Rock On: An Office Power Ballad, by Dan Kennedy

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Much of Dan Kennedy's Rock On: An Office Power Ballad is as tedious and ennui-inducing as the mainstream music acts and corporate culture he lampoons throughout the book. Based on the writer's experiences as an Atlantic Records employee during that label's clusterfuck 2000s, Kennedy certainly had plenty of material from which to base his memoir/200-plus page rambling inner monologue: music industry weasel executives whose wardrobe never advanced past the early '70s but whose self-preservation skills are finely honed; the inherent absurdities of work life as part of a company on the auction block; the mass layoffs that sent both label presidents and lowly grunts cowering under desks as they tried to avoid getting the axe. Yet the book never really manages to say anything more than major labels are prone to the same shenanigans as any other mega-corporation and are primarily focused on pushing image-conscious and blandly generic artists onto the public instead of fostering a musician's artistic growth or providing quality product to the listening public. No shit.

First, a few polite words. The persona Kennedy adopts throughout Rock On - a well-meaning thirtysomething who initially thinks his lifelong obsession with music will be fulfilled when he lands a job in Atlantic's marketing department - is likable. The author brings a modicum of common sense to a frequently bizarre world of major label internal politics, gamesmanship and ass-covering. He doesn't buy into Atlantic's effusive praise of its illustrious artists, nor does he tow the official party line or hold back criticism of the label's outdated sales methods (in print, at least). The book's best moments occur in its latter half - well past the point by which many readers will have lost interest - where Kennedy offers an insider's view of life in a sagging music company whose employees expected to be unceremoniously canned on a daily basis. Kennedy's writing here is both cynical and poignant, exhibiting a flair for dark humor and a keen eye for capturing the company's anxious mood as loyal workers - including Kennedy - were laid off.

Yet Rock On has one significant shortcoming: it's just not that funny, which is an obvious problem for a book whose primary goal is to humorously skewer the music industry. Kennedy's humor is too often of the snarky, smarmy variety favored by a seemingly increasing number of cultural pundits and hack comedians. Moreover, many of Kennedy's witticisms are fairly obvious, beyond stale and grossly repetitive; 200 pages is a lot of paper to waste to simply state that a lot of mainstream acts are lousy and that executives driven more by self-interest than any abiding love of music are hopelessly out of touch with contemporary listeners. The author's first-person writing style quickly becomes rather exhausting and, quite simply, annoying, as Kennedy at times comes across as more neurotic than George Costanza. Readers who aren't fans of inner monologue writing likely won't enjoy this book.

Rock On isn't a total letdown, but it is trite and formulaic, while rarely offering any new insight into corporate culture that can't already be gleaned from Office Space or "The Office." Kennedy gets some points for deftly - and sometimes, comically - depicting what the atmosphere at Atlantic was like when the label began to flatline, but this only accounts for a small portion of the book. It's actually fitting, in a way; Rock On is unintentionally a lot like the mainstream acts Kennedy jabs at throughout his book: there's a decent tune surrounded by a whole lot of filler and banal sentiments, none of which ever really say anything of substance.

Column: My Life Could Be Your Band

of the bravest men I ever met was a guy who wore a T-shirt declaring "Your Favorite Band Sucks." This was at Built To Spill's St. Louis show at the now-defunct and much-lamented Mississippi Nights nightclub, way back in those heady days of 2004. I don't say he was brave because the crowd was particularly rough or violent that night; it's not difficult to be the toughest person among an indie crowd, which tends to consist of frail people sporting hoodies, black-framed glasses and heavy doses of mascara. Some of the women also wear mascara.

No, I say this man was brave for the simple and seemingly unremarkable act of wearing this shirt. Why? Because, with some exceptions, we music fans tend to take any criticism of our favorite artists as deeply personal insults on par with the most biting Yo Mamma jokes or the most inflammatory political rhetoric. Such criticism can open the critic up to a host of various insults, threats and suggestions to do something to himself that is physically impossible, often via the anonymity and safety net the Internet provides. If politics and religion are the two traditional hot button topics guaranteed to result in bruised feelings and bloodied noses, music should probably be added to that list.

Anyone noble or foolish enough to voice such dissent across the Internet's truly-disturbing global reach has probably felt such wrath. A couple years ago I wrote a facetious and, what I considered, utterly silly and entirely innocuous article that questioned why the Lynyrd Skynyrd standard-for-lousy-songs tune "Free Bird" tends to be eagerly requested by the more intoxicated or tone deaf elements of a concert crowd. Meant only to bring a chuckle or two to someone's dreary day, it instead resulted in a pretty impressive barrage of hate email from those Skynyrd disciples who walk anonymously among us. In a perverse way, I've actually started looking forward to these mails, which are usually sent from a culprit with a Southern-centric handle like george_wallace_fan or robert_e_lee_luver and generally take an amazingly vulgar Confederacy vs. Yankees approach in explaining why I'm missing the point about Skynyrd's brilliance.

I don't bring this up as any type of woe-is-me lament or for blatant and unrepentantly shameless self-promotion. Even worse, I'm guilty of the same hypocrisy and must admit that I have occasionally counted myself among this parade of fools. Take a shot at Born Sandy Devotional and I'm liable to lock onto your leg like a rabid pit bull. My brother and I have almost identical musical tastes, yet our differing views about R.E.M.'s Monster have threatened to create a rift between us usually reserved for ugly squabbles involving inheritances. He likes it; I know it's the aural equivalent of rotting Spam. When I tried to get my wife sufficiently prepped for an Elvis Costello concert, I requested that she listen to This Year's Model and Get Happy!!, two indisputable classics. When she recoiled in horror and cruelly dismissed both as "circus music, minus the elephants," I reacted as if I'd been smacked in the jewels with a ball peen hammer. Only our eventual mutual agreement about Okkervil River prevented an ugly, prolonged marital spat, though I still suspect she likes the drummer more than the band's music.

Which brings me back to the central question of this rambling article: why do so many music fans get so bothered, and in many cases grossly offended, when their favorite artists are either criticized or outright dismissed by those who don't worship at that particular altar? Certainly some music fans are off the reservation; these are the ones you see listening to their favorite musicians at the gym, on the bus, or at work with an awed expression of hero worship that clearly shows that in their minds there right up there on that stage with the band. These are the people who dress up like their favorite performers, think that every song was written as a coded message to them, and drive cross-country to attend concerts, work and family commitments be damned. Wait, I've done that; scratch that last one.

Clearly such die-hards are without any possibility of redemption and should thus be handled with kid gloves, patted gently on the top of the head and perhaps even relocated to a deserted island near the coast of Borneo for everyone's safety. Yet I've seen many cases where otherwise rational people react like vultures around a carcass when confronted with particularly pointed or satiric music criticism about their musical tastes.

The reasons for this are several: first (and please excuse this brief foray into armchair psychology), whether rightly or not, as music fans we tend to define who we are by the type of music we listen to. And when self-identify jumps into bed with musical preferences for a romping tango, it's not too surprising that fans sometimes react with such strong emotions in the face of these critiques. Essentially an individual's musical tastes become an extension of that individual; thus, there's a tendency to view such comments as personal attacks.

