There's a reason why I avoid Top-40 radio; reason being: It's generally garbage, with too few highlights (hi, AAR) in between commercials and commercialized pop trash to be worth listening to. Not improving this situation is an artist I once admired. Her name is Gwen Stefani.
While I understand that it's a common notion that ska is dead and her former outfit No Doubt evolved their sound, No Doubt's evolution was never really... Bad. The songwriting skill and effort were there. Their hearts were in it. The lyrics were--and remained--, though occasionally trite (enough about Tony Kanal already, seriously--you're married to someone eleventeen billion times better looking, and with a charming British accent to boot), inspired and honest. The vocals were strong and earnest. You believed Gwen was a frustrated almost-feminist in "Just a Girl." You believed she wanted to settle down and get married and be a homemaker in "Simple Kind of Life." You even believed that she wanted to keep dancing in the admittedly mediocre--and telling of things to come--"Hella Good." You believed she was really smitten in "Underneath It All," really torn in "Bathwater."
But how can you believe a thirty-something talking about fighting a beeyotch near the bleachers of a high school, a la the ever-irritating yet inexplicably overplayed "Hollaback Girl" of What You Waiting For (which, I should point out, is missing a verb)? Gwen alienated most of her purely musical, as opposed to image-based, fans with her solo debut, and she's only pushing us further away with her latest release, The Sweet Escape.
It's not that I don't like dance music. I do, quite a bit, and I find that Gwen could, would, and should be capable of creating some quality material with it. But she didn't before, and she hasn't started now. Her producers are quality (The Neptunes, Swizz Beats, and her former flame Tony Kanal, among others), her beats are decent--but her songwriting hasn't improved, and her choice of samples has gone straight to Hell: "Wind It Up" is an absolute disaster. What could have been kitschy, cute, and catchy is instead so unabashedly atrocious, annoying, and aggravating that I find it shouldn't even be played in solitary confinements for fear of ever-rising prisoner suicide rates.
The album's saving graces are Stefani's actual voice and her sense of humor, both of which are waning. The title track showcases both, with her catchy hook and blaming her emotional coldness on presumably Gavin's leaving the fridge door open. Not helping this song is the pointless Akon cameo, but this is the least of our worries. I'd rather have him around than those creepy nouveau-geishas, commonly called "Harajuku girls."
What's most disturbing about Gwen is that she pretty much admits she's after a quick buck merely three tracks in with "Orange County Girl," where she sings, "Don’t know what I’m doin’ back in the studio/Gettin’ greedy cause he said he had another sick flow ... I got the L.A.M.B. and he’s rockin’ the Ice Cream/Blend it together, something fresh and kinda in between/Writing down my feelings is something that I love/So I don’t really give a ****." In saying she only wants to express her feelings (which I can only imagine are pure materialism and scorn for eardrums everywhere), she first has to namedrop her fashion line that most of her young fans can't afford. Gwen is more concerned with style than substance. That works for her fashion shows, but it doesn't bode well for her live ones.
*By Jess, who now needs to be lobotomized.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Insert popular Death Cab song title here.
I usually never make resolutions, seeing as I'm more than aware that I have little self-control or discipline to keep up with them for more than three hours or so past midnight, but this year I want to try my hand at a few. Some of last year's worked out well (taking my vitamins, not running red lights because I'm not paying attention, and learning to bellydance and giftwrap--not simultaneously). This year, some are again more goals than resolutions, but nonetheless, here's my list:
1) Learn to cook.
I want to be able to eat things that don't require the use of a microwave or toaster oven. I want to be able to boil water without using a Pyrex and 60-second setting. I want to be competent, dammit. I already taught myself to bake recently, so I'm hoping this works out as well as that did. I make some killer cookies, dude, so maybe a try at lasagna won't be too traumatizing. I'm also a germaphobe, so I can pretty much guarantee you'll never get salmonella from my cooking.
2) Have more patience.
This is going to be so hard, because I have to go from having "none" to having quite a bit. Pray for me. I forget that not everyone understands the same things I do, just like how I don't understand when in my life, other than finals week, I'm going to need to know how to compose a parabola.
3) Accept that not everything is always going to be under my control.
Though I must admit, I think if everything were, the world would be running a lot more smoothly than it is now. But yeah. I think I'll be a lot less frustrated a lot less often if I can just relinquish my need to run things all the time.
4) Be more punctual.
