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Re: [existlist] first I wanna thank god

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  • eupraxis@aol.com
    That about covers it. Wil ... From: cruzprdb@wi.rr.com To: existlist@yahoogroups.com Sent: Mon, 12 Feb 2007 10:14 AM Subject: [existlist] first I wanna thank
    Message 1 of 2 , Feb 12, 2007
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      That about covers it.


      -----Original Message-----
      From: cruzprdb@...
      To: existlist@yahoogroups.com
      Sent: Mon, 12 Feb 2007 10:14 AM
      Subject: [existlist] first I wanna thank god

      First I want to thank God…

      It is just getting unbearable to watch these numbing parades of weak
      voiced off key military music school trained fops, queens, and
      un-dharmic divas flounce and bounce like pom poms for God and reward
      themselves gratuitously for not doing groupies, for not doing drugs,
      for not getting raving drunk and jerking off on stage, for not
      publicly disintegrating. It is true that most of the blame now lies
      with Mick and Keith and Bobby Zimmerman for not dying young, for not
      following rock and roll home to the mainstreets of hell. Now hell
      doesn't want their tired dried up old bodies. They have outlived the
      relative meaningfulness of being tortured for their badness, and
      stepped or hobbled or crawled into the blithely pathetic. I have
      always wondered at the idea of a lifetime achievement award for rock
      and roll. Dylan suing the makers of the movie "Factory Girl"? Dylan
      suing? Yeah the story is a rock myth, indeed the musician was probably
      Mick, duh, and "Like a Rolling Stone" (more irony) was actually
      written about America and probably with what's her face and Mick in
      mind. Nanker Phelge did their own version you know "waitin' fer a girl
      she's got flowers in her hair" and even Springsteen turned on it "they
      all promised to unsnap their jeans". The unknown knowns. Andy would
      love the Grammys, that's what they have become - parades of factory
      boys and girls - a kind of Paris Hilton does Memphis. Hell there's
      been marching bands since Fleetwood Mac, and now with his purpleness
      at the Superbowl. There really is a rock and roll hall fame - it used
      to be called prison. Ask Hootie (Leadbetter that is). 5150. It's
      beyond dead. Zombified soup cans.

      The Police open the show with Roxanne, displaying Sting's big voice,
      Andy Summers pathetically tentative attempt to remember how to play,
      and Copeland in a smart jump suit, all relatively healthy, in a
      presentation of the typically vapid and subjectively deprived lyrical
      babblings of Sumner. I wouldn't stand too close this, but somehow this
      is hall of fame. I guess Cleveland has to have something. The Indians
      and the Browns pretty much suck so why not an English schoolteacher.
      It is too bad that the Lizard King is dead. It would have put some
      life in the party when he pissed on Ray's leg while receiving his
      award. Mary J got to thank God a dozen times, and sing loudly about a
      dozen times, but typically not very well. Christina, with a big voice
      that makes Mary J sound like she's singing in a soup can, does a whole
      kind of transgender transrace tribute to James Brown, but at least he
      and his music have encountered penal institutions and she can actually
      sing, so it is becomes the only display of real talent and genuine
      rock (though actually rythum and blues) of the night and weirdly the
      highlight of the show. It is all downhill after that. An all male pom
      pom squad which is what hip hop has become anyway after Outcast, so
      why not. The flat rascals take us to motel California and Jesus takes
      the wheel and Carrie Underpants manages to make Desperado sound like
      it was written for a naughty little baseball card spoked, frog
      pocketed, boy. And you're beautiful, a kind Scottish trainspotting
      whiny gangeeky - I can never be with you - that creeps up the veins in
      your legs like rheumatic fever. The quite plain Texas girls, who
      continuously produce quite plain attempts at music, and their groupie
      manager get rewarded a few times for trying to have balls after
      accidentally saying something intelligent once. And finally the
      disrober gets to dance around with another loosely dressed black chick
      in his Reeboks but doesn't rip her shirt off so we don't know if she
      has nipple rings or not. She has no future in the business. Lucky her.
      Lucky us. Thirty years ago I would have bet that Mick was the father
      of Anna Nicole's baby. Today it's probably the lawyer or the ghost of
      Daniel Webster. There's a Pottery Barn and a Wal-mart down at the
      crossroads today. He's a greeter.

      Trinidad Cruz

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