Boy Band Meets World: A Retrospective (Part 1)

Preamble 1:

When thinking of the most divisive figures in popular culture, it’s pretty easy to generate a list of usual suspects. Take Kanye West, for example; some argue that he’s a mad genius, while others may claim he is simply a raging asshole. Similarly, depending on who you ask, Lady Gaga is either a brilliant Warholian performance artist or a semi-talented attention whore. But there’s one name that doesn’t pop up frequently when discussing controversial public figures, even though he personifies the “love’em or hate’em” dichotomy. I’m talking about Justin Beiber, the pop moppet alternatively worshipped by some as a helmet-haired deity and derided by others as some sort of musical Antichrist. What’s most interesting about Beiber’s public reception is the clear demographic split between his admirers and his detractors. Every preteen girl in the Western Hemisphere dreams of innocently holding hands with the Beebs, while nearly all adults – and especially adult males – bristle at his very existence. All across the Internet, hate spews for Beiber like a geyser. I have to admit, I don’t understand this reaction. Firstly, I acknowledge that I’m not part of his target audience; I’m not still waiting to have my first period. It’s music for babies, and as such, I don’t let it bother me too much. Secondly, his musical output can be avoided with relative ease, even among hardcore pop radio listeners. When I commuted to work, I listened to probably 5 hours of pop radio per week, and I’ve heard, at a maximum, 3 of his songs. In comparison, I’ve heard roughly 80% of everything Jason Derulo has ever recorded, which mostly all sounds to me like a toilet flushing. Finally, what I have heard from Beiber is pretty inoffensive, even by the lenient standards of pop music. For example, I’d take any given Beiber song over Hot Chelle Rae’s “Tonight Tonight”; of course, I’d rather have Beiber personally crush my trachea with a tire iron than listen to Hot Chelle Rae’s “Tonight Tonight”. While I find the Beiber hatred vastly overblown among adults, there is one population that I think has a legitimate beef with him: regular preteen boys, who must hopelessly compete against Beiber for the affections of their female classmates. I can sympathize with them, because I lived this reality during my middle school years. You see, I came of age during the Boy Band Era. 

My Wife: Restaurant Critic

Some months back, my lovely wife and I visited a historic Ohio bar/eatery near her hometown. It turned out to be the gastric equivalent of the Challenger disaster. In a fit of pique, my wife wrote a vicious takedown of this particular establishment. I’ve reproduced her review below in its entirety. The only alteration I’ve made is removing the restaurant’s name, in an effort to avoid potential litigation. 

Tired Shit on Facebook: “Should I Stay or Should I Go” Edition

I’m a facebook OG. I was too stupid and too poor to go to an Ivy League school, so while I wasn’t part of the first wave of facebook users, I got in pretty early. My college received access to facebook back in the spring of 2005, so I’ve been able to watch the social networking site mutate and evolve over the past several years. To give you some context of how much change I’ve witnessed, when I first signed up, it was still THE motherfucking facebook.com, before “the” was dropped for being insufficiently clean. Like I said, I’m an old-timer. Back in early days, facebook was about reconnecting with high school friends who went to different schools and making plans with your college friends. Unlike Myspace, it didn’t have myriad add-ons and design options that resulted in pages that looked like exploded digital diarrhea. Everyone’s profile looked the same; the site’s uniform, egalitarian design was geared to the utilitarian purpose of connecting with your friends. Put simply, it was a true social networking site.

Then came the feed.

Thing That Are Terrible, No. 4: Boxed In

Technology has made nearly every form of entertainment easily and quickly available. Books can be delivered wirelessly to e-book readers, songs can be purchased and downloaded within seconds, and rental services such as Netflix make it possible to view even the rarest of cinematic treasures. In years past, watching the entirety of Akira Kurosawa’s filmography would take years and a truly exceptional public library system. Netflix enables one to accomplish the same enterprise in a few weeks, without ever having to leave the house or interact with other human beings. While Netflix presents the opportunity to enjoy cinema obscura in its myriad forms, another service allows movie fans to rent the newest releases for only a dollar per night. I’m speaking, of course, of RedBox, the kiosk-based rental business that can be found outside anyplace that sells box wine and condoms (the other two necessary ingredients for a successful movie night). Unfortunately, technology changes far more rapidly than both society and the human brain. After all, anatomically modern humans have existed for roughly 50,000 years, meaning that 21^st century humans and cavemen possess essentially the same cognitive ability. Nowhere is man’s primal incomprehension of contemporary technology more manifest than in the queue at RedBox. An early human plucked from a hunting party on the Serengeti and placed in front of a RedBox terminal would behave similarly to the numerous cretins I have stood behind while waiting to rent Black Swan. The situation is, as you can imagine, both intolerable and terrible.