I'm usually late for everything. I don't like this characteristic, but I think it stems more from my being easily distracted than from pure carelessness, because I'll be completely ready to go--and then Prince will come on, and I'll have to dance, and I wind up out the door eight minutes later than anticipated (if the song is "Purple Rain," that is).
5) Learn how to fly a plane.
My dad can do it. My brother Steve can do it. Why shouldn't I be able to? (Insert chauvinist remark here.)
6) Stop rationalizing poor behavior.
See my reasoning for my lack of promptness in number four? Yeah, that's got to go. So does my leniency toward certain people for their lacks of consideration. I'm not going to be all tacky-manners-police about it (because that's rude in spite of itself), but if, despite my sincerest attempts at resolution two, I lose my patience--expect a proverbial slap on the wrist if it happens too often.
7) Go skydiving.
Steve, are you paying attention?
8) Love my enemies.
Okay, okay, maybe I won't necessarily adore them, but I'm starting to humanize them a little more already. People are people. Not everyone has to like everyone (though I still don't understand why there aren't more Jets fans).
9) Stop friggin' procrastinating.
I was actually going to wait until January 1st to post this. I'm on my way.
10) Learn learn learn.
The prospects of my marrying rich are getting bleaker every day... I need to study a lot more.
*By Jess, who has a new addiction to cherry Hershey Kisses, and hopes you'll all help keep her on track for 2007.
1) Learn to cook.
I want to be able to eat things that don't require the use of a microwave or toaster oven. I want to be able to boil water without using a Pyrex and 60-second setting. I want to be competent, dammit. I already taught myself to bake recently, so I'm hoping this works out as well as that did. I make some killer cookies, dude, so maybe a try at lasagna won't be too traumatizing. I'm also a germaphobe, so I can pretty much guarantee you'll never get salmonella from my cooking.
2) Have more patience.
This is going to be so hard, because I have to go from having "none" to having quite a bit. Pray for me. I forget that not everyone understands the same things I do, just like how I don't understand when in my life, other than finals week, I'm going to need to know how to compose a parabola.
3) Accept that not everything is always going to be under my control.
Though I must admit, I think if everything were, the world would be running a lot more smoothly than it is now. But yeah. I think I'll be a lot less frustrated a lot less often if I can just relinquish my need to run things all the time.
4) Be more punctual.
I'm usually late for everything. I don't like this characteristic, but I think it stems more from my being easily distracted than from pure carelessness, because I'll be completely ready to go--and then Prince will come on, and I'll have to dance, and I wind up out the door eight minutes later than anticipated (if the song is "Purple Rain," that is).
5) Learn how to fly a plane.
My dad can do it. My brother Steve can do it. Why shouldn't I be able to? (Insert chauvinist remark here.)
6) Stop rationalizing poor behavior.
See my reasoning for my lack of promptness in number four? Yeah, that's got to go. So does my leniency toward certain people for their lacks of consideration. I'm not going to be all tacky-manners-police about it (because that's rude in spite of itself), but if, despite my sincerest attempts at resolution two, I lose my patience--expect a proverbial slap on the wrist if it happens too often.
7) Go skydiving.
Steve, are you paying attention?
8) Love my enemies.
Okay, okay, maybe I won't necessarily adore them, but I'm starting to humanize them a little more already. People are people. Not everyone has to like everyone (though I still don't understand why there aren't more Jets fans).
9) Stop friggin' procrastinating.
I was actually going to wait until January 1st to post this. I'm on my way.
10) Learn learn learn.
The prospects of my marrying rich are getting bleaker every day... I need to study a lot more.
*By Jess, who has a new addiction to cherry Hershey Kisses, and hopes you'll all help keep her on track for 2007.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
He knows when you are sleeping, he knows when you're awake...
Really, how creepy is that notion?
I love Christmas, I really do. But as a child, the voyeuristic aspect of Saint Nick perturbed me a little. I'd always sit and think, "Is Santa watching me tinkle? Wouldn't that make him naughty--a pedophile, even--and therefore a hypocrite?" Obviously, my soliloquies would've been worded a bit differently when I was five, but you get my drift.
I'd also wonder, since he was always watching, if he could read minds too. Because sometimes, actions that would presumably place one on the "naughty" list had the very nicest of intentions (perhaps why the road to Hell is paved as such). When I knocked out Marcus on the playground? That was because he kicked a soccer ball right in my face, dude. I was just teaching him a lesson, and I really didn't mean to punch him that hard. All the times I was less than polite to telemarketers? They called during dinner time, and I'm Italian. We don't like being interrupted when food is in front of us.