The other main reason is that music fans tend to identify music with particular milestones or important events in their lives ("In the Aeroplane Over the Sea helped me get through my unfortunate accident/divorce/third stint in rehab, so I'll brain you if you insult it"). Think about one of your personal favorite songs or albums; there's a good chance it will remind you of a very specific time and place in your life (you know, when you were young and naïve and didn't yet know life was a cruel, unforgiving whelp of a whore who brings nothing but disappointment). Such memories make us unintentionally defensive about slights directed at the music we hold so near and dear. Music shapes how many of us remember our past; is it therefore any wonder that we bristle when the music that frames this past is belittled or questioned?

Certainly there are numerous other reasons - some music fans just like to argue and play the roll of trolls on various websites, some critiques border on cheap personal attacks and deserve to be challenged, among others - but this somewhat unhealthy self-identification seems to be a large reason fans can react emotionally to perceived attacks about their musical preferences. Of course there are plenty of musos who can brush off such comments with a shrug, without it impacting their psyche or pissing them off.

Perhaps it's not surprising that music can often serve as a lightning rod for both reasoned debate and borderline psychotic, overly emotional arguments. Music defines who we are, how we perceive both ourselves and others, and shapes the memories we keep in our various addled brains.

Or maybe it's just that, as someone recently said to me, "All you music freaks are batshit crazy."

Satire: Music Fan Ponders Fate of Collection after His Demise

An alleged near-brush with death has left rabid indie fan Franklin Dyer pondering what will happen to his massive music collection once he springs off this mortal coil. Dyer reports that his near-demise was the ironic result of his good intentions to share his musical tastes with his two teenage neighbors, whom he now describes as two “hopeless pop music lackeys and who blast whimsical and vacuous tunes and other toxic waste at top volume.”

According to Dyer, the numerous attempts he’s made to share his impeccable musical preferences have resulted in emphatic rejections from the two neighbors. “It’s one slight after another. I kindly place Doolittle, a mix CD of rare Neutral Milk Hotel live performances, and the book Our Band Could Be Your Life in their mailbox, and they return it to my front porch in flames,” Dyer said dejectedly.

Yet Dyer never imagined that his goals of spreading his musical gospel to those truly uninterested in his opinions would nearly cost him his life. In a series of events that the two teenagers dispute – though judging from their frequent smirking and giggling, they clearly had some hand in the mayhem that ensued – Dyer alleges that the two teens switched out his October Uncut magazine’s CD with a collection of some of today’s most recognizable mainstream artists. “I eagerly popped in the CD to get an idea of which new songs I wanted to illegally download, er, purchase legally so that the composers are compensated for their work. But something was immediately amiss. The horror revved up with two Fergie songs, took a cruel detour into five different Pussycat Dolls songs, and concluded with Paris Hilton’s Stars Are Blind EP. Within seconds I began to have labored breathing, my vision got blurry, my throat closed up, my eyes started to burn, a purple rash developed on my arms, and I began to babble incoherently in Farsi before blacking out. I eventually woke up to find the Repeat function enabled and the song ‘Don’t Cha’ permanently seared into my brain.”

The horrific incident has left Dyer pondering what will happen to his enormous, and slightly disturbing, music collection once his life “starts to be measured in dirt years,” as he cynically puts it. “I’ve worked too hard through three marriages and several careers with varying degrees of success to just kick off without ensuring this collection finds a worthy home,” Dyer said with conviction. The collection, which he refuses to sell because of its priceless nature, includes both official and unofficial releases, and is a veritable history of music that the vast majority of Americans have never heard of.

For this reason, Dyer feels that its eternal preservation is essential, though he admits his attempts to find a suitable heir have thus far been unsuccessful. According to Dyer, “emails to my old trading partners have returned harsh and somewhat cavalier questions about when exactly I’m planning to die and what the shipping charges might be. My ex-wives declared they’d help me ‘take that junk out with the garbage next Tuesday, and personally pick clean the bones.’ My only daughter thinks Bruce Springsteen is the guy who runs the local Jewish deli, so obviously she’s not a good choice.”

Institutions have likewise shown little interest in the collection. Though he’s somewhat evasive when discussing the matter, he acknowledges that repeated inquiries to Federal preservation agencies have only resulted in his name being added to “various watch lists…but it’s only the government, so why worry?” Dyer likewise received a chilly reception from his local library, where the head librarian “only asked if I had any Perry Como records before making me pay up for an overdue copy of White Noise, which I checked out in 1985.”

Regardless, Dyer vows that his collection will find a loving home before he goes to that great backstage lounge in the sky. “Like innovation or creativity in current pop music, my time on this earth is limited. This collection traces the most obtuse and marginal strands of music history that most people aren’t even remotely aware of. Who wouldn’t be interested in this?”

Satire: Area Music Fan Suffering from Hearing Loss

Longtime concertgoer Howard Deefman dejectedly admitted today that he’s distraught after learning from his physician that he’s starting to suffer from irreversible hearing loss. Deefman, a 65-year old Venice Beach street vendor and self-admitted “dinosaur rock aficionado,” estimates that he’s seen thousands of concerts over the last nearly 50 years, both in his hometown of Los Angeles and throughout the United States.Deefman readily admits the specific details of these show have become seriously scrambled in his addled brain. “I can vaguely remember sitting through marathon Led Zeppelin drum solos, Who concerts where the volume was so loud I couldn’t complete a covert drug transaction in the bathroom, and even a recent Springsteen concert that I thoroughly enjoyed from row 278.” Yet the street vendor is still in shock over his impending auditory demise. “The memory loss I can deal with; losing the memory of those Rick Wakeman ice concerts seems like a fair tradeoff. But I gotta be able to hear at these shows.”

Perhaps what’s most surprising is the alleged cause of Deefman’s hearing loss. Dr. Heinrich Vears, Deefman’s long-time doctor who he describes as a “good croaker who knows the score and how to write a solid prescription,” attributes his patient’s deterioration to a very unique cause. “Based on a series of extensive and cutting-edge tests, billed of course at a discounted rate since Mr. Deefman’s insurance lapsed sometime around the heyday of Prog Rock, I’ve concluded that his hearing loss is attributable to a lifetime of concerts in which he found himself sitting directly in front of a decibel-shattering person who would constantly shout at the band, drunkenly requesting songs that the band would never play anyway, and loudly harass those around him by calling everyone ‘bro’ or ‘dude,’ directly into Mr. Deefman’s ears.”Deefman readily agrees that the doctor’s theory rings true. Deep within the recesses of the remaining brain cells that are doing more than retaining bong resin, the lifetime music fan can still recall countless cases where his concert experience was ruined by a loud neighbor. “Dylan gospel tour 1980, some meathead spent the whole night screaming for ‘Tiny Montgomery’ and booing directly into my ear every time Dylan played a religious song. In 1997 I spent a whole month following Tom Petty around, and each night girls screamed hysterically every time he played ‘American Girl.’ At this year’s Tom Waits show in Phoenix, a fan in a bowler hat directly behind me conducted a screaming soliloquy about having Mr. Waits’ children before he was escorted out.”