In an ideal world, everyone who approached a RedBox would know exactly which movie they wanted to rent. I understand, however, that this is an unreasonable request. I also confess that I have causally perused the touchscreen after stocking up on box Merlot and jimmy hats at the local grocery store. However, when I browse through the selections, I have a general idea of the featured movies, as well as a basic grasp of what a motion picture actually is. Many customers, it seems, lack even this elementary understanding. They will furrow their heavy brows while they read synopsis after synopsis of movies whose advertisements were in constant rotation a mere three months prior. Even if you are somehow ignorant about what the movie is about, what will the description of Season of the Witch tell you that the cover art already doesn’t?

"An obviously be-wigged Nicholas Cage brandishing a sword? COUNT ME IN"

 

 

 

 

It isn’t only customers’ unawareness of what movies are out that makes any given RedBox experience unpleasant – it’s also their total disregard of acceptable social behavior. I’ve written before about both the excess and dearth of exercising civil niceties, and this is yet another example of the latter category. More than once, I’ve had to stand and grit my teeth while some dunderhead stares blankly at the screen for up to ten minutes, unable to complete the Herculean task of deciding which horrendous Kevin James comedy they want to rent. Recently, I was forced to wait behind a portly gentleman while he twice called his wife to debate the merits of the Adam Sandler-Jennifer Anniston fecal stain Just Go With It. In a truly civilized society, either this man would have stepped aside while I made my selection, or jack-booted police would have emerged from an unmarked van to bludgeon and arrest him.

I’ve spent many sleepless and movie-less nights pondering what can be done about this situation. Perhaps RedBox etiquette could be inserted into the public school curriculum? Given that I wasn’t taught multiplication tables until the middle of my junior year of high school, I don’t have much confidence in the educational system to solve this problem. Maybe RedBox could introduce technology that delivers a powerful electric shock when it detects someone has been browsing for too long? Again, this is a flawed idea; most RedBox customers are so dull that the sensation of pain may take entire minutes to reach their brains, much in the same fashion as a brontosaurus. Unfortunately, I believe that the only solution is to wait. As in all social revolutions, the time required to adjust to RedBox use must be measured in years, not months. I predict that nearly everyone will have figured out how to properly use RedBox within the next two decades. My only hope is that I will still be around when that day comes, so that I may enjoy the anxiety-free experience of renting a 4-D remake of The Zookeeper.   

Rock N’ Roller Cola Wars: Their Antecedents and Consequences, and Why I Can’t Take Them Anymore

I am not a big believer in conspiracy theories. I think that Lee Harvey Oswald, acting independently and of his own volition, assassinated John F. Kennedy with two rifle shots; that Al Qaeda was responsible for 9/11; and that the Harlem Globetrotters routinely defeat the Washington Generals based on their superior athleticism, not because the games are fixed. If I were to ever meet Jesse Ventura, he would yell at me in his deep baritone and I would sob like the weak, noodle-wristed half-man that I am. But there is one conspiracy theory for which I am an ardent supporter, even though there is basically no evidence for it: I believe with religious enthusiasm that soda companies consistently roll out products that they know will fail. The reason I believe this so fervently is because there is no mentally sound person alive that believes the below products could possibly succeed in the competitive soda market:

1. Crystal Pepsi

No product in the history of soft drinks can prove my thesis as thoroughly as Crystal Pepsi. No one could convince me that Crystal Pepsi was anything but a novelty product designed to sell well in the short term before quickly flaming out. If you are not familiar with this product, it was basically what it sounds like: Pepsi in which the brown food coloring had not been added, and was thus transparent. If you dedicate more than 1 second of thought to this concoction, you will begin to understand why it was such a monumental flop. I was just a young lad in 1991 when Crystal Pepsi was released, so my recollections of it are foggy. I believe that the formula differed from regular opaque Pepsi, but the flavor was definitely cola. As I have alluded to, this is a problem. Ever since the invention of cola, it has been dark brown in color, while citrus-based drinks have been clear. The psychological dissonance resulting from seeing a clear beverage and tasting cola is so powerful that no one could have truly enjoyed the experience of imbibing it. It’s like having sex with a Real Doll; the physical sensation is identical, but the reality is both terrifying and sad.

