send Me to Hell Tonight” can vouch for that. It was the first and only time I alternated between soothing falsetto harmonies and death metal growls within the same tune. It was an artistic triumph heard by hundreds, enjoyed by dozens, and remembered by a handful.

My hermitdom also extends to my writing. Of course, no one needs to assist me with this dumb blog. I can embarrass myself all by my lonesome, thank you very much. My war journal (which I will eventually get around to rewriting one day) is a solitary pursuit, save the invaluable critiques I got from those who read my first draft. And I have a few fictional pieces that are range from outlines to completed first drafts, but I’m not sure when I’ll unleash those projects. I imagine most of them will stay confined to my hard drive.

But I do have one story that has some promise. While I was in Iraq, I had everything plotted out save the ending…which is an unforgivable concept when it comes to storytelling. I sat down and occasionally flipped through a stack of index cards chockfull of plot points, but I couldn’t come up with a conclusion that satisfied me. So I mothballed the whole concept.

A recent conversation with one of my friends rekindled my interest in that story. To protect his anonymity, I’ll dub him Fancypants because he usually wears a three piece suit to work, and this moniker will assuredly annoy him. And nothing pleases me more than an opportunity to aggravate or horrify Fancypants. And he rarely reads my blog anyway, so we’ll see if he’s paying attention. Fancypants, Fancypants, Fancypants. There.

ANYWAY, Fancypants and I are lifelong friends, and we are world class cutups whenever we’re together. Our friends always told us that we should team up on a project, but life just kept getting in the way. And then there were times that I’d try to light a fire under Fancypants’ butt, which would inspire him towards forming a tag team of literary awfulness. But he would just tell me to put the blowtorch away. Then he would beat me upside the head, neck, shoulders for brandishing an open flame so close to his nether regions. That Fancypants can be downright ornery.

ANYWAY, back to last month’s tête-à-tête with Fancypants. As usual, our conversation quickly deteriorated to an exchange of heinous barbs and insults, most of which are unfit for publication. But this time, Fancypants said, “Why don’t we write some of this stuff down instead of wasting it on each other?”

“Well, what do you have in mind, Fancypants? I’ve been trying to join forces with you for ages now.”

“I dunno. Something. Anything. We have friends in Hollywood. Let’s write a screenplay together.”

“Sounds like a great idea,” I said. “Now, we clearly don’t want to write anything serious or dramatic. Do you have any suggestions for a topic?”

“Naw, man,” he sighed. “I come up with some crazy stuff, but I can’t be bothered with structure. You can do that.”

“Got it. I’m the brains and the looks of this operation. You’re the wild card. Never forget that. And I think I have a story idea that we can play with. Let me email it to you. You tell me what you think.”

And I did just that. I fired off a 3 page outline that night. Fancypants was excited about the storyline (good) and he told me that he already had some ideas (even better). We spent a couple of days hanging out shortly thereafter. The first thing we did was construct an utterly ridiculous ending that made us howl with laughter. Once we knew how this tale would conclude, we sketched out characters and plot points on dozens of index cards. Then I went home, sifted through those notes, and sent him a 13 page synopsis of the plot, the major characters, and some snippets of dialogue that we’ve already composed.

Then Fancypants called me. “Okay, everything looks cool. I’m inspired, and I’m still laughing,” he said. “What do we do now?”

“It’s time to write for us to start writing a screenplay. But let’s never lose sight of our intention – to tell the funniest, sickest story we can imagine. We’re striving for the absolute worst here. Never forget that.”

“Yeah, whatever. Start writing.”

Then I called my Hollywood screenwriter friend for some additional input. He directed me towards some free Adobe software (as opposed to the $180 Final Draft program), and he gave me some advice. “Just get that first draft done. It will suck, but finish it. And then keep rewriting it until it doesn’t suck anymore. And DO NOT send it to me until it’s under 100 pages.”

So now it’s time to get cracking. I don’t want to spoil much, but it’s a zombie comedy.

And it may or may not have voodoo.

There will most certainly be plenty of chicks with guns.

Ahem. Babes with guns.

We’ll probably have gratuitous midget tossing.

And carnies. God, they’re creepy.

And if at all possible, the lead protagonist will be a baby monkey riding a pig.

Alright. Enough palaver. Time to write this thing.


Whatever you need…

Most of y’all know about my current ordeal. No need to rehash that right now. But I did want to thank my friends who’ve reached out to me via facebook, emails, phone calls, and sitdowns. Y’all have been great. I’m thankful for your well wishes and prayers.