Deefman gloomily concluded: “I used to think the worst thing about these concert screamers was that they’d startle me so much that I’d spill my Pabst all over some college preppie. But now I guess my hearing loss wasn’t actually caused by that particularly shrill Joan Baez show from 1963.”Though Deefman isn’t thrilled that he needs to begin wearing a hearing aid, he’s equally concerned that other music fans will suffer the same fate. “The younger generation’s ears are going to hell, without a doubt,” he asserted. “The stuff that passes for music nowadays is a far cry from the dulcet melodies of my 1960s prime. The noise kids listen to today proves to me that their ears are already crapping out. It’s certainly not music to my ears.”

Satire: Indie Music Fan Hopelessly Unaware of Current Pop Culture

Indie music enthusiast David Dennisson reluctantly admitted today that his love of the genre has left him completely out of touch with current pop culture trends, celebrities, and events.

“What initially began as a brief innocent flirtation in college has developed into a decades-long perverted dalliance; like irrational and hyperbolic praise and hype for the indie band du jour that two years from now will once again be stocking shelves at Target, it’s difficult to stop now. I’ve also experienced a burning sensation in my groin region since I first began this affair,” Dennisson stated.

Dennisson has also discovered that his rejection of all things mainstream has led to some embarrassing moments. “I heard ‘Float On’ on the radio years ago, and confidently told my wife it sucked since it was on commercial radio. When I found it was a Modest Mouse song and that the band was experiencing a minor bit of mainstream airplay, I was floored. My Lonesome Crowded West mind couldn’t stomach it.”Dennisson also acknowledges that a borderline psychotic knowledge of indie rock doesn’t lend itself well in social situations. “Think being able to alphabetically recite the songs in 69 Love Songs will impress your friends and coworkers? Well it won’t; it will just get you a lot of sideways glances and quickly locked car doors.”

The admission is a major victory for Dennisson’s long-suffering wife, Janelle, who views it as the first step in her husband coming to terms with his addiction, which she adds “trumps his previous fixation with Spanish Inquisition torture devices by a long shot.

“Plus, that music he listens to is way more disturbing and destructive than one of the darkest chapters in the depths of man’s depravity towards his fellow man.”

Even so, Janelle does acknowledge a modicum of complicity on her part. “When he’d sing Jesus Lizard songs in the shower, I found it endearing. When he cribbed the lyrics to a Dismemberment Plan song for our wedding vows, I found it romantic. And when he insisted that we dress up as Vic and Tina Chesnutt for Halloween, I enjoyed it, and even managed to play the bass pretty well at the party.

“But the fact that he thinks Beyonce is a type of ferret and that Rihanna is a rare and lethal Amazonian venereal disease is inexcusable. He couldn’t identify a Jonas Brother to save his life. He needs help.”

Janelle has developed a three-phased plan to bring her husband back into the 21st century of mainstream American culture. The first phase will consist of behavior modification, in which she will attempt to curb his tendency to answer everyone’s questions in a poor imitation of Tom Waits’ rough voice. The second phase will attempt to expand her husband’s musical horizons, in which every hour of indie music listened to must be matched by an hour of mainstream pop radio.

Yet the final phase promises to be the most difficult. This will require Dennison to be strapped into an inflatable Hannah Montana chair for an entire 48-hour period, where he’ll be forced to watch American Idol reruns, The Hills, and E! News Daily until he can sing his own overwrought karaoke version of Edwin McCain’s “I’ll Be,” identify each Hills character according to their petty, innocuous dilemma, and concisely explain why it’s completely rational for magazines to pay ungodly sums of money for pictures of the Jolie-Pitt children.”

Janelle is quick to point out she’s not seeking to fully eliminate her husband’s indie leanings. “If he wants to spend his time trying to find discernible differences between My Morning Jacket and Fleet Foxes, that’s perfectly fine. But when I ask him what happened on the season premier of Sunset Tan, he’d better damn well know.”

Satire: Engaged Couple's Musical Differences Threaten to Derail Wedding

Engaged couple Kristen Tiffington and Curtiss Ian announced today that their June 2013 wedding is in jeopardy due to ongoing conflicts regarding the music that will be used to commemorate their special day.

Ian, a 30 year-old maintenance supervisor and self-proclaimed “indie snob, but in a good way” says the high point of his life occurred when a drunken concert-goer recently mistook him for Hold Steady singer Craig Finn. Ian is rather blunt in his assessment of the ongoing conflict. “Chick’s taste in music sucks. Girly doesn’t know the difference between Tom Waits and Tom Hanks. She thinks Mission of Burma was a 1950s Russian space expedition and that Radiohead stole their ideas from Coldplay, for chrissakes.”

Tiffington, a 27 year-old investments analyst who describes herself as a “pop music princess” and is clearly marrying down, is still optimistic the matter can be resolved by the rapidly approaching wedding date, which is a scant five years away. “Right now Curtiss and I are not aligned in terms of the music that will be utilized, vis a vis our musical preferences. However, I’m confident we can reach a mutual agreement without me having to withhold certain favors from him,” Tiffington stated with a wry grin.

As the wedding planning got underway, it was agreed that each would create a list of the top 25 songs they wanted played at the reception.

“I picked upbeat, fun, danceable music, and I expected Curtiss to do the same,” Tiffington explained, her eyes misting with tears of disappointment. “I came up with enough 1990s sugar pop tunes to keep everyone dancing like the Funky Bunch. And of course the ‘Macarena.’ No reception is complete without that one.”

Yet the end results revealed that the couple’s diametrically opposite musical tastes were far greater than the blushing bride originally thought. “Was I bothered by his choices?” Tiffington asked rhetorically. “No. I was horrified and emotionally disturbed. The mixture of depressing, atonal, and patently unlistenable squawking crap he came up with I can’t even give a name. It’s a wedding, not some Emo weep fest.”

Ian is quick to defend his choices, however. “A wedding is more than just a celebration of life, eternal love, new beginnings, and all that crap,” he explained. “It’s also the perfect opportunity to foist my musical preferences on unsuspecting relatives.”

To this end, Ian compiled an eclectic collection of music that only a marginal number of wedding guests are likely to enjoy. “I want my wedding to have a certain vibe to it; sure it’s flowers and roses and obnoxiously drunken distant uncles. But it’s about more than that. If I convert just one person to a love of My Bloody Valentine or Jawbox while ruining the experience for everyone else, it will be totally worth it.”

Yet his future wife isn’t budging. “I’ve vetoed every one of his choices. I could have brained him when he suggested our first dance be to “Love Will Tear Us Apart.” This is a wedding; the music’s meant to be fun and frivolous in a light, airy, Electric Slide kinda way. His bizarre musical obsessions are out.”

