The power to change to world lies nowhere if not here, in this corner of the information superhighway on the Blogtrack To The End of the World, at emle.che.com or whatever it is. Surely the revolution will be poorly punctuated. I look forward to my 8 millionth post in which I will ruminate how self-conscious I was when just a (real) babe in the (virtual) woods.
Keh, this one's for you, since you fanned the embers of my quest for worldwide fame, which is now a fullblown fire since I am now an internet celebrity with my very own weblog.
PART I of GNR RAWKS!!!!!!!!!!
So, a while back, when little me was all about trying to know what was cool, I got a subscription to Rolling Stone. This was in the summer of '02, a mere 16 I was, soon to be led astray by the rotting corpse of a pile of gloss and cigarette ads that hadn't really mattered since 1972, when David Bowie was trying to rescue his career by acting gay. One of the first issues that arrived in my rabid little hands featured a (sooooo wrinkled-- HAHA the eight millionth joke about how the Rolling Stones are old!) Keith Richards clutching a guitar and wearing little more than that Mick Jagger eating smirk and those bedroom eyes glazed over from the routine cooking of the morning junk.
Wide eyed and seeking refuge from the wasteland of the top 40, little did I know that the cover itself so perfectly embodied, reeked! of the cultural decay that was occurring with each passing second as we speed toward the apocalypse. This issue happened to feature a "Top 100 Albums of All Time!!!!!!!!!!!!!" list. Naturally, now-old white Americans and Britons were well represented, with the occasional non-white/male thrown in to keep the damn ACLU happy. I, misguided as I was, having grown up in affluent 1990s America and therefore aurally inundated with the 99 problems of now-affluent black people set to a damn catchy beat, made it my goal to amass all 100 of these great albums.
I set to my path to awesomeness straightaway and wracked up a hefty amazon.com bill. Queen! Yes!!! Bad Company! Maybe! Sex Pistols!!! I am so much cooler than all my friends!!! Bon Jovi Slippery When Wet! On sale for 9.99, the soundtrack of adolescence I never had! Van Halen! Wow, David Lee Roth sure sounds like a sex offender! Appetite For Destruction! My friends don't even know! I RAWK SO HARD!!! Paradise City!!! Rhymes with Pretty!!!
So FIVE long years later and it still snows in the winter of my discontent. Classic rock is full of stupid guys whose poetry consists of unimaginative metaphors to titillate sad members of our regressive society. (See ACDC's "I want to put my love into you.") Classic rock radio is formatted to fit the needs of the 18-64 year olds who consider this sort of thing a fitting soundtrack to their own lives. ("Yeah, George Thorogood, I am SO bad to the bone!! I crank this to ELEVEN in my car on my way to work where I sit for 8 hours looking at pictures of Lindsay Lohan online!!!") In fact the station I listened to this morning billed itself as "the only station that doesn't make you feel like you've had a vasectomy!!!" and then had some guy looking for his balls. (This is all completely true.) Then, they played Paradise City.
next: the anti-climactic ending to my 78th of many more disillusionments with everything under the once more shrinking o-zone layer.
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