This morning I was struck by a piercing, insistent pain in my temples that lasted for about 3 minutes. I passed out briefly, and fortunately when I woke up the James Blunt song was over.
James Blunt, in case you live in a cave in pre-glacial Spain, is a hot new pop music import from England, who is remarkable in that his testicles are apparently still across the Atlantic. He has actually been around for a while, but for the first few years of his career only dogs could hear him singing.
His latest song appears to be the culmination of some sort of elaborate joke, which began with a track that rips off the sad walking away music from the 70s TV show The Incredible Hulk and ends with an auditory assault that is reminiscent of a trip to the dentist. It's a rare song that makes me drool blood onto a paper napkin pinned under my chin.
To make matters worse, I was also just subjected to the latest Nick Lachey song, which is - surprise! - apparently about exactly the same thig as his last song: breaking up with Jessica Simpson. Dude, I cried too when my mom threw away my copy of the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition, but I got over it. Somebody needs to tell this guy there are more chickens in the sea.
Why am I listening to this crap? Well, I listen to music all day while I'm working, and there is no longer any kind of rock or alternative music station in the entire Central Valley. Somehow this area can support 16 Spanish language stations but not a single station that plays Audioslave, which tells me that either the immigration problem has really gotten out of hand, or that Latinos have a lot more disposable income, per capita, than 16 year old boys do.
The station I'm listening to right now has taken to calling itself "the New [station name here]," even though they've been around for like 10 years, presumably because they recently tweaked their format to sound more exactly like another station right next to it on the dial. They just played Nickelback and Three Doors Down back to back, and I'm rocking so hard I can hardly stay awake. If the gods of rock knew they were being represented in this area solely by the likes of Nickelback and 3DD, they would probably feel the way that Russian people do about Yakov Smirnoff.
Gotta go, Kelly Clarkson's on. Crank it, dude!
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