My pondering intensified when, at six years old, my parents took my brother and me to the Radio City Christmas Spectacular. It was a fine show, no doubt, but the Santa in the lobby? His beard fell off. When I paired this potentially damaging visual with the observation I'd made that his handwriting on the gifttags was eerily similar to my mom's, I was absolutely devastated. I attempted to launch a miniature coup d'etat with nearby children until he reaffixed his facial tufts (I could still see the adhesive) and my parents, hawk eyes that they had, steered me towards the exit before I could make a scene.
I knew that lying was naughty and that I should tell the truth to the other kids (the same mode of thinking ironically almost got me kicked out of Sunday school a few years later, but that's another entry entirely), but the look in that Santa's eyes broke my heart. He looked frightened of the little girl with pigtails and her front teeth missing who barely came up to the red velvet knee she sat upon. I felt sorry for him.
This put me in a bit of a moral dilemma: I could be an honest, upstanding child and break the news to the rest of my kindergarten class--or I could keep the secret, and the magic, alive. I chose the latter, mostly because I didn't want to ruin anyone's holiday--and also for own smug ego, so that a few years later when they came to their realizations on their own, I could sit and think to myself, "Old news!"
The moral of the story? "Naughty" and "nice" are subjective. This year, do what feels right.
For me, that'd be Lenny Kravitz.
Merry Christmas.
*By Jess, who really likes the carol "The Little Drummer Boy," for a few reasons... A ruh-pum-pum-pum!
I love Christmas, I really do. But as a child, the voyeuristic aspect of Saint Nick perturbed me a little. I'd always sit and think, "Is Santa watching me tinkle? Wouldn't that make him naughty--a pedophile, even--and therefore a hypocrite?" Obviously, my soliloquies would've been worded a bit differently when I was five, but you get my drift.
I'd also wonder, since he was always watching, if he could read minds too. Because sometimes, actions that would presumably place one on the "naughty" list had the very nicest of intentions (perhaps why the road to Hell is paved as such). When I knocked out Marcus on the playground? That was because he kicked a soccer ball right in my face, dude. I was just teaching him a lesson, and I really didn't mean to punch him that hard. All the times I was less than polite to telemarketers? They called during dinner time, and I'm Italian. We don't like being interrupted when food is in front of us.
My pondering intensified when, at six years old, my parents took my brother and me to the Radio City Christmas Spectacular. It was a fine show, no doubt, but the Santa in the lobby? His beard fell off. When I paired this potentially damaging visual with the observation I'd made that his handwriting on the gifttags was eerily similar to my mom's, I was absolutely devastated. I attempted to launch a miniature coup d'etat with nearby children until he reaffixed his facial tufts (I could still see the adhesive) and my parents, hawk eyes that they had, steered me towards the exit before I could make a scene.
I knew that lying was naughty and that I should tell the truth to the other kids (the same mode of thinking ironically almost got me kicked out of Sunday school a few years later, but that's another entry entirely), but the look in that Santa's eyes broke my heart. He looked frightened of the little girl with pigtails and her front teeth missing who barely came up to the red velvet knee she sat upon. I felt sorry for him.
This put me in a bit of a moral dilemma: I could be an honest, upstanding child and break the news to the rest of my kindergarten class--or I could keep the secret, and the magic, alive. I chose the latter, mostly because I didn't want to ruin anyone's holiday--and also for own smug ego, so that a few years later when they came to their realizations on their own, I could sit and think to myself, "Old news!"
The moral of the story? "Naughty" and "nice" are subjective. This year, do what feels right.
For me, that'd be Lenny Kravitz.
Merry Christmas.
*By Jess, who really likes the carol "The Little Drummer Boy," for a few reasons... A ruh-pum-pum-pum!
Monday, December 18, 2006
Current Addictions
1. THE RASMUS: I got their first CD way back in my college days when I was an editor at the school paper. Having seen pictures of them all over UK magazines, I ripped open that CD in a sea of excitement. And I think I hated it. I sure can't remember it, so it obviously didn't grab me then. BUT I LOVE the new CD, Hide From the Sun. I think I like them better then their fellow Finland natives, HIM (calm down, I like HIM, but they can get kinda boring). This is a good CD to make out or sway to, sing along with, and simply listen to while trying to figure out what's up with the vocalist's hair.