One of the most commonly uttered sentiments has been “whatever you need, just let me know.” I certainly appreciate the gesture, but are you simply offering me your best wishes? Or are you really offering to do anything? Because you never know how I’ll try to take advantage of that offer.

That dreaded phone call in the middle of night? That probably won’t be a cry for help. That will be a demand for more beer money. So you’ll need to hightail it to some fetid watering hole ASAP, lest an empty wallet thwart my attempts to pickle my liver. You offered to do anything. Now cough up some filthy lucre.

Or it might be a request that you come over and mow my lawn immediately. I don’t care about the time, noise ordinances, or the utter triviality of said request. You offered to do anything. Now start edging my sidewalk.

I already asked for a flamethrower and a jetpack. I’m still waiting. For the past 20 years, I’ve wanted to wreak havoc like Fireball in “The Running Man.” My grandfather would beam with pride if he could see me fly around and burn crap simultaneously. You offered to do anything. Now get on the horn with General Dynamics and Blackwater.

 

Never mind my Heisman Trophy or “The Dirty Dozen.” This should have been the most badass thing I ever did. I have a flamethrower/jetpack combo, for Pete’s sake!)

And he definitely would want a bus full of babes dressed in superhero costumes to whisk me away to some fancy Japanese restaurant, where spandex-clad honeys would feed me sushi and sake until I puked. You offered to do anything. Now start cyberstalking some of those attention-needy gals who torment nerds at comic cons.

Because, really, what’s better than hot babes who are a tad geeky and willing to dress up like a funnybook character?

And I can assure you, my grandfather would want those cosplay cuties to look like this:

But I realize that’s a high standard. The next one is kinda scary and she violates my general rule about not cavorting with gals with biceps bigger than mine, but she’ll do.

And this is clearly unacceptable.

It’s time to call these bluffs. You offered to do anything. Now get to work.


Wanted: spokesmodels for the apocalypse

I haven’t watched TV on a regular basis in a year and a half. When I was in Iraq, I’d take an occasional peek at televisions in the dining hall or the weight room. I only see it these days when I’m running on the treadmill at my local gym or when I’m visiting friends. I really don’t miss it.

The news is the worst. 99% of it is unrelentingly negative. The only positive thing that I can say is that almost all news anchors on cable TV are highly attractive these days. Before I left for Iraq, it seemed like Fox News was the only news channel that was honest enough to admit that sex sells, and they trotted out a murderer’s row of hot blonde babes. And while I’m very leery of Megyn Kelly’s prior history as a litigator, as well as her modern day persona as a creepy, Stepford-ish, country club Republican, that didn’t stop me from drooling over this broad for years. She could read the phonebook for four hours and I’d be spellbound.

Sweet sassy molassey!

So imagine my surprise when I came home and discovered that CNN had seriously ratcheted up their babe quotient. My new favorite news honey is Alison Kosik, who sifts through the morning’s tea leaves and predicts the latest financial disaster. My absolute favorite part of the morning news is watching Ms. Kosik’s live reports from the NYSE floor. Every day, dozens of old men hip check this delicate flower while she tries to remain composed for the TV cameras. I’m not sure if they’re trying to pinball her across the trading floor for instigating buyer’s panic, trying to feel her up for a nanosecond, or both. Nevertheless, it makes for riveting television. This is a brilliant move on CNN’s part, because if you’re going to tell people that their economic ruin is imminent, you might as well sugarcoat the presentation. Give those poor bastards some eye candy before they sell their wives and kids into chattel slavery and build an improvised fort from hubcaps, couch cushions, and Spam tins.

Drool...Wait, a second! I'm broke?! Arggghhhhhh!

My morning run is a ping pong betwixt Fox and CNN. I don’t watch MSNBC at all, because they truly are the loony Bolsheviks screaming in the wilderness. Note to GE/ComCast, if you want to attract an audience outside of Fifth Columnists and tinfoil hat enthusiasts, you need to ramp up the babe quotient ASAP. And tell your dopey moonbat editorialists posing as journalists that I’ll respect their screeching entreaties that we need to pay more taxes when GE hands back one stinkin’ dime to the Treasury, even though they made billions in tax-free profit last year.

But I digress.

And besides, this just ain’t getting the job done.