Ian’s musical tastes might not be the only thing that’s out. The couple does agree on one thing: if they don’t get this resolved soon, the wedding might very well have to be postponed again. “Five years is barely enough time to plan a vacation, let alone a wedding,” Tiffington lamented, with Ian eagerly nodding his head and smiling widely in agreement.

Satire: Mysterious Group Vows to Constantly Talk During Music Concerts

A mysterious group calling itself Concert Talkers of America (CTOA) announced today its ambitious plan to “create a steady, audible, and obnoxious torrent of constant talking and to utterly ruin the concert experience for as many concert goers as possible” by the year 2010.

In its defiant statement, CTOA also boldly declared: “Our aim is to return the concert experience to its purest, most primitive, and least civilized form. Concerts are meant to be talked through with conversations ranging from the banality of modern life to Jimmy’s bizarre and unusual sexual proclivities to Susan’s doctor who totally misdiagnosed her, not listened to with rapt attention, or danced to in enjoyment. We are certain that both the majority of music fans and musicians themselves would agree with this.”

Although the group admitted its strategy for achieving these goals is not yet solidified, it reported its first successful test run at The National’s opening slot of the May 29 R.E.M. show at the Hollywood Bowl. “Conditions were perfect for this experiment,” the group stated. “An indie band with increasing popularity playing the bottom of the bill for a Voltron-like legendary band. Only the most dedicated National fans would be there for their set. A perfect setting for ruining the experience for those indie hipster kids.”

The group declared their first victory once they heard a tape of the band’s performance. “Even the loud songs are compromised by our constant, inane chatter. We worked in topics ranging from Bud Light Lime to circus freaks to that one’s girl’s haircut. We even received several requests to sit down and shut up, from clearly agitated fans. One little indie fella even said we were more obnoxious than post-Exile in Guyville Liz Phair, whatever that means. Our mission was a complete success."

Although CTOA was not willing to divulge its current number of members, the group did announce plans to actively recruit throughout the United States. “Our requirements are simple but strict: anyone wishing to join CTOA must pay their own money to attend a concert, find a dedicated fan who really wants to hear the band or dance the night away, turn their head immediately to the left, and loudly talk nonstop for the length of the concert. Requests to be quiet must be swiftly answered with either an F bomb or a rabbit punch to the spleen. Intoxication via pink-hued beverages ending in ‘tini’ is also strongly encouraged.”

The CTOA statement also placed the group in the larger context of American concert talkers. “From the most famous and influential American musicians of the 1960s to the least-known and most-talented unsigned band pounding away in some dingy, poorly-ventilated shithole club in Fort Wayne of today, Americans have a fine history of treating live music as an incidental backdrop to more important concert activities, like playing grabass with old college frat brothers or talking about the finer assets of Janine in Payroll. We aim to expand that tradition into all genres of music.”

In an attempt to gain increased exposure, CTOA is targeting Tom Waits’ upcoming American tour as its next foray into concert sabotage. “Waits shows are rare and tickets are difficult to get. His fans are fiercely loyal and appreciate his music. There will be many people who have never seen him in concert before, complete with excessive expectations of musical transcendence and the simple desire to listen to the music without extraneous background talking. Our forces will be mobilized and our vocal chords will be well rested to ensure that simply doesn’t happen.”

Finally, CTOA has its sights set on expanding overseas. “Our methods will likely be different in Europe,” the statement concluded. “A quick, jarring first volley is needed. We likely will begin employing the primarily American practice of talking during the entire concert, and then screaming hysterically like possessed drunken louts when the one song we recognize is finally played.

“Ambitious? Sure. Unrealistic? Possibly. But with dedication, perseverance, and blatant disregard for that short guy in the Sufjan Stevens Illinoise t-shirt who’s nearly in tears as we chat during the entire show, we can achieve these goals.”

Satire: Prince Sues U.S.-Based Mirrors

A publicist for 1980s pop icon and resident weirdo Prince announced today the eccentric musician’s intent to sue U.S.-based mirrors for unlicensed use of his image. This legal action comes in the wake of Prince’s apparent demand that videos of his recent April Coachella performance of the Radiohead song “Creep” be removed from YouTube.

According to the publicist, who spoke on condition that he be referred to only as “Magic J. Mysterio” and that interviewers swear under oath that they aren’t really, totally, entirely still creeped out by the Lovesexy album cover, the Dirty Mind album cover or the Rave Un2 the Joy Fantastic album cover, the pending lawsuit is simply the musician’s latest attempt to control how his likeness is used and disseminated.

“Prince has always maintained his inalienable and other-worldly right to decide when, where, and how both his image and recorded output are used,” Mysterio stated in an alien language that was expertly translated by Prince’s loyal translator. “He currently remains vehemently opposed to video sharing sites that post footage of his massively creative and ever-evolving performances in which he re-invents both his music and the songs of others. Prince is a musician, and clearly such unauthorized clips of a musician doing musician-type things are inappropriate from a musical point of view.”

Mysterio also asserted that the bold lawsuit against mirrors, which baffled legal experts say has no precedent in American jurisprudence, once again shows that Prince remains dedicated to controlling how the public at large views him by carefully monitoring the footage that reaches the public domain.

“Think back to the 1980s. Almost everyone viewed Prince as a musical master whose genius could be confined only by the limits he’d impose upon himself. Through-out that decade it poured Purple Rain. When you thought of Prince, you thought of genre-bending, exciting, and beautiful music.

“Now, through nearly two decades of vigilant persona-framing, almost everyone considers him a bizarre pseudo-human who once changed his named to an unpronounceable symbol and who may or may not have more knowledge of various taboo proclivities than Caligula. And, oh yeah, he occasionally releases albums.”

Although the lawsuit is still in its formative stages, the publicist did provide some details. “After discussions with his lawyers, soothsayers, snake wranglers, and circus acrobats, Prince feels the only way to stop unauthorized use of his concert performances is to cut the problem off at its source. He has noted on many occasions that mirrors are using his image without permission. YouTube is simply an outgrowth of the culture of invasion of privacy foisted upon us by mirrors.

“Furthermore, Prince has personally observed numerous instances where these mirrors have mimicked his every word and action, repeating exactly what he’s saying at the exact same time he’s saying it. It’s as if the mirrors are mocking him. One time the mirror image even gouged him in the eyes, Moe Howard-style. We aim to aggressively end this unsanctioned practice.”

Mysterio did acknowledge one minor hiccup in being able to file the lawsuit. “The lawsuit’s scope is constantly expanding. Every time Prince looks into a new mirror, it steals his image and we are forced to add another defendant to the suit. Honestly, I see no end in sight.”

Satire: New Kids on the Block Fans Vindicated

New Kids on the Block fans, alternately known as either Blockheads or Thirty-something Female Masochists, formally declared vindication today regarding ticket prices for the boy band's upcoming reunion tour.

Ever since it was revealed that the band (best known for such classic songs as...uh...uh...never mind that, there's more to a band that the songs they record) would be reuniting, critics, music fans, those with functioning temporal lobes, and cultural observers with a modicum of good taste have questioned the band's motives in reuniting after a blissful nearly 20-year layoff.