2. KILL HANNAH: Their name had me at hello, their pictures showed me they had style and their tour dates (opening tours for Lostprophets in the US and Shiny Toy Guns in the UK) convinced me to check them out. And although the vocals took a bit getting used to, they eventually are what won me over. These songs are like sugar. Once you get them in your system you want more. more. more! Oh, and did I mention they have way hot merch? Skirts! I'll leave you with that.
*By Joelle, who will be interviewing Kill Hannah in January!!!!
the next 12 months....
...i want to see a new picture of Mickdeth every month. Because he is just THAT COOL, the Eighteen Visions bassist has his own calendar. It goes quite well with his new clothing company, Dethless, that is expected to launch in January. 18 V are one of my favorite bands to photograph, 98 percent because of Mickdeth. He is such a ham, but not in a corny way. He knows how to put on a show and give the crowd what they want. Plus, he is tattooed and straight-edge and a role model for all who aspire to be sober, colorful, and modeling while covered in fake blood. OK? Check it. www.myspace.com/mickdeth.
*By Joelle, who should go to bed now because she obviously is rambling and corny.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
New Brunswick gets a heavy friggin' dose rock n' roll (and vivacity!)
There are few bands in this world worth an hour-plus stint of hiding in a cramped, cobwebbed, minimally sanitary public restroom stall for.
(Think I'm lying? I played tic-tac-toe on the wall to keep entertained. This was the first game I've won in a while, and I think my opponent just gave me a mercy victory anyway:)
Two such bands are Perfuma,
*By Jess, who is grateful for the free Shirley Temple granted to her last night, and who is working on six hours of sleep in the last three days and therefore apologizes for a probable lack of coherence in this entry.
(Think I'm lying? I played tic-tac-toe on the wall to keep entertained. This was the first game I've won in a while, and I think my opponent just gave me a mercy victory anyway:)
Two such bands are Perfuma,
who debuted their supertall new bassist, Tucker (formerly of the Pennyroyals),
and Hero Pattern, who, as usual, owned the audience (and were quite guyvacious, which is like "vivacious," only without the feminine gender bias):
While I'm on the subject of "guyvacity," I would like to say that the man exiting the women's restroom last night as I was entering not only confused the daylights out of me, but also left the seat up and didn't flush. One of the three offenses is permissible, but gimme a break, dude. I don't know who this fellow was, but if he is reading this, I hope he knows that is repulsive, rude, and subject to castration herein.
Oh yeah, I went there.
Oh yeah, I went there.
*By Jess, who is grateful for the free Shirley Temple granted to her last night, and who is working on six hours of sleep in the last three days and therefore apologizes for a probable lack of coherence in this entry.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Wide eyed, alive
I really, really, really love The Junior Varsity. Their keyboardist, Nick Dodson, may very well be the sweetest guy in the world. So sweet, in fact, that my cohort Ashley and I took it literally and made the band brownies for their show tonight:
Aren't they festive and scrumptious looking? And check out my girl's color coordination. Good thing I didn't wear gray too, as I'd originally planned, otherwise we'd look like two cracked out Betty Crockers.
Not pictured: Me, because I was/am having a bad hair day.
Aren't they festive and scrumptious looking? And check out my girl's color coordination. Good thing I didn't wear gray too, as I'd originally planned, otherwise we'd look like two cracked out Betty Crockers.Not pictured: Me, because I was/am having a bad hair day.
However, our baked goods made us the absolute most popular women to ever step foot in the School of Rock.
Seriously girls, if you want a surefire way to have a hefty collection of phone numbers at the end of an evening out--just bring some sort of cake.
Okay, okay, being cute helps too.
*By Jess, who seriously only bakes for Junior Varsity shows, though if John Mayer asked for a pie, she'd probably oblige
Okay, okay, being cute helps too.
*By Jess, who seriously only bakes for Junior Varsity shows, though if John Mayer asked for a pie, she'd probably oblige
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Help our friends out!
Vote for Spitalfield here!
http://www.mtvu.com/music/freshmen/
They really deserve this and you can vote as many times as you want.
AND! Vote for the Jets here (or whoever, it's for charity so I won't get too mad at you):
http://chunky.com/clickforcansvote.aspx
*By Jess, who had a dream about the Junior Varsity last night and is looking forward to seeing them this weekend
http://www.mtvu.com/music/freshmen/
They really deserve this and you can vote as many times as you want.
