Okay, so I’ve given up on writing music reviews. I wrote I think 53 reviews totalling about 25,000 words, which isn’t bad if I could do that every week for like the next five years, but I just got sick of it. First of all, it’s not my voice, and I know I could go all gonzo to break down the fourth wall or whatever, but in general, record reviews have a sort of set format, because records have a sort of set format. There’s also the issue that nobody reads record reviews except people who have the record already and want to break your balls over some certain point. And the worst two audiences for that are prog-rock and metal, and that’s pretty much all I’m reviewing. The last thing I need is a bunch of idiots firebombing my web site because I said their favorite Helloween EP, which was a piece of shit, was actually a piece of shit. I’d have to set my mail filter to delete anything containing the phrase “support the scene”, and also remember to add it in all caps, since 90% of metal fans still haven’t found out how to shut off their Caps Lock. (Or maybe it’s more BRUTAL and OLD-SCHOOL to TYPE EVERYTHING IN CAPS.)
One of the main reasons I lost steam on the project, other than the fact that it would take me roughly two years to review half of my CD collection, is that it suddenly struck me that it’s completely useless to be writing ABOUT something that is actually SOMETHING. I mean, people making records are MAKING something. Reviewing their record, you’