Yet the band's fans are now having the last laugh, as the reasonable ticket prices for the tour have confounded skeptics and silenced critics who leveled the age-old charge that the Kids "are just in it for the money" and that a reunion tour "would be more pointless than a surf board in Siberia."

For the NKOTB tour starting in September, ticket prices range anywhere from $35 for a view near the rafters to upwards of $80 for the best floor seats. Prices which, the vast majority of Blockheads agree, are more than appropriate for a band of NKOTB's stature. "Of all the bands that could described as a footnote on the epic ass of music, NKOTB was the biggest of all!" exclaimed user Iluvjordan in a recent internet posting. "Only between $35 to $80 to see my favorite childhood band at a coldly impersonal, enormous, cavernous arena? Sign me up!"

Although the band was rehearsing 20 hours a day to perfect their instrument-less song and dance craft, an announcement via the band's website explained the band's decision to offer such cheap, inexpensive, music-superstar-level prices: "In continuing the NKOTB tradition of honoring its dedicated fans, tickets for this tour have been priced in keeping with rates for other artists of NKOTB's caliber. We used equivalent artists like Tom Waits and Bob Dylan, as well as other reunited bands such as The Stooges, to gauge our market value. The best tickets only cost about $16 per Kid, though Danny might of course get less."

Kathy McMontgomery, an avid 35 year-old Blockhead from Wheeling, West Virginia who still boasts about her NKOTB ankle tattoo, took a quick break from her work-at-home telemarketing job to express a view shared by many of the band's fans: "All we've heard since the reunion was announced was that the band was doing it just for the money. Let's be clear: the ticket prices for this tour clearly answer that accusation."

Husband John McMontgomery, a rare male NKOTB fan who didn't request that his identity be withheld for this report, echoed his wife's sentiments: "An NKOTB reunion comes along, if you're really, really, really lucky, only once in a lifetime. Although you can't really put on a price on that, I think it's fair to say that the prices speak for themselves."

The Blockheads also feel that the going rates for the upcoming tour confirm their belief that the band's primary motives in touring are strictly fan-based. "No question these low, low, bargain basement liquidation ticket costs clearly show the Kids are doing the tour for the fans," stated Annie Franzen-Crosby of Kansas City, MO. "With these ridiculously low ticket prices, it's clear the Kids aren't interested in making any profit. This is truly a tour for the fans, just like we also thought."

Franzen-Crosby added, a bit less diplomatically, "All those critics who thought the reunion was simply a way for the band to cash in on some people's love of irrelevant, nostalgic, mediocre, disposable kitsch can shove it. We're rough."

Satire: Tom Waits Fans Respond to Glitter and Doom Ticket Policy

The ticket policy utilized for Tom Waits’ upcoming Glitter and Doom concert tour is receiving mixed reviews among the musician’s more vocal fans. This policy, primarily designed to ensure that scalpers do not have an opportunity to acquire and then resell tickets at butt-puckering inflated prices, limits the number of tickets to two per household per show, requires the purchaser to show both the credit card used and government-issued photo identification the night of the show, and ends with a quick, relatively painless blood donation that would seriously go a lot smoother if you’d just stop squirming and crying and remember this needle can very easily go somewhere else but if you’re good you’ll get juice and cookies.

Many Waits fans feel this is the best way to ensure that his most dedicated and affluent fans have an opportunity to see the musician live, without having to pay exorbitant prices to scalpers that they would willingly pay anyway.

Warner Spencer, a self-confident 45-year old advertising executive who has worked with several high-profile musical legends in co-opting their tunes for commercial use and still uses the word “bro” way too much, stated that he supports the policy. “Just because I like hearing Tom sing about Peoria Johnson, Scarface Ron, and Yodeling Elaine doesn’t mean I want to sit next to those scumbags. This ticketing approach, along with the fact that tickets start at around $70, will keep most of the leeches, mooches, and smelly societal bottom feeders outside the palace gates.”

Spencer added, “I know Tom is vehemently opposed to licensing his songs for commercial use. While that’s very noble – Tom, buddy, pal, homey, bro – you’re missing the boat on this one. "Hoist That Rag" would be perfect for a Lysol commercial. The homely yet still attractive housewife actress has already been cast. We’d just need to clean that song up a bit and get a more conventional voice to sing it. I could have the baksheesh heading you’re way in no time. Call me bro.”

Other fans are far more ambivalent about how tickets were sold for the upcoming tour. Ian Middleton gave a half-smile/half-frown as he expressed what could only be described as a mixture of apathy and confusion: “I easily got tickets for St. Louis but was shut out of Columbus. Now unless I somehow find a sympathetic person with an extra ticket or violently incapacitate someone the night of the show and steal their credit card, tickets, and identity, I’ll only be seeing one show this time around. It sucks, kind of.”

Middleton, a divorce arbitrator who describes himself as a “middle-of-the-road guy, most of the time, for the most part,” ultimately gave the policy a mild endorsement: “You can’t please all the people all the time. So some of the people will be upset part of the time. Which means some of the people will be happy most of the time. I guess you can’t get much better than that.”

Nevertheless, a small segment of Waits fans are very angry with the policy, coupled with the high demand for tickets for a very limited number of shows. “The only way to ensure true fans get a chance at tickets is to sell them at the venue’s box office, where those without wives, jobs, children, or other societal responsibilities can sleep outside for days subsisting only on beef jerky and Swordfishtrombones to snag the first tickets,” said Justin Bukeler of Columbus, Ohio.

Other fans are upset that a credit card is required to purchase tickets. “Some of us have made a conscious decision, assisted by several aggressive and unrelenting credit agencies, one foreclosed home, a giant Samoan loan shark nicknamed "Stumpy," and two separate stints at bankruptcy, to live the aimless, rootless, drunken, quasi-romantic bohemian lifestyle that Tom abandoned sometime in the 1980s,” said performance artist Josh Brokeman. “I only carry cash. I’m very disappointed people like me won’t have the opportunity to con unsuspecting people by selling them magazines for the homeless in order to buy a ticket with their cold, hard, stolen cash.”

With tickets for some shows selling out in a matter of minutes, such as in Phoenix and Columbus, some fans won’t be seeing their musical hero in concert this time around. These fans feel there is a simple solution to this problem: “If Waits really cared about his fans, he’d tour like a beaten one-eyed dog, play 25,000-seat venues in the same city for a week at a time, and reserve a seat each night just for me,” Brokeman offered.

“I’m very disappointed in Mr. Waits,” Brokeman lamented. “I can’t get a ticket and I also don’t have the opportunity to be exploited by scalpers by paying thousands of dollars for one. Is that looking out for your fans’ best interests? I don’t think so. Thanks a lot, Tom.”

Satire: Earthquake In Midwest Stirs Ghost of Iben Browning Vindicated

A 5.2 magnitude earthquake hit southern Illinois and eastern Missouri in the early morning hours of April 18, shaking windows, waking up people throughout the bi-state region, flooding police departments with panicked calls, and disturbing St. Louis' downtown drug peddlers who mistook the commotion for a police raid and frantically dropped their stashes.