AND! Vote for the Jets here (or whoever, it's for charity so I won't get too mad at you):
http://chunky.com/clickforcansvote.aspx
*By Jess, who had a dream about the Junior Varsity last night and is looking forward to seeing them this weekend
Monday, December 04, 2006
Got the urge to splurge?
Admit it, it's happened to you. It's happened to the best of us. You're out holiday shopping for friends and family and end up spending half your paycheck on yourself. After all, it was on sale/cheap/there was only one left/you had a bad week and deserve it, etc. And that's just shopping retail. Now onto the Internet and an album you need to buy off it.
You suffered all year long listening to disapointing releases and the same 'ol boring songs on the radio. You owe it to yourself to hear something invigorating. Something that hasn't been done so well since Sonny and Cher. The most romantic unromantic, inspiring and sexy sounds to come from, well, anyone.
Meet Scott and Aimee. Fall in love. They did. You deserve it.
The story goes like a little like this: Scott Russo gained major musical cred fronting the legendary punk-turned-rock band, Unwritten Law. He's known as the "bad boy," with a rep for doing naughty things like lighting up midset while performing onstage at the smoke-free CBGBs (RIP) and pissing off the soundman to the point where he shut the lights off on the band. Meanwhile, Aimee Allen is making a name for herself as a solo artist and scores a gig opening up for Unwritten Law on tour. Aimee met Scott and soon her name was etched into his guitar as "Scott Loves Aimee." Sparks flew and a beautiful side project was born soon after. And boy does it have attitude!
"Scott and Aimee Sitting in a Tree," is their debut album. But don't expect lovely dovey songs here. We'll leave the puke indusing tunes to Jessica Simpson and whoeverher father cons into marrying her next.
Scott and Aimee have lived life on the edge and survived to write about it. Their personalities shine through and capture listeners. With the chorus "I don't want to be your Miss America, I won't be your queen for just one day," the song "Miss America" is an anthem for young women everywhere. Not since Alanis back in '95 has a women singer taken such a powerful stand for womenkind as Aimee Allen. Girls, take notes. Songs like "I'm Not Your Girlfriend," suggest fucking for the fun of it (Sex and The City anyone?) and "Girl With Issues" should help all those little emo girls from slicing their wrists once they see what real pain is.
With various musical styles, from hard rockin' "Good Times" and "Kiss the Gun" to reggae infused "Southern California Kind of Love" and the acoustic "Too Fucked Up (To Be in Love)," the pair are packing in venues, drawing 500 Cali kids (and Mr. Kid Rock and Pamela to shows, but that's another media frenzy). Those of us out East are deprived for now, but at least we have the CD and some really cool merch to get by.
Listen to them here: www.myspace.com/scottandaimee
*By Joelle, who doesn't really like female singers but has a non-lesbian crush on Aimee and has loved Unwritten Law ever since she heard "Teenage Suicide" on a surfing video and listens to "Sitting in a Tree" nonstop.
You suffered all year long listening to disapointing releases and the same 'ol boring songs on the radio. You owe it to yourself to hear something invigorating. Something that hasn't been done so well since Sonny and Cher. The most romantic unromantic, inspiring and sexy sounds to come from, well, anyone.
Meet Scott and Aimee. Fall in love. They did. You deserve it.
The story goes like a little like this: Scott Russo gained major musical cred fronting the legendary punk-turned-rock band, Unwritten Law. He's known as the "bad boy," with a rep for doing naughty things like lighting up midset while performing onstage at the smoke-free CBGBs (RIP) and pissing off the soundman to the point where he shut the lights off on the band. Meanwhile, Aimee Allen is making a name for herself as a solo artist and scores a gig opening up for Unwritten Law on tour. Aimee met Scott and soon her name was etched into his guitar as "Scott Loves Aimee." Sparks flew and a beautiful side project was born soon after. And boy does it have attitude!
"Scott and Aimee Sitting in a Tree," is their debut album. But don't expect lovely dovey songs here. We'll leave the puke indusing tunes to Jessica Simpson and whoeverher father cons into marrying her next.