2. Pepsi Blue

As demonstrated by the above entry, Pepsi has not had great success in monkeying with their formula. Unlike Mountain Dew, whose brand can undergo innumerable permutations as long as it remains kidney-puckeringly sugary and vaguely citrus inspired, Pepsi’s identity is fixed. There are some allowable variations: cherry, of course, and vanilla is tolerated in some markets, but overall, when consumers purchase Pepsi, they expect a caramel-colored cola. With this information in mind, it is truly beyond comprehension that PepsiCo would release this blue beverage under the Pepsi brand rather than the more flexible Mountain Dew banner; conspiracy is the only logical conclusion. Aside from the senseless branding, Pepsi Blue also faced another, arguably insurmountable obstacle: its deep blue hue was identical to that of Windex. If you had responsible parents, you were likely taught that the cleaning products under the kitchen sink were not food, and would, in fact, act as deadly poison if ingested. This early-life programming is so ingrained in human consciousness that it takes tremendous effort to overcome. But why would you battle both your subconscious and your basic mammalian instincts (for nothing edible is this color in nature) if the reward is something as mediocre as Pepsi Blue’s vaguely chemical taste? The color betrays the drink’s origins as a totally artificial suspension created in the same laboratory as AIDS. Of course, as an impressionable teenager at the time of Pepsi Blue’s 2002 release, I played right into the conspirators’ hands. I purchased a few bottles in an attempt to convince myself it was good. You see, my family was nominally Baptist, but in truth we were fundamentalist Pepsians. To this day, my father drinks between 3 and 5 Pepsi colas per day. I felt it was my ecclesiastical duty to try to like Pepsi Blue, but no matter how valiant my effort, I ultimately had to admit that it’s flavor and appearance were an affront to both God and Man.

3. C2 

In moving away from PepsiCo to their primary competitor, most would assume I would discuss New Coke, Coca-Cola’s disastrous replacement for their flagship beverage, about which there is already a well-known conspiracy theory. However, I won’t be talking about New Coke. For one thing, there has already been a great deal written about it, and two, I was far too young during New Coke’s rollout to understand it’s cultural and gustatory ramifications. Instead, I’d like to turn my attention to C2, Coca-Cola’s utterly bizarre diet-ish drink released in 2004. C2 was designed to piggy-back on the success of the Adkins diet, which you have to admit was a good business move; hitching your wagon to a diet fad seems like an excellent recipe for long-term success. C2 occupied the strange and unexplored “no man’s land” between regular Coke and Diet Coke. It boasted half of the calories, sugar, and carbohydrates of regular Coke, which paradoxically meant that it had 50% more of those things than Diet Coke. Ultimately, my problem with C2 is the target demographic; namely, what is it? For whom was this product designed? When it comes to cola, most people have already made their decision. If you want full flavor, you drink Coke; if you want to control your calorie intake, you drink diet Coke. What are the circumstances under which one would choose C2? It wouldn’t make sense for someone who drinks Diet Coke to switch to a drink with more calories. Is it for regular Coke drinkers who want two cans of soda, but want to maintain the same calorie consumption? Consumers that are physiologically addicted to Coke and are trying to quit, and C2 acts as methadone? These are senseless questions, but that is because there are no reasonable answers. This was a product designed to increase sales for a quarter or two, then quietly disappear into American folklore, like Paul Bunyan.

Conclusion:

As this tour of soda failures demonstrates, there is clearly a conspiracy at work at the highest levels of commerce. Each product represents an insane idea that could never be successful over time, but that offer enough novelty that people will buy them for a short time. The early quasi-success may be enough to cover the costs of research and development, or they may not; it doesn’t matter. Given that the failures of these products are preordained, and that they may actually represent a net lost for the company, the question is, “why are they doing this?” The answer is simple: the ongoing cold war between PepsiCo and Coca-Cola. Just as Ronald Christ Reagan single-handedly defeated the Soviet Union by forcing them to spend all of their money on military escalation, Pepsi and Coke are locked in arms war with each side desperately hoping the other will run out of funds and dissolve. Pepsi Blue and C2 are carbonated beverage versions of Reagan’s Star Wars defense system: unfeasible and expensive pipe dreams constructed to strike terror into the hearts of adversaries. Many academics state that the legendary Cola Wars of the 1980’s are long over, but this article demonstrates the falsity of such claims. The Cola Wars are still raging on, in our supermarkets, in our schools, and in our homes, and they are still claiming lives. Unfortunately, we huddled masses must live with this reality, just as when we cowered impotently under the specter of nuclear annihilation. All we can do is envision a finer world in which all colas exist harmoniously in a more perfect Dew-mocracy.

