Flash Me

Am I really watching Courtney Love play guitar on the tube with a Beck look-a-like?

It is interesting to see the evolution of the rockstar. Personally, I think that if we want a new generation of true rockstars wielding original music, the internet and itunes needs to explode. Oh, and fedoras will need to be banned from Nashville, as well as hair gel and polyester shirts and tanning beds.

What I want to really see is some fat guy with a bandana and pajamas blowing everyone out of the water with his out-and-out skills. I want to see some weird black guy playing the national anthem with his teeth and it sounds like a friggin guitar orchestra. I want to be wowed. Not only by content, but I want to see some flash. But gone are those days. Does anyone know how to play a scale on the guitar anymore?

Plus, everything is by comparison. Just like Broadway right now. EVERYONE wants to sound like two different singers: Kristen Chenoweth and Sutton Steven K Bernstein Foster... with at smattering of Elphaba. Don't get me wrong, I really like those two artists a whole lot, I just like to hear them do themselves... that sounded weird. You get my drift though.

So in other news... According to the new unauthorized biography of Oprah, It appears Oprah had some wild hanky-shpanky with John Tesh back in the day. And can I say thank you for that info? Because THAT is some serious TMI right there. I could have gone my whole livin' life and not known that. Same kind of thing happens when I go to a seeker friendly church where the pastor gives a sermon series on how God wants us to have some good hot-and-Godly sex with our wives. (Imagine "wives" spoken with a southern draw.) I really hate those sermons. As my friend Brant Hansen noted, it's really kind of gross to imagine deacon Bill with his wife Karen having plump Godly relation as they cuddle more and more with each subtle pastoral ever-so-SUBTLE double entendre.

Other than that....

I got an ipad and it rules. Yes, it rules. I rules like a gold pinkie toe to a toeless Gangsta. I rules like a shiny new shopping cart to the homeless-and-proud guy that sits on my street corner reading book after book in the beautiful new york spring.

That's all for now.

Dear Steve, I Hate You.

It's been 3 or 4 long days since I've held Job's T-Rex iPod in my hands. My first impressions were underwhelming. The room was too bright and scorching hot and it accented the already-billions of grimy fingerprints smeared all over the screen. Yes, I walked out of the room scoffing at Steve Jobs and feeling a little like Alice after she drank from her little bottle.

Whew. That was easy. I don't need it, want it, nor love it.

That was the first day.

Second day was spent bragging about how much I didn't want it.

That was the second day.

The third day was spent reading a few hundred reviews of the ipad so as to justify my don't-want-it of the piece of sorcery.

That was the third day.

On day four (today) I now confess that I full-on want it. I want to own one. Right now. I need one. I feel very much that I shall cry if I don't have one soon. I am impatiently awaiting the arrivals of the 3g versions so I can immediately have one. The experience is very much like the first time I tried Cashew Chicken in Springfield MO. I didn't see the big deal after the first dose. Within 6 hours I was back for more and had it almost every day for 3 years. I even bounced checks at the Cashew Kitty. I basically robbed Cashew Kitty the need was so fierce.

Right now, I wish that my beautiful MacBook Pro would transform into a sleek, fingerprint-streaked ipad. I want to play that highly pixelated Madden 09 game blown up to stupid proportions. I want to read a book on it. I want to drink more from the little bottle and tumble further into MacLand.

Darn you Jobs. Darn you to heck.