Sometimes I feel like a hopeless rat on a wheel while I’m running on a treadmill and watching talking heads on CNN.  It’s like I’m voluntarily hurtling towards the abyss in 3 to 5 mile increments. Every day, these well-coiffed and impeccably dressed goobers shriek that the crisis du jour will bankrupt and kill us all. But it never does. And every day, I get on the damn treadmill and fall forward in an upright manner until I achieve my optimum heart rate. And for what? So I can add another couple of years on the tail end of a mostly futile and unfulfilled existence? So I can stay in good enough shape that women can’t point towards my physical repulsiveness as an excuse to reject me out of hand? Instead, they can blame my awful disposition and innate creepiness. But I guess that’s progress, so I’ll keep working out.

So is the world really coming to an end? If so, are the illuminati trying to make it a bit more palatable by having exquisitely beautiful people pull back the curtains? Or is it simply our modern age of instant information that makes everything seem so awful? You never had to strain your neck to find misery in this world. You just get in real time nowadays.

This will shock most of you, but I’m usually a “glass half-full” guy while taking all of this in. After all, it’s hard to take beautiful people seriously when they’re trying to sell you a message of “holy shit, we’re all gonna die! But first, a word from our sponsors!” Such presentation lacks gravitas. I think there needs to be a rule that we dust off curmudgeons like Jack Cafferty, Brit Hume, Tom Brokaw, and Ted Koppell when the shit truly hits the fan. An “in case of dire emergency, break septuagenarian out of glass” law, if you will.

Alright, alright. I get it. We’re #$%@ed.

We live in a world with nuclear meltdowns, civil war, Kanye West, ethnic cleansings, Snooki, crippling deficits, Dane Cook, and bedbugs. It’s horrifying if you let it get the best of you. But it can’t be so bad if there’s still time for the silly human interest stories at the tail end of each hour’s news cycle. So in the spirit of whimsy, I leave you with a picture of a monkey riding a pig.

Gahhhhhh! I said a monkey riding a pig, not a monkeypig! In the name of all that’s holy, kill that thing!

Ahhhhh. Much better.


Gimme, gimme, gimme

A couple of weeks ago, my brother, his girlfriend, and I took a short trip with Mom through LaSalle Parish. She showed off an estate sitting right off Highway 84 that recently went on the market. It consists of a picturesque two story house, a shop building, and a massive garage. All of that is perched atop a fairly steep hill, which overlooks several acres of oak and pine. It’s quite lovely. I never pry Mom about her finances but I hope she and her husband can acquire it, provided that the price is reasonable.

After taking a look at the property, we drove into Jena and had lunch. We passed by the estate as we drove back to Mom’s home in Whitehall. Mom interrupted her conversation with the rest of us and said a quick prayer out loud, which I will roughly paraphrase as, “Lord, please deliver us this home if it is according to Your will. Amen.”

“Geez, Mom! Isn’t that kind of selfish?” I asked. I was only halfway teasing.

“Hey! I made sure to ask for only something that He will deliver by His will! Besides, our house is tiny and our yard floods every time it rains! It will be nice to have a bigger house and a hill that lets the water run off!”

“But that still seems like a copout,” I retorted. “If I follow your logic, I can pray for anything as long as I drop in the ‘by Your will be done’ disclaimer. Doesn’t that add a lot of clutter to God’s day planner?”

“This sounds like one of your oddball thoughts. I don’t follow you,” Mom sighed.

“Check it out. I’ll give you a slightly more exaggerated example. ‘Dear Lord, please allow me to marry a Playboy Playmate with more curves than Horseshoe Drive and legs longer than the Lake Ponchartrain Causeway. But don’t deliver me just any bubble-headed blonde bimbo. Give me one with brains, personality, and a soul. By Your will be done. Amen.’”

“Okay, that’s just silly,” she muttered.

My brother piped in. “Is it? Maybe there is a girl just like that who’s waiting for Wayne. He’s smart. He’s been around the world. He’s not like most of those cheesy guys who usually marry those broads.”

At this point, I turned around in my seat and told him, “You and I rarely agree on anything, but that is a damn good point. It might be the most salient point you’ve ever made.”

“Thanks!” he gushed.

“You two boys are just silly,” Mom snapped. “I can’t believe you’re making light of this.”

“C’mon, Mom,” I pleaded. “That’s all I know!”