Things That Are Terrible, No. 3: Unwanted Truths

As I wrote in the very first installment of Things That Are Terrible, the exhibition of certain niceties is required in order to maintain a functioning, civilized society. I discussed the various tradeoffs of this social arrangement in depth in that essay, focusing special attention on the annoying habit of strangers holding doors open for other, distant strangers. In this chapter, I will examine a different, but nonetheless terrible, aspect of living amongst other humans. This time, I’ll focus on interacting with the most dreaded of all social creatures, the acquaintance.

During my undergraduate years, I had the pleasure/misfortune to know a young gentleman who I’ll call David Nixon. Dave was a walking stereotype cut from the Charlie Brown cloth. If we lived within a cartoon fantasy world, a small, dark raincloud would be perpetually perched over Dave’s head. One time, I was walking around campus and ran into Dave. Because I had not seen him in several weeks (a strange absence, since we lived on the same floor in the same dormitory), I asked where he had been. In response, he lifted his shirt to reveal a freshly stitched incision on his lower abdomen. “My appendix burst,” he explained. If it had been literally anyone else, I would have been shocked. But for Dave, this was merely par for the course.

I bring up Dave Nixon because he epitomizes a certain phenomenon that is limited to people you don’t know very well and for whom you do not care deeply. As I mentioned, societal norms require us to exchange pleasantries with people we recognize. It’s generally understood, for example, that when you ask someone in passing “How are you doing?,” the only acceptable answer is a one-word reply along the lines of “Good,” followed by asking the same question to you. Again, this is a concession we make so that we can exist in a civilization. Neither party is truly interested in the cognitive or emotional state of the other, and both are usually on their way to a certain destination. Unfortunately, there are people, Dave among them, who do not understand or refuse to conform to this convention. They take “How are you?” not as a simple politeness, but as an invitation to launch into a checklist of grievances. Here is a hypothetical exchange:

Me:

“Hey, Dave, how’s it going?”

Dave:

“Not too good, man. Trish kicked me out of the apartment, and her two asshole brothers are there all the  time so I can’t even get my stuff. I’m also failing out of my English course because of all the classes I missed because of my surgery. I got caught in the rain yesterday and all of my cigarettes got wet, and I can’t afford to buy anymore…”

Me:

(eyes roll back into skull as frontal lobe disengages and reptilian brain takes over basic biological functions)

Being caught in these situations is the conversation equivalent of the 1979 Iranian hostage crisis; you are held captive by a fanatic whose motives are beyond your experience and comprehension. Mores dictate that you have to tolerate a certain amount of this, as it would be uncouth to yell “Eat shit, I have to get to class!” as soon as the third word escapes their face hole. You instead have to try to keep your senses keen so you can exploit any natural break in the conversation and use it to escape.

The other terrible thing about these situations is that the nature of the person’s answer makes it basically impossible to respond to them. Refer to the above example again. Keep in mind that such an exchange takes place in a public space while you are on your way to someplace. Also recall that this person is merely an acquaintance, not a close friend or confidante. What the hell are you supposed to say to something like that? If it were a real friend, you could use your knowledge of their personality and past experiences to provide some heartfelt words of wisdom. But your knowledge of this person is restricted to what they look like, perhaps their full name, and that they know some of the same people as you. The only way to mitigate the awkwardness is to quickly offer some meaningless platitudes and beat a hasty retreat.

It is said that no man is an island. Our social and biological needs require interaction with other humans to be met. Much of the time, these encounters are beneficial. Living in a society allows us steady access to food, power, housing, and so much shameful, anonymous sexual intercourse. However, there are drawbacks, ranging from the major (crime, disease, etc.) to the minor (awkward and unavoidable encounters with various weirdos). While the latter are certainly less severe, they are also more common, and thus can be considered a worthy entry into the hallowed halls of Things That Are Terrible.