Also, your mother called you during the quake to ask if the kids were okay, whether the doors were locked, and why you don't visit anymore.

No major structural damage has been reported thus far, however, several locals say they have been mentally traumatized by the event, and are also "quite disappointed that it was nothing like the earthquakes at that Richter's restaurant we ate at on vacation in Florida."

Other locals have vowed to take up arms against the city of Bellmont, where the quake was centered. "That city's been trouble ever since it added that second, unnecessary 'L' to its name," said Valley Park native Todd "Goober" Farkins. "It's because of that city's blatant arrogance in violating accepted rules of linguistics, and not the scientifically-explainable phenomenon of two tectonic plates moving apart near the Wabash Valley Seismic Zone that caused this."

Most dramatically, the ghost of Iben Browning emerged from a prolonged silence to announce the earthquake has vindicated his previous prediction made in 1990. Browning, who managed to create a sustained panic and all-around level of irrational stress in St. Louis and surrounding areas by claiming there was a 50% chance an earthquake would strike at the New Madrid fault line on December 2 or 3, 1990, quickly became the object of scorn and ridicule when his prediction failed to materialize. Not even being name-checked in the Uncle Tupelo song, "New Madrid," could repair his reputation in the Show Me State.

With this major, catastrophic quake that caused little damage to buildings and no serious reported injuries, Browning feels like a preening rooster and wants the world to acknowledge the accuracy of his prediction. Speaking from the Great Beyond, Browning had this to say: "I told anyone who would listen that the quake would happen. Sure I overshot it by nearly 20 years, and got the month and day wrong to boot, but the bottom line is that the event occurred."

Browning is also seeking gratitude from the people whose lives his bold prediction helped spare. "Back in 1990, schoolchildren were practicing earthquake drills by diving under desks, businesses shut down to prepare for the impending destruction, and insurance companies squealed like stuck pigs as Missourians bought earthquake insurance at premium rates. I have no doubt these knee-jerk reactions caused by my forecast saved countless lives in this recent quake."

Browning wants to reassure those traumatized by what he calls the "defining meteorological incident of the last 268 years" that the risk of another devastating quake is quite low. "Massive quakes hit about once every 500 years. The chance of another one occurring anytime soon is exceptionally unlikely. Besides, I'm the professional here. Trust me."

Satire: New Kids on the Block Defiant in Press Conference

In their first press conference since it was announced they would be reforming, late 1980s boy band and purveyors of all that is soulless and wrong in music New Kids On The Block discussed a wide range of topics Monday. These included their upcoming reunion tour, their place in music history, and the political, social, and cultural impacts of 19th century Utopian Socialist movements in modern Europe. Wait, scratch that last one.

Speaking to reporters from the EconoLodge just outside of Missoula, Montana, the five Kids – Jordan, Jonathan, Joey, Donnie, and, uh, Bashful – wanted to assure their long-time fans that it will be the same Teen Beat NKOTB they loved with lustful, pre-pubescent zeal back in the day.

Said Jordan: “Some have suggested our new sound will be influenced by the current popular music trends. Our fans will be pleased to know that it’s still 1989 to us: Bush is president, the Middle East is a boiling cauldron of chaos and violence, and the economy’s about to go in the shitter. Our new songs will have the same mediocre, innocuous, and ultra-Caucasian qualities that previously endeared us to so many.”

Many of the reporters’ questions centered around whether there is a market for the band in the 21st century. The band is convinced the world is ready for another rash of NKOTB-induced mania. According to Bashful, who remained strangely silent after answering just a few questions, “There hasn’t been a truly successful, vacuous, and empty-brained pop band in about 20 minutes. This is America baby. There’s always a market for us.” Bashful added, “I need to get out of this freakin hickburg. Bum a quarter for bus fare? Anyone?”

The band also used the press conference as a way to address its many detractors. Asked to respond to criticisms that the band is simply reuniting for the big concert paychecks, Jonathan said, “Sure the money that poured in years ago from posters, lunch boxes, action figures, strawberry-scented prophylactics, and toilet paper dispensers was nice. But it’s not about the green: we’re back to show everyone that we’re still the best five-piece, non-musical-instrument-playing band in the world.”

The band is also keenly aware that many people view the reunion as pointless. Joey was blunt in his assessment: “Mission of Burma, The Stooges, Pixies, and Dinosaur Jr. all reunited and nobody busted their balls. To my ears we’re just as good as them. What’s the difference between Doolittle and Hangin' Tough? Nothing.”The Kids are also comfortable with their place in music history. “We’ve blessed the world with offspring like 98 Degrees and the Backstreet Boys. And don’t even act like Nirvana didn’t borrow their subject matter from our back catalog. A subtle layer of angst and loathing ran through all our songs long before Cobain and those two other humps cashed in. Bastards should be paying us royalties,” Donnie stated.

This defiant attitude characterized the hour-long press conference; only when the motel’s manager reminded the Kids that “check-out time is at 11 am, and the room service wasn’t free” did the band lose their stride. Exiting to tepid applause and a selection from their 1989 Merry, Merry Christmas album, the band ended the press conference with a final impressive show of bravado. “It’s an NKOTB universe. All you slobs just live in it.”

Satire: Local High School Student Discovers New Athens, GA Band

Port Huron High sophomore Aimee Berryman reported to her friends today that she’s discovered a great new band from Athens, GA.

Berryman says she came across a band named “R.E.M.” when checking the iTunes store on Tuesday. “I rely entirely on iTunes to keep up to date with the hottest, most cutting-edge, and most subversive music around. If it wasn’t for the folks at iTunes who truly know what ‘underground’ and ‘anti-establishment’ mean, I’d be completely clueless about music history.”

According to Berryman, she purchased the band’s sophomore album Accelerate based on several disparate factors, including a quick listen to excerpts from the album, several breathless reviews posted on the popular music download site, and the fact that “the geeky-looking blonde-haired guy wearing the glasses looks like Ms. Villa, my Spanish teacher.”

Berryman readily admits that she has a long way to go in understanding this mysterious new band. “From what I can tell, they released one album a couple years ago that was poorly received. But what do you expect? How many bands’ first full length album is a classic that they then spend the next 25 years unfairly trying to live up to?”

The high school sophomore also confirms that Accelerate has been in heavy rotation on her iPod, alongside the likes of Beyonce, Fergie, and “some old-ass fossilized geezer named Dylan who my parents babble incessantly about. Whatever.”

Berryman also especially likes the brevity of the album; with 11 songs that clock in at about 35 minutes, it’s one of the shortest albums in her burgeoning iPod collection. Explains Berryman: “The length fits my attention span. Anything over that four-minute mark, and it’s time to check out. No thanks.”

The student believes that R.E.M. could be the precursor to a new musical style. “What the music world needs is a musical genre that specializes in songs less than three minutes in length that features aggressive guitars, nihilistic grandiose statements that decades later seem naïve and simplistic, and only three chords. Maybe there could even be a British version that in a little more than a year from its inception chokes to death on its own excesses and countless derivative copycat bands. Yeah, that’d be cool.”