Well, not really. But I figured that wasn’t the time or place to argue about it. And Mom is (somewhat) justified in praying for this deal to come to fruition. Her home is small and the yard does flood every time there’s a heavy rain. It would be nice if they could acquire that big house on 84. I just know that I’d be uneasy about requesting divine intervention when it comes to real estate transactions. Like I noted earlier, on a good day I tend to view God as a deity with a pretty full plate. On a bad day, I feel like we’re an abandoned science project. This planet is chockfull of ugly and selfish people who won’t stop hurting themselves and each other, and we use the flimsiest pretexts to justify our awfulness. Tell me how we’re any nobler than a terrarium that went neglected during Spring Break.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Jesus and Buddha and Shakespeare and Einstein and Hulk Hogan and all of that jazz. Nevertheless, most of us stink.

ANYWAY, I do know that I rarely pray for myself these days. Whenever I do, it’s pretty brief. My most fervent praying/begging/bargaining with God has always been for other people, like when my best friend was deployed to Iraq in ’04, which was an absolutely bloody and terrible time over there. Then there were my dealings with a soldier in Iraq last year. He was standing right next to his battle buddy, who was vaporized by a mortar. He looked like he was about to become unhinged, possibly suicidal. I didn’t eat for a week; I was so scared for that kid’s soul. As far as I know, he’s okay now…as much as one can be when you deal that type of horror.

And then there are my recent petitions for my grandfather, which most of y’all are well aware of by now. They’re putting a feeding tube in him today. I’m highly ambivalent about that, but it’s not my call and I’m not fighting the people who made that decision. More than anything, I just want an end to his agony.

Now that’s not to say I haven’t made exceptions. When I first got to Iraq, I prayed for strength to endure whatever came my way. I guess those were answered. And I did last week when I was vomiting with the force and speed of a shotgun blast, and then when I had a nasty blackened funk hanging over me.  I’m much better now, so thank you Tiny Baby Jeebus.

Most people are surprised when I tell them that I didn’t do a lot of praying in the bunkers, when I had a scary near-miss with a mortar out in the open, or when I was in a chopper taking incoming fire. It was too late for absolution when those types of things happened.

You never knew when it was coming. If it was your time, then your ticket would get punched JUST. LIKE. THAT. At least that’s what I hoped for. I didn’t want to bleed out while I tried to cram my guts back in. That would have been the worst. But you couldn’t spend every waking minute worrying about it, so I just pushed it to the back of my mind. I honestly spent more time worrying about how KBR would screw us over on a daily basis and if LSU would ever get a competent quarterback than I did worrying about death and damnation.

So I’m not holding my breath waiting for God to answer my latest smartassed prayer request. And besides, I have a general rule of thumb when it comes to meeting hot babes. If she’s an 8.5 or higher, I’m probably not even going to bother. She’s either already taken or she’s heard it all before. And most babes who are considered to be “most beautiful” have no personality or humor whatsoever. They never needed to develop it. Their whole identity and worldview hinges on their physical beauty, which is ephemeral. And most women are already insane for the most part, so reality doesn’t matter to them most of the time. So why in God’s name would I want to deal with some hot neurotic mess?

Then again…

Hmmmm…..

Tiffany, I think we shared “a moment” at Comic-Con. Have your people contact my people and we’ll do lunch.


Depression Jams No. 12 & 35

I had planned to rant about all sorts of groovy stuff, but I’ve spent the past three days thwarting the Bubonic Plague. My Sabbath consisted of half a dozen vomiting sessions, interspersed with incoherent bargaining with God to quit screwing around and kill me already. I am a clean, mean killing machine these days, so the recoil from said puking felt like the kick from my Mossberg 500. That’s what a strict regimen of abdominal work will yield: a gastric revolt akin to high velocity birdshot. It was tremendous.

I kinda wish I had the foresight for video documentation, because it was pretty hysterical in retrospect.  Whenever I start feeling just a bit too self-satisfied, one of y’all could have hyperlinked clips of me puking and crying like a pansy. Then we all could have loffed and loffed and loffed.

The past two post-puke days have been a daze. It’s like a drunken binge in reverse. Last night, I made a wisecrack on facebook that I just needed a beautiful woman to toss a drink in my face in order to complete the effect.  Within seconds, several of my female friends were asking for a) directions, b) my cocktail of choice, and c) “how soon can I do this? This needs to happen like yesterday. I want to douse you with wobbly pop more than I want to breathe.”