Disrespecting the Cock: Hollywood’s Contentious Relationship with the Male Member

Nudity has long been a tricky subject in the American film industry. Unlike our filthy European counterparts, who are all too happy to include explicit fellatio in everything but children’s movies (where only verbal references to oral sex are permitted), American filmmakers are constrained by the Draconian policies of the MPAA. Because our First Amendment rights allow us to say whatever the fuck shit hell ass cunt we want, the MPAA can’t actually prevent anyone from including stiff dicks or split beavs in their movies; they can, however, slap an NC-17 rating on them, which is generally regarded as a financial kiss of death. As a result, nudity (especially of the full frontal variety) is exceedingly rare in American cinema. The MPAA has its roots in the notorious Hayes Code, which forbade obscenity (which included everything from profanity to blasphemy to sexual content) in film. By the 1970s, restrictions were relaxed, and basically every director in that decade had a field day with including nudity. Seriously, pick any random film from the 70’s, and there is a 75% chance that there will be a pair of bare breasts contained therein. I’m surprised Stars Wars doesn’t have a loose set of titties. Anyway, this influx in nakedness (as well as explicit language) was largely an attempt to add verisimilitude to the proceedings, which I appreciate; there’s nothing that takes me out of a movie faster than showing a couple interacting post-coitus and the woman has a blanket pulled over breasts, suddenly coy after her partner has literally had his penis inside of her. Adding realism is the second most popular reason to include nudity for both males and females. The number one reason for the inclusion of female nudity is, of course, titillating the audience. I would estimate that 9/10s of female nudity in major U.S. film releases is designed to cause the male viewers to shift in their seats, if you know what I mean (I’m talking about repositioning their erections to reduce discomfort). 2001’s Swordfish is one of the prime examples of this sort of nudity. In this movie, there is an entirely pointless scene in which Halle Berry exposes her jugs. The scene advances neither plot nor characterization (other than the fact that Halle Berry’s character likes to sunbathe topless, I guess). It was filmed solely to give the men in the audience boners.

Male nudity (or dudeity, as it is sometimes known), is exhibited in movies for entirely different reasons. Women, in general, are not aroused by the mere sight of a swinging johnson (they find money, chocolate, and, apparently, vampires far more erotic). Especially over the past few years, male nudity has been presented in movies primarily for comedic reasons. For example, weens have been featured in Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story (2007), Forgetting Sarah Marshall (2008), Bruno (2009), Observe and Report (2009), and The Hangover (2009). There are two reasons audiences – both male and female – find schlongs so hilarious. For one thing, there is the element of surprise. Comedy is said to be the collision of the familiar and the unexpected; of course everyone is acquainted with at least one dick, but few expect them to be projected on a 20 foot screen in glorious 1:85:1 aspect ratio. A textbook example of this appears in Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story, wherein the title character (portrayed by John C. Reilly) is on the telephone while a nude man stands in the middle of the frame, cock exposed for God and everyone to see. The comedy results from both Reilly’s nonchalant reaction to the penis, as well as the uncomfortably and shockingly long time it is visible on screen. Another reason for the humorous exploitation of penis is the anatomical characteristics of that particular organ. Frankly, they look ridiculous, dangling limply like a sullen turtle’s head. Clinically miniscule peens are even more preposterous, and are lovingly showcased in both Observe and Report and The Hangover.

The question that must be asked in light of these facts is: does Hollywood treat the cock fairly? After all, the vulva would never suffer the indignities the penis has, treated as an object of mockery and ridicule. Could the gender politics of Hollywood be so inverted that we are conditioned to giggle at the once-powerful phallus while the proverbial pussy is put on the proverbial pedestal? Could conservatives have been right about the movie industry all these years? Ultimately, I think the penis is handled appropriately by the film industry (if only I could say the same about my marriage). As pointed out above, its appearance is patently absurd, and thus ripe for comedy. Furthermore, while dicks are primarily used for humor purposes, they are not used exclusively to this end. David Cronenberg’s Eastern Promises (2007), for example, features a vicious fight scene in which a nude Viggo Mortensen kicks the asses of two Russian gangsters; his kibble n’ bits are visible the entire time and react appropriately to his flying kicks. As long as the male member is not shown solely in the context of comedy, we can rest (our hands) easy (on our dicks).

The Secret Filth of Rihanna’s “Rude Boy”: It’s Not What You Think

Editor's Note: When I wrote this originally for a now-defunct blog, it was contemporary. Let your mind drift back to the halcyon days of May 2010 for full enjoyment of this article.