Nevertheless, Berryman isn’t optimistic about the band’s chances of mainstream success. She feels that “a three-piece all-male band that doesn’t have either the backing of a major label or a carefully crafted and honed image as a true democratic band is at a disadvantage in today’s segmented and derivative radio airwaves. Plus, the lead singer is way too Moby bald to get on magazine covers.”

Berryman admits most of her friends are not on board with her new musical discovery. “Sometimes I’m able to turn my friends on to new music, like the time I discovered an unknown band named The Stooges. We all agreed that The Weirdness had to be just about the best thing they’d ever do.” But her friends remain unconvinced with the Athens band. Friend Quinlin Griffin thinks the band “will never have an unexpected hit song that features a mandolin, a somewhat controversial video that includes quasi-homo-erotic religious imagery, and obtuse lyrics based around Southern colloquialisms.”

Yet Berryman, who considers herself a budding music historian, remains undeterred and plans to dive deeper into the band’s small back catalog. In addition to downloading debut album Around The Sun, she plans to see the new band in concert. She’s quite convinced the band will remain largely unknown. “They’re having to tour with two other bands just to fill the space. You tell me: what chance does that type of band have of hitting the big time?”

Satire: Amy Winehouse Hired as Selsun Blue Spokesperson

Chattem, Inc. announced today that it has hired talented and follicularly-challenged train wreck/musician Amy Winehouse as its spokesperson for its Selsun Blue line of shampoo products. The endorsement deal is set to begin when Hell freezes over; the company’s R&D division estimates that this phenomenon will occur next Tuesday. The terms of the deal were not disclosed, though Internet rumors are rampant that Winehouse will partly be paid in “dangerous and illicit materials.”

Chattem, Inc. officials admit that pegging the troubled chanteuse as its spokesperson marks a dramatic shift in the company’s advertising strategy. According to company liaison Phillip Enwasher, the company wants to take its Selsun Blue products in a bold new direction, and Winehouse fits that mold.

“For too many years we’ve had commercials featuring perfectly proportioned men and women wearing black turtlenecks and mild cases of dandruff,” Enwasher commented. “In the span of 30 seconds, the man’s dandruff would be cured. He’d stroll confidently into the office, and you just knew he was gonna nail his big presentation or the floor secretary. That type of advertising was safe, predictable, reliable, and incredibly profitable. That type of approach is now totally out of touch in the 21st century.”

Although some industry experts are skeptical of the agreement and feel that Winehouse’s mind-boggling bird’s nest hair cannot be tamed and will in turn tarnish both Selsun Blue’s reputation and revenues, Enwasher will not be dissuaded. “We plan to initially feature Amy in commercials for our Medicated, Moisturizing, and Daily Use lines. The commercials will take a chronological approach as we track Amy’s journey from coiffured disaster so Selsun Blue mega-babe. Every day for 34 weeks, and twice daily when it’s raining in Seattle, she’ll be pampered with hourly rinses, lathers, and repeats.

“Then, once we’ve nearly tamed the beast and it's breathing its last gasps, we’re gonna drop our new Ragged Scalp Blaster X product on her,” Enwasher stated. “Designed specifically for unpredictable, irrational, and near-epic-disaster singers, Amy’s hair will be cleaner than a post-colonic colon.”

Although the details of the contract have not yet been released, Enwasher did acknowledge that the company has also secured the rights to anything discovered in Winehouse’s hair. “Even if our attempts to sanitize that primordial monster fail miserably, I’m confident that humanity can advance greatly from what we unearth. Cures for various diseases, the lost colony of Roanoke, the answer to how the filling gets inside the Twinkie, several peach trees, and various extinct species of birds are likely residing somewhere in the deep regions of that hair. And most importantly, I personally have reason to believe that Joss Stone and her career have taken residence there.”

According to her publicist, Winehouse was busy “reading to orphaned street urchins, and most definitely not on a mad bender” and was therefore unavailable for comment.

Local Woman Listens To Grandson's iPod

When Kirksville High student and self-proclaimed “Northeast Missouri music czar” Larry Walforten forgot his iPod on his senior class trip to Thousand Hills State Park last week, he was more than a little peeved.

“All my friends had Fall Out Boy, Rick Astley, Cameo, and all the other musical visionaries of the 20th century to make this trip bearable. For five nights I had to listen to the sounds of a gently running river stream, the howls of the coyotes, and the calming, steady calls of the owls. Who wants to listen to that crap on a camping trip?”

Yet nothing prepared him for the shock he experienced when he returned home from the trip. His grandmother and legal guardian, 89-year old Eunice Walforten, had discovered Larry’s iPod. While Larry was suffering from both a lack of music and a massive sumac rash he caught on the second day, the woman was busy dissecting every song in her grandson’s collection.

“I discovered the device when I was cleaning Larry’s room on Monday morning. Larry’s a good kid, but he’s a total pig, just like his deadbeat long-gone father," the grandmother stated. “At first I thought it was a garage opener, and then a device for smoking marijuana,” Eunice readily acknowledges in between sips of Sanka.

Although she admits to not following music trends since “Richard ‘Rabbit’ Brown serenaded people on the Pontchartrain,” this hasn’t stopped Eunice from becoming very opinionated regarding Larry’s musical preferences. “I don’t think this young Dylan guy will amount to much,” Eunice says dismissively. “What’s a four-legged forest cloud anyway? In my day, someone who talked like that would rightly be committed.” Yet Eunice does say this “Dylan whippersnapper” has potential: “I absolutely loved Empire Burlesque, and I haven’t heard anything better than `Under The Red Sky' in a long time.”

She likewise dislikes the artists found in Larry’s seldom listened to “Music Cred” playlist. “This Waits fella barks, yelps, and howls like a deranged madman. Unconventional and challenging sounds have no place in my music world.” Eunice also fails to see the charm in Neil Young, the last artist in this playlist. “I’m not too keen on that voice, but I do predict Mr. Young will become a shrewd businessman whose concert tickets will one day cost hundreds of dollars.”

The grandmother also says she’s found herself constantly returning to the music of Black-Eyed Peas and on-stage urinator Fergie time and time again. “Now this gal’s got some real talent and a lot of important things to say, just like FDR in one of his Fireside Chats,” Eunice says enthusiastically. Fergie’s originality and cutting-edge tunes also impress her. “I doubt any musician has ever come up with a better generic, non-offensive, mediocre, and crassly commercial sound.” Yet Eunice doesn’t like Fergie’s chances of reaching the big time. “The American record-buying public’s well-documented disdain for such fluff rife with product placement might end her career though; this type of music never sells millions of albums.”

Larry reports that his grandmother’s constant opinions about his music have left a strain on their relationship. “My grandmother listens to the same music as me,” he laments in complete resignation. “Think it’s cool that an old woman knows all the lyrics to Jay-Z’s ‘99 Problems’ or that she no longer thinks Timbaland is a country in Eastern Europe? Well, it’s not.”

