I'd rather be running, up hill, in the snow

Holy F-balls, what a white bread display of modern day entertainment.

I watched Idol tonight.

The show didn’t disappoint, because my expectations are so low anyhow. It’s a completely artificial contest to prop up completely artificial singers, on the straightest, narrowest, middle of the road careers path possible. No Keith Moon, John Bonham, or Janis Joplin to be seen, that’s for sure.

When a 5’2” emo pansy boy tries to take the stage with the likes of KISS, or another little poofta takes the stage with Carlos Santana, it says more about the Knights in Satan’s Service than it does about Fox TV. The list of vanilla, tofu, lame assed has-been sell outs is scary.

Cindi Lauper.
Lionel Ritchie.
Rod Stewart.
Steve Martin.
Queen.
Queen Latifa.

Rock bands and stand up comics should be put out to pasture after three years. Once they lose their edge, or are paid to use their songs to sell Cadillacs, it’s time to go. Rod Stewart was so drunk, or old, they only showed close ups for .3 second clips, then pulled back to the nosebleed seats, or focused on the band. I watched him stumble at least twice. He sounds like he gargles jacks every morning. I also half expected to see Britney waddle across the stage today lip synching to her latest abortion.

Will someone let the entertainment industry know that there are only a handful who age not only gracefully, but continue to amaze. Frank. Paul Newman. Willie Nelson. Johnny Cash. Dangerfield. There might be a few more, but I can’t think of them. The rest...no. The list of has-beens is endless. Oh Mighty Isis, I even include Paul McCartney in the latter group.

People wonder why my Trucoma radio is tuned to talk radio, or books on tape. It’s because I don’t understand rap, and everything else is so inoffensive, and I couldn’t care less.

Until it is forced upon me. Then, I get….