Scott and Aimee have lived life on the edge and survived to write about it. Their personalities shine through and capture listeners. With the chorus "I don't want to be your Miss America, I won't be your queen for just one day," the song "Miss America" is an anthem for young women everywhere. Not since Alanis back in '95 has a women singer taken such a powerful stand for womenkind as Aimee Allen. Girls, take notes. Songs like "I'm Not Your Girlfriend," suggest fucking for the fun of it (Sex and The City anyone?) and "Girl With Issues" should help all those little emo girls from slicing their wrists once they see what real pain is.
With various musical styles, from hard rockin' "Good Times" and "Kiss the Gun" to reggae infused "Southern California Kind of Love" and the acoustic "Too Fucked Up (To Be in Love)," the pair are packing in venues, drawing 500 Cali kids (and Mr. Kid Rock and Pamela to shows, but that's another media frenzy). Those of us out East are deprived for now, but at least we have the CD and some really cool merch to get by.
Listen to them here: www.myspace.com/scottandaimee
*By Joelle, who doesn't really like female singers but has a non-lesbian crush on Aimee and has loved Unwritten Law ever since she heard "Teenage Suicide" on a surfing video and listens to "Sitting in a Tree" nonstop.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
All I want for Christmas (besides you, dear reader) is an end to shitty musical nepotism.
I'm not talking the father-son kind (because really, Bob Dylan's spawn did well with The Wallflowers, and Sean Lennon's new work is pretty damn good). I'm talking the sibling variety.
First we had Aaron Carter riding the coattails of his Backstreet Boy older brother, Nick. In an orange jumpsuit. And chains. On a trampoline. How utterly gangster, and I say that with an "er" instead of an "a" at the end deliberately.
Soon, we had the Duff sisters (Hilary, who hints occasionally that Aaron Carter actually inspired the hit "So Yesterday," despite her not really writing it), butchering my two favorite songs by two of my favorite bands of all time, The Go-Gos and Blondie. I feel that whoever allowed this to happen should be sent to Abu Ghraib. No paycheck is worth that humiliation. Oh, and speaking of "So Yesterday," I'd like to reiterate a lyric from that for you guys, only because I have to hear it at work every day: "If the light is off, then it isn't on." No shit, sister. The lightbulbs in your overpaid lyricist's heads must have been dimmed to the point of darkness to come up with such inane garbage.
Then we had the Simpson sisters trying to sing. As if Jessica weren't bad enough with her alternately wailing-whispering-hacking (I'm quite ashamed to have her as a namesake), we decided that we wanted more complete and total shit on radio, so we give her gravelly-"voiced" sister a record deal, and she winds up selling even more albums than Jessica ever did despite her ability to vocalize anything besides publicist-bullshit-diatribe (acid reflux my patootie) live being more than a little questionable.
And now, my friends?
Lindsay Lohan's little sister, Ali, is releasing a Christmas album.
If someone would give me a taser as a stocking stuffer, I'd put an end to this insanity.
*By Jess, who is happy that the Jets won today.
First we had Aaron Carter riding the coattails of his Backstreet Boy older brother, Nick. In an orange jumpsuit. And chains. On a trampoline. How utterly gangster, and I say that with an "er" instead of an "a" at the end deliberately.
Soon, we had the Duff sisters (Hilary, who hints occasionally that Aaron Carter actually inspired the hit "So Yesterday," despite her not really writing it), butchering my two favorite songs by two of my favorite bands of all time, The Go-Gos and Blondie. I feel that whoever allowed this to happen should be sent to Abu Ghraib. No paycheck is worth that humiliation. Oh, and speaking of "So Yesterday," I'd like to reiterate a lyric from that for you guys, only because I have to hear it at work every day: "If the light is off, then it isn't on." No shit, sister. The lightbulbs in your overpaid lyricist's heads must have been dimmed to the point of darkness to come up with such inane garbage.
Then we had the Simpson sisters trying to sing. As if Jessica weren't bad enough with her alternately wailing-whispering-hacking (I'm quite ashamed to have her as a namesake), we decided that we wanted more complete and total shit on radio, so we give her gravelly-"voiced" sister a record deal, and she winds up selling even more albums than Jessica ever did despite her ability to vocalize anything besides publicist-bullshit-diatribe (acid reflux my patootie) live being more than a little questionable.
And now, my friends?
Lindsay Lohan's little sister, Ali, is releasing a Christmas album.
If someone would give me a taser as a stocking stuffer, I'd put an end to this insanity.
*By Jess, who is happy that the Jets won today.
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