Larry also believes that his grandmother’s discovery of his music collection has cheapened the music for him. “Take Public Enemy for instance. That group understood me; they knew what it was like to grow up as an oppressed, suffering, and moderately affluent white kid in rural Northeast Missouri. Now she plays It Takes A Nation Of Millions for her friends during their games of Mah Jongg.”

Larry isn’t giving up hope though. “I plan to start exploring something called ‘indie rock,’ whatever the hell that means. From what I’ve heard, no one listens to that stuff. It’ll be years before she catches up to that music.”

Satire: Jerry Falwell Unhappy With Afterlife Living Conditions

In his first public statement since his (un)timely demise, the Reverend Jerry Falwell on Thursday complained that his current heavenly environment is "hotter than freakin' hell." Sweating profusely from his podium and flanked by bodyguards dressed like Ziggy Stardust, Falwell said, "Who do I need to talk to about this heat? I'm sweating more than a lesbian liberal prostitute at one of my television broadcasts. I'm on fire here."

Falwell's complaints were not limited to the fiery temperatures, however. The former televangelist, who reports he now spends his time in the Great Beyond compiling the ultimate Lilith Fair compendium, is apparently also quite upset with his current roommate, poet and truly all-around troubled woman, Sylvia Plath.

"All day long with her it's 'daddy this' and 'daddy that.' And those awful non-rhyming lines she recites all the time. I'm a quiet, reserved, respectful, contemplative person, and I've never been one to criticize anyone whose lifestyle, beliefs, hair color, shoe size, favorite sports team, or preferred Laffy Taffy flavor are opposed to mine, but I cannot help it. In this case our personalities simply clash." Falwell reports that when the poet starts reciting new lines, he plays his Sony Walkman and relaxes to the sweet tones of Conway Twitty.

Fallwell also addressed other concerns in his brief press conference. He's clearly not thrilled with the afterlife's intellectual curriculum. "Crap classes like Science In Intellectual History, The History of Women in Warfare, and Introduction to World History? C'mon, who needs that type of stuff? What good can possibly come from an in-depth, well-informed, and carefully studied examination of such diverse topics? What's a guy gotta do to get one farkin course about important things like the inevitable fall of the hedonistic United States, the history of hate mongering, or how Temptation Island is the best show Fox ever aired?"

Falwell is also peeved about the non-academic activities offered. Aside from his ongoing ambitious Lilith Fair project, and another task he was only willing to refer to as "Project Ultimate Doom," he's having trouble filling the hours. "The only athletic activity offered is amateur wrestling," Falwell morosely lamented. "I've never been one to criticize or condemn anything involving close male physical contact, but the simple fact is that my knees are too wobbly to allow me to participate." Referring to his knee, Falwell said, "Feel that there? That's pure bone on bone, no cartilage left."

Afterlife officials commented they were investigating the complaints, but weren't willing to make any promises. "Sure it's hot, but it's always hot down, er, up here. What does he expect? There's not a whole helluva lot we can do about it - if you catch my meaning."

Satire: St. Louis Music Scene Found Dead; Several Suspects Under Investigation

In a startling development, the St. Louis Music Scene was found dead this morning, near the Pageant concert nightclub on Delmar Boulevard. Although the cause of death has yet to be determined, authorities speculate the death was possibly caused by St. Louis' appalling number of frustrated male concert-going go-go dancers, the number of bloated 1980s hair bands and androgynous male bands targeting pre-pubescent kids that thrive in the city, or finally, Richard "Dick" Reamer of Creve Coeur, MO.

Homicide detectives are currently pursuing the St. Louis male concert-going population as their strongest suspect. "We've received numerous substantiated reports that this suspect has engaged in various illicit and disgusting activities, including grotesque seated pelvic dancing thrusts during the recent Richard Thompson acoustic concert," stated Detective Fuller Johnson, lead investigator for the case. "For chrissakes, how can you justify a seated wiggly-wig dance routine during "How Will I Ever Be Simple Again?" No wonder that show was nothing but single men wearing berets."

"We also suspect that this contingent's propensity to dress like the performer has caused premier acts to avoid St. Louis in abject horror," Johnson continued. "I saw more wide-rimmed glasses at the Elvis Costello concert than I would at my optometrist's office. Shit, if I was on stage and looked at the audience to see me looking back at me, I'd run like hell from this city also."

While the bulk of the St. Louis Police Department's resources are focusing on this suspect as their primary lead, other suspects have not yet been eliminated. Another promising culprit remains the glut of washed-up acts, primarily those of the classic rock or hair metal variety, that have turned St. Louis into a veritable hotbed for artists last seen on Behind the Music.

"Sammy Hagar could go on a tour where all he does is fart on stage and primp his hair, and it would sell out within minutes in this town. Then a second show would be added, and it would sell out even faster than the first," lamented one seasoned concert veteran who wished to remain nameless.

Detective Johnson does not dispute that this suspect could have played a role in the tragic demise of the St. Louis Music Scene either. "Nothing could kill a music scene quite like the recent White Lion/Poison brutal double bill. What did the cat drag in? How about a whole lot of hairspray, questionable hygienic practices, and enough botched boob jobs to last a lifetime - and that was just the men."

Others are eager to point out that the recent rash of androgynous bands who appeal to the angst-ridden kids of affluent suburbia has not yet been eliminated as a co-conspirator. "Panic At The Fall Out Disco Boy High School Gym Stars — or whatever they're called — sold out the Pageant with ease," one local indie concert promoter stated.

"All that mascara and eyeliner, coupled with a disturbing audience demographic of pre-teens whose wardrobe makes Ziggy Stardust-era David Bowie seem downright butch, has taken its toll on the Scene. Some of the girls at the show wore makeup too."

Still a very small segment of the city's detectives are quietly pursuing one last suspect at the behest of Johnson himself: Richard "Dick" Reamer, a retired auto mechanic who has lived in the city for 60 years.

"Why Reamer? Because he's a bastard sumbitch who must be guilty of something. I just feel it in my police bones," Johnson was quoted as saying. "His porch has four barbeque pits and six wind chimes, and he soaks his feet in Epsom salt while listening to Benny Goodman. He's hiding something — I'm sure of it. I wouldn't be surprised to find a stockpile of mullets and worn-out copies of Frampton Comes Alive in his basement."

Regardless of the guilty party, St. Louis music fans are nearly unanimous in agreeing that the Scene's death did not come as a complete surprise. "We got Yo La Tengo, the Decemberists, and Andrew Bird all in one week in April. But send Twisted Sister, Hanson, and Sebastian Bach with their Inquisition-grade brand of torture to your town and see if it survives," one local music fan stated dejectedly. "Poor baby Scene, she never had a chance."

There is talk of an upcoming charity concert for the Scene. Proceeds will be distributed evenly between the Scene's closest relatives (Kansas City and Chicago, which have been getting the quality acts that have skipped St. Louis for years anyway), and among those traumatized by the recent senseless and deadly James Blunt concert.