The only thing that is falling in proper sequence with an alcoholocaust is the runaway boulder of depression that signals its denouement. I’m desperately trying to evade it, but I’m failing miserably. Nothing can shake me from this current funk. I’d try to exercise my way out of this, but I’m just too weak. Laughing at others’ misfortunes usually works, but it just fell flat today. For example, I watched Kirstie Alley thud to the floor whilst rumbaing on “Dancing With The Stars.” I’m a demented little twerp, so I’d normally laugh at this crap. But today? No dice.

I just got bummed out thinking about how hot she was 25 years ago and the mess that she is now. And while Kirstie certainly was a beauty, I personally found Shelley Long much hotter back in the day. Diane Chambers would have wiped the mat with Rebecca Howe in a battle of wits. And all things being equal, I’d rather lust after a babe who has her nose stuck in a volume of Remembrance of Things Past than some blindly ambitious hussy who chases every millionaire that crosses her radar. I mean, really. I’d much rather deal with a prissy egghead who would tolerate my bumbling dilettantism than a shameless gold digger with no self-restraint.

Come to think of it, I’ve had more than my fair share of prissy eggheads and out of control maniacs already.  And furthermore, I don’t have Sam Malone’s hair or winning smile, so I should probably punch out of this allusion tout de suite. I’m probably destined for a Carla Tortelli anyway.  And who the hell am I kidding? I’m wholly bereft of Sammy’s charm, but I am a repository of utterly useless knowledge. I am doomed to be Cliff Clavin.

But I digress.


How I Quit Hating and Learned to Love the Dumbest Song Ever

There are many things that I wish existed when I was a kid. I would have loved some of those fantastic Christopher Hart comic art instruction books 25 years ago. Some loop trainers and digital metronomes would have been godsends when I was learning how to play guitar. An intuitive word processor certainly would have made those research papers less painful. And what I would have given for a cell phone when I had to sit and wait for a ride after football practice.

There are other things that I’m glad didn’t exist when I was an ankle biter. For example, there was no UFC. Now I enjoy watching men in tiny pants beat the hell out of each other more than your average bear, but I’m glad it wasn’t around in the 80s. Had it existed in its current state 20+ years ago, my friends and I would have been foolish enough to give it a whirl. I can assure you that would have ended badly. I already endured more than my fair share of punches and kicks to the head during my childhood. A few more concussions would have scrambled what little brains I have left.

But more than anything, I’m glad we had no internet back then. I’m glad information moved at a slower pace.

Why’s that? Well, “Jackass” pranks and backyard wrestling antics didn’t fall out of the sky ten years ago, kiddies. Back in the 80s and early 90s, my Gen X pals and I spent a good chunk of our adolescence beating the snot out of each other. And I’m pretty sure that our parents did as well. Most of the time, it was simply to alleviate boredom. We recreated our favorite maneuvers from Mid-South rasslin’, broken bones and chipped teeth be damned.  We played war by shooting bottle rockets and Roman candles at each other. Some testosterone-fueled idiot was always game to fight some other equally hormonal idiot in an empty parking lot on Friday night. And there was always at least one kid in the group who was dumb enough to accept a really moronic dare, like drinking a cup full of liquid garbage, jumping off a low pitch roof, or taking the Nestea plunge off the Front Street Bridge in Natchitoches.

Most of our silliness went undocumented. A video camera was occasionally present for some of those hijinks, but I presume the dissemination of said antics went no further than second-generation VCR dubs. 20 years later, those old tapes are probably rotting away in some landfill. At least that’s what I hope happened to them.

Thank god there was no internet back then.

I suppose that statement’s not entirely true, but it might as well be. I had a handful of friends who had internet access on archaic ISPs like CompuServe and Prodigy, but technological constraints limited their activities to 8-bit gaming and exchanging fart jokes on Monty Python message boards. There were no means of uploading our nonsense for the rest of the world to see. Our dumbshit activities played out in front of a handful of people. If it was a really stupid feat, word of mouth made the rounds in the school courtyard or cafeteria. It usually died on the vine after a few days. Now there were a handful of kids who got saddled with vicious rumors that seemingly wouldn’t die, but most of that nonsense lost its sting once we all grew up and moved on to real problems. And almost all of that craziness is a foggy memory for most of us now. For that, I am eternally thankful.

I worry about what instant communication is doing to kids these days. Rumors can get splattered across facebook and Twitter within seconds. Videos can be uploaded onto a whole myriad of sites with equal rapidity. Ignominy is potentially global and permanent (until a web host becomes dormant or until an electromagnetic pulse eradicates all digital media).  I look at some of the poppycock that some of my younger relatives put online and it makes my skin crawl.

