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Happy Birthday, Sgt Pepper and Ron Wood.
Why everything you know is wrong . . .
by Jim Sells
First, I think Milk wins the contest from last week. You really can't front on the conception of a child - that's just pretty much an instant win. So, Milk, find me for the boiled peanuts and we'll worry with the shirt when some get made . . .
The Brewers are still in first in the NL Central after a brutal 3-12 stretch. Hell, northern Florida and southern Georgia are burning to the ground; the Midwest is thunderstorm central; and the Yankees can't buy a win. It's all in the seven seals I tell you; you just have to have the gift of prophecy and . . . holy shit! Wow, my wife just therapeutically slapped the bejesus out of me. Appears I was channeling David Koresh.
Anyway, I gotta 'fess up to y'all. The Braves sucked some tailpipe this past week, getting their heads handed to them by Philadelphia. Appears that Charlie Manuel got tuned in to his club's frequency and has been broadcasting some ass kicking instructions. Look sharp, people - Chase Utley, Cole Hamels and Shane Victorino are the real deals. The conventional wisdom said they were dead after their putrid start. Well, somebody better tell them 'cause they didn't get the memo. I was dumb - I had this pegged as a Braves/Mets dogfight until somewhere in September or whenever Oliver Perez remembers that he is, well, Oliver Perez - whichever came first. Better reserve a third seat at that table.
The NL West is the WWE cage match of baseball, with three teams within a game of one another and no one leaves unbloodied. Arizona, San Diego, and Los Angeles in three-way King of the Ring and winner take all. Speaking of cage matches - if you have never seen the Undertaker/Mick Foley Hell In The Cell cage match at King of the Ring 1998, do it now and understand the primal draw that is pro wrestling. Growing up in the South, I never had any idea the rest of y'all were the great unwashed when it came to rasslin'. Man I tell ya when I was a kid I thought Rome, Georgia was the center of the universe because, by God, every Saturday night down there, IT WAS ON. Andre the Giant; the Anderson brothers; Dusty Rhodes, the American Dream; and the one and only Natureboy, Ric Flair. WHOOO! Wrestling was more real than the chair I am sitting on right now and my father and I bonded over wrestling better than any bullshit Dr. Phucking Phil could have suggested. Another thing where what you "know", what you may have been "taught" is wrong. Play your instincts and go with your first answer. That's the secret of "testing well", a useless skill I'm quite accomplished at . . . Enjoy rasslin' or roller derby or, in my case, Arena Football and to hell with the infidels . . .
Back to the real world . . . the point I wanted to make was that a lot of what I was told when I started writing music criticism 23 years ago was and is, well, wrong. You can see a coupla beefs I have with the rock writing establishment in the title of this column. Call me a heretic but the untitled fourth album by Led Zeppelin wasn't the greatest album of that time (that was probably "Who's Next") and it wasn't even the best album by them (I'll stack up "Physical Graffiti" and "II" against that one any day). Pink Floyd wrote serious songs about being damaged and alienated in a modern world but so did Black Sabbath and Judas Priest and their songs ROCKED! Gang Of Four, The Jam, and Black Flag changed the world in a fucking media vacuum filled with disco and Giorgio Moroder. Christ people, stand up and be counted. I loved the responses to the contest - no one broke off a standard bullshit response and everyone made The Honor Roll . . . I really don't know the point of this rant except that the next time some ignorant pseudo-hipster throws "Moondance" in my face in some facile attempt at being cool, I will summon a copy of "His Band and The Street Choir" and rectally implant it right then and there, no lube. Like what you like; don't back down; and fuck everybody who can't get their heads out of their asses long enough to grok that.
More Nada Surf. More Hellacopters. More Robert Fucking Palmer, who will be a large part of next week's column. Less packaged horseshit. Hell, I don't care if you like Alabama, as long as you mean it. Death to poseurs and scenesters. Power to the people and kick out the jams, brothers and sisters. Listen to the MC5 now and bring me the head of Ryan Seacrest . . .
"Double Vision" by Foreigner may be the best single ever. There. Choke on that one . . .
Later taters. I'm raising hell with Lou Gramm tonight.