The popular music landscape has changed greatly since The Beatles recorded “I Want to Hold Your Hand” in 1963. In those days, societal norms prevented Paul McCartney from singing about what his heart actually desired, which likely went beyond mere hand-holding. The notion of the 20-something lead singer of the most popular band in the world singing about holding hands in contemporary times is absurd. Today we are (fairly) comfortable with lovable tyke Justin Beiber talking about having a “lover” (specifically, an “eenie meanie minie mo lover,” whatever the fuck that means). Our views on sexuality have loosened and become less puritanical in the past 40 years, but not to the point that we have total freedom to discuss explicit detail in a public forum. As a result, pop musicians now walk a tightrope between conveying realistic lust and keeping their lyrics radio-friendly. Most of the time, they tumble off of this tightrope and splatter gorily on the ground below. Take, for example, Lady GaGa’s “Lovegame,” wherein she informs a gentleman that she would like to “take a ride on [his] disco stick.” This lyric utterly fails as a double entendre because, to my knowledge, there is no such thing as a disco stick, let allow one that is able to be ridden. Obviously, the radio-listening audience knows she is talking about fucking this guy doggy, cowgirl, or possibly reverse cowgirl style; more accurate lyrics would be “I wanna take a ride on your big fat dick” (see, even the correct rhythm scheme and number of syllables). However, FCC regulations prevent the broadcast of lyrics such as these and, because she wants to sell records, GaGa instead tries to force an awkward simile into the song. And it sucks. However, it doesn’t always have to. Filthy sex lyrics can be made interesting without clumsy wordplay.

As with Lady GaGa’s “Lovegame,” no one can accuse Rihanna’s latest hit “Rude Boy” of being coy or subtle about its intentions. From the first line, it’s clear what Rihanna is getting at: she would enjoy, if at all possible, getting fucked by a giant cock. Although in the beginning of the song Rihanna expresses some misgivings concerning whether the uncouth gentleman in question can both “get it up” and is “big enough,” she goes on to talk about how she is going to allow him to be “the captain” and “a rider”, using dirty talk like “giddy up, giddy up, giddy up, babe.” Later in the song, she also talks about some radio-approved light S & M, including Rihanna’s approval of having her hair pulled and being told to “kiss ya there” (which could refer to, in order of likelihood: his mushroom cap, his ballsack, his asshole, or his taint). Again, even though the entire point of the song is that Rihanna loves taking humongous schlong all the way to the root, all of this is conveyed in a PG-13 (and thus boring) manner.

The only interesting part of the song, and the reason I’ve written about it, comes in the middle of the song, during which Rihanna takes charge of their intimate relations. Check out the following lyrics:

Tonight I’mma give it to you harder
Tonight I’mma turn your body out
Relax, let me do it how I wanna
If you got it, I need it
And I’mma put it down

Buckle up, I’mma give it to you stronger
Hands up, we can go a little longer
Tonight I’mma get a little crazy
Get a little crazy, baby

The above represents an interesting choice of words, especially for a female singer. In my vast and unimpeachable sexual experience, I’ve never heard a woman say that she was going to “give it” hard, strong, or in any other particular way. In fact, the anatomical reality is that it’s impossible for females to in fact “give it.” Even taking into account the malleability of slang, this is unusual diction. I do not believe that this portion of the song refers to Rihanna’s dick taking habits. As such, an alternative hypothesis must be proffered. Based on the above lyrics, I would say with reasonable confidence that Rihanna is talking her boyfriend into some pegging. Here, finally, we have an example of when censoring leads to somewhat interesting lyrics. As a society, we are pretty far from accepting male hetero buttplay. Because of this, Rihanna cleverly dances around the subject by hiding it in the middle of the song, in a similar manner to how she hides the sausage in her boyfriend’s bung. This song illustrates how radio-acceptable content can remain both raunchy and clever.

As a brief finale, I also want to point out an example of the opposite problem described above: being so explicit that the listening audience has no idea what the hell you’re talking about. In the track “Bedrock,” Nicki Minaj, one of the 25 to 30 featured artists, explains that “it’s time I put this pussy on yo sideburns.” The logistics of such an act are questionable. Is putting one’s vagina against a fellow’s facial hair a new sexual fetish, or is Nicki saying that her vagina is so wide that, by sitting on her partner’s face, it will touch both sideburns simultaneously? I’m seriously asking.

Things That Are Terrible, No. 2: Does a Bear Wipe in the Woods?

Throughout the history of television, advertisers have had to find a way to sell intimate items without offending audiences’ delicate sensibilities and while remaining within federally mandated perimeters. Changing cultural mores have eased the commercial maker’s burden, however, and we have gone from displaying braziers on mannequins to having supermodels in lingerie practically scissoring on the catwalk. This is not a complaint; far be it from me to pine for the commercials of yesteryear, especially if modern ads feature Sapphic overtones. Having said that, I feel that there are some products whose functions do not need to be explicitly demonstrated. Chief among these is toilet paper. Everyone in the Western world is familiar with the function and necessity of this product. For years, probably decades, toilet paper commercials consisted of a split screen with disembodied hands pouring that ubiquitous blue liquid (an all-purpose proxy for kitchen spills, urine, feces, and menstrual waste) on two competing brands to test their “absorbency” and strength. Within the past few years, however, one company has strayed from this formula with their toilet tissue advertisements. The results are, in a word, terrible.