Simply put, too many kids are abusing our technological progress. I realize that makes me sound like a geriatric Luddite, but information moved at a slower pace when I was a kid. Your most embarrassing moments weren’t going to be broadcast to the whole world. Those saccharine love letters and journals had limited circulation. You kept your awful band cloistered in the garage until you were good enough to play in front of an audience. Now this also meant that your really good creative endeavors usually went nowhere because news crawled back then. But in retrospect, it was an invaluable buffer to the outside world, and it allowed us to have a few more years of innocence.

The brouhaha over Rebecca Black’s “Friday” is a microcosm for some of modernity’s messiness. A friend showed me the video about a week ago. My immediate reaction was “this is god awful. It might be dumbest song I’ve ever heard.” I cringed for the clip’s entirety. Once it ended, I scrolled down and laughed at some of the vitriolic comments posted on youtube. I’m a demented twerp, so brutality makes me laugh. Too much.

Then my friend told me that she’s only 13 years old. My critical daggers immediately went back into their scabbards. My normally blackened heart only has a handful of gossamer threads approximating humanity and parental concern, but those 14 wispy hairs tugged at me mightily.

“Oh, honey,” I muttered. “I am so sorry.”

I did a little bit of research to figure out how the hell this all happened. It turns out that the girl’s mother paid a vanity record label $4000 to record a prewritten song and shoot an accompanying video. This girl had a dream and Mama was going to facilitate it (the utter lack of talent for all parties involved be damned).  She posted it on youtube in February so her family and friends would enjoy it. A few popular comedians stumbled across it, goofed on it on Twitter, and the thing spread like wildfire. That dang video has over 75 million views now.

We all knew people like this growing up. Mercifully, their off-key meanderings drifted no farther than recital halls full of bored and restless family members. After it was over, you smiled blankly, told them it was nice, and patted them on the head. You figured a failed audition or two down the road would preempt any further shame. Evidently the option of failing in obscurity is gone these days. When a cell phone can record and upload your most embarrassing moments in real time, all bets are off.

But what the hell were she and her parents thinking? Were they thinking? I’m sure Momma loves Rebecca with all her heart, but she should have told that poor girl couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. Giving this kid the autotune treatment is like giving firewater to redskins. Nothing good can come from it. And those lyrics! They make Vanilla Ice look like Byron or Keats, for Christ’s sake! I love big, loud, and dumb more than your average bear, but I don’t think this kid delivered that song with a shred of irony or self-awareness. She’s bleating her delusional little heart out. I like to envision the soundtrack for Armageddon as the most bitchin’ Wagner/Norwegian black metal hybrid ever, but I figure it will actually be a ProTooled sequence of bleeps and over processed caterwauling. It probably won’t be too far removed from “Friday.”

It’s awful. But the haters are even worse. Some of them are innocuously snarky. I admit to initially laughing at comments like “my ears just threw up.”  But a lot of them are simply cruel. Black says she received notes that read, “I hope you cut yourself and I hope you get an eating disorder so you’ll look pretty and I hope you go cut and die.” She went on to say that, “when I first saw all these nasty comments I did cry. I felt like this was my fault, and I shouldn’t have done this, and this is all because of me.”

What the #$%@ is wrong with people?! She’s a 13 year old girl, for God’s sake! Those don’t sound like the words of a prefabricated pop princess trying to pull a fast one on the rest of us. It sounds like an overwhelmed and confused kid to me. An errantly tossed snowball into a digital wasteland turned an avalanche overnight. Now people are excoriating this kid for her relentless self-promotion in the wake of this catastrophe. But else is there to do? The debacle can’t be undone. If over a million youtube viewers took the time to tell you that they hated your guts and anonymity is no longer an option, what would you do? She might as well grab every dime she can.

This song is horrid, but it’s an earnest, unabashed, adolescent awfulness. So I figure Rebecca Black has the same artistic integrity as Radiohead at this point. She can’t write a song and can’t stay in tune to save her life, but she’ll keep plugging away. Radiohead could write the most beautiful song in the world if they felt like it, but a I-IV-V song structure is so 20th century, maaaaaaaan. So we get album after album of meandering bullshit from these clowns and we’re supposed to accept their latest batch of drivel as artistic genius. Excuse me while I go back and listen to “The Bends” for the 9000th time. Sigh.

And Rebecca, I also hope that this weekend never ends.