There is a hoary, stock sarcastic remark that can be made in response to a question with an obvious answer: “Does a bear shit in the woods?” Charmin has decided to answer this question with a resounding “Yes, constantly.” Their ad executives have introduced a family of cartoon bears who are in a perpetual state of fecal emergency. One commercial features a young bear unfurling yard after yard of toilet tissue with which to wipe her shitty ass, while the mother instructs the bear lass that, no matter how shitty her ass is, just a few sheets of Charmin’s superior absorbency TP is sufficient. Another ad features the mama bear offering papa bear an espresso, which he enjoys heartily, but which unfortunately gives him a severe and urgent case of the runs. This particular commercial has a clever double meaning – on one level, papa bear asks of the espresso how so much can be contained in such a small package, implicitly drawing a comparison to how Charmin is able to pack so much absorbency in a single roll. Also, caffeine makes you have to go doodie, so when papa bear drinks the espresso, break out the Charmin, cause he’s going to shit buckets! The all time worst, however, focuses more specifically on the bears’ rectal hygiene. One bear, apparently after a vigorous wiping session with an inferior brand, bends over to reveal a number of dingle berries attached to his posterior. Is this necessary? The information conveyed – that other, non-Charmin brands are more prone to tearing – is just as clearly transmitted through the traditional “blue liquid split screen” described above. Based on these advertisements, I would wager that we are no more than two years away from watching a cartoon bear literally take a shit onscreen. And from there, toilet paper commercials will continue to spiral out of control. Within ten years (a liberal estimate – it’s probably closer to five), Angel Soft commercials will be shot from inside the commode, so we can get a point-of-view perspective of the entire bathroom process. George Orwell wrote that a picture of the future was a boot stomping a human face forever, but he was wrong; a picture of the future is a bear with toilet paper stuck to its asshole – forever.

The Artist as Asshole: Two Case Studies

One of the safest assumptions to make concerning musicians is that they are assholes. They behave boorishly, crave attention, act selfishly, suffer from a wide array of addictions that cripple their ability to interact with others in an acceptable manner, believe themselves to be more important than normal people, and so forth. There are many possible explanations for why this is. It is conceivable that the environment associated with being a successful musical artist warps one’s personality. Given that most if not all musicians are surrounded by people assuring them of their genius and that there are veritable armies of women (and men) desperate to fuck them, it is not a surprise that most music stars become egomaniacs. An alternate hypothesis is that individuals are attracted to the rock star lifestyle because it allows them to express socially unacceptable personality characteristics they already possess – their inner douche bag, if you will. There is some evidence for this theory. After all, one must possess a confidence bordering on presumptuousness to assume people want and will pay to hear their music. Regardless of its genesis, the prickish nature of successful musicians is a fact. Below I present two case studies of jerkass artists from two ends of the musical spectrum, and how their bad attitudes affect popular, as well as my personal, perceptions of them.

Part I: Every Rose Has Its Thorn

Even if you disagree with my thesis that most musicians are twats, there is no denying that Axl Rose, front man of the very loose consortium of musicians known as Guns N’ Roses, is a tremendous asshole. Contesting this fact is like arguing against the idea that the Earth is round; it’s indisputable. He is a douche both in his role as a rock star (showing up tardy to concerts or not showing up at all; walking offstage when every little thing was not to his liking, causing an actual riot in the process) as well as interpersonally (two ex-wives report various forms of psychological abuse; he’s such an asshole that even the heroin addicts and sex fiends in his band were repulsed by him, and left; he tried to fistfight Tommy Hilfiger). Dealing with Axl Rose can be most accurately and concisely summed up with his own words, from Guns N’ Roses’ cover of Nazarene’s “Hair of the Dog”: “Now you’re messing with a son of a bitch.”

Yet, in spite of these epic displays of dickery (as well as the decade-plus long incubation of Chinese Democracy), Guns N’ Roses, and by extension Axl Rose, enjoys a generally favorable reputation among both critics and fans. While most of the glut of late 80’s hair bands are sneered at by everyone besides Chuck Klosterman, critics have hoisted Guns N’ Roses to a comfortable position in the rock n’ roll pantheon. And it’s not as if Rose is apologetic for his various and sundry antics; he’s an asshole, he knows it, and he doesn’t care. So why the general acceptance of this behavior by critics and the music listening public? Because “Welcome to the Jungle” rocks your ass, that’s why. I’ll elaborate more in the conclusion, but I would first like to move onto my second case study.

Part 2: Wild Wild West

A few summers ago, some friends and myself went on a road trip which may or may not have culminated in burying someone in a shallow grave in the Nevada desert. As three young white men from the middle of the country, we of course had copious amounts of rap music with us. While listening to Kanye West’s “Stronger,” I observed that I couldn’t understand why some people didn’t like Mr. West, a claim at which my friends bristled. I explained that his lyrical prowess, clear flow, ear for great beats, and his heightened sense of self awareness should excuse him of some of his peccadilloes. Then, just a scant few months later, he’s on live television acting out middle America’s greatest fear (besides Muslims): a clearly inebriated black man mugging a young white girl.

Rap music, moreso than any other genre, is full of arrogance. A sociologist would probably tell you it comes from having to be outwardly hard to survive in the cutthroat hood, and the need to possess an alpha male attitude that conveys confidence and toughness – I believe they call it “swagger.” Whatever the reason, it is an intrinsic element of hip hop. For example, any rapper you can think of has probably, at one time or another, referred to themselves as the greatest rapper alive. Resident hip hop expert Legal and Tender recently listed a number of douchey things that rappers do. To add to that list, some rappers put forth the idea that their greatness transcends the material world and go as far as likening themselves to deities (Nas and Sean Combs have a video in which they are crucified in the same manner as Christ, and Jay Z’s nickname is Young Hova, the latter part of which is short for Jehovah, the name of God). But even in this miasma of douchebaggery, Kanye West stands apart. He’s done the whole “compare myself to Jesus” thing (see this Rolling Stone cover). He’s called out the highest authority in the land in front of millions of home viewers and a mortified Mike Myers. He’s implied in that song with that tool from Maroon 5 that HIV was created in a lab by whites and unleashed on Africans. He’s made fans wait hours for his show to begin so the stage crew could finish mounting his elaborate and unnecessary props. And, of course, he’s rushed the stage at multiple awards shows to air his displeasure with the results. All of these things make him not only an asshole, but quite possibly the most high profile asshole in hip hop music.

On the other hand, unlike the dick moves of his hip hop peers, I feel like West’s asshole antics are more about his vulnerabilities than his desire to be seen as a hard ass. After nearly every incident of questionable behavior, he apologizes. Most of the time, it seems sincere. I mentioned before that West has a greater degree of self awareness than others in his industry. This is evident in “All Falls Down,” where he acknowledges the emptiness of the types of material things for which hundreds of rappers have pined, and how he feels forced to live in this hollow existence. Take, for instance, “Man I promise, I’m so self conscious/ That’s why you always see me with at least one of my watches” and “It seems we living the American Dream/ But the people highest up got the lowest self esteem.” It’s hard to imagine someone like 50 Cent expressing similar sentiments. As a result of this level of introspection, I think West has some sort of grasp on who he is, and why he does the things he does. I think he knows that he’s a manchild, and that he is actively struggling to contain his raging id (check out this video directed by Spike Jonze that seems to support this thesis). He seems to lose that battle more often than not, but the idea that there is an internal conflict and that his impulsive actions lead to regrets is enough to engender some measure, however small, of sympathy.

Ultimately, however, I excuse him for the same reason I excuse unrepentant asshole Axl Rose: because I like the music he makes. As long as someone is producing vibrant, interesting work, they can basically get away with murder. In some cases, musicians can literally murder someone and popular opinion of their work doesn’t change. No one dislikes the piano coda of Eric Clapton’s “Layla” because its composer killed his mom with a hammer, nor does anyone complain about Phil Spector’s “wall of sound” production because he’s bugshit insane and shot a woman. There is a limit to how much we can allow, although that line certainly varies from person to person. A perfect illustration of this was the recent death of Michael Jackson. Pretty much everyone agrees that Thriller rules, but the public was split between venerating Jackson as musical Christ and demonizing him as a voracious pedophile. Similarly, some people actually can’t enjoy a Kanye West or Guns N Roses song due to the odious personalities of the artists, and I suppose that’s as legitimate a reason as any to dislike a musician. Personally, I can generally separate the artist from their end product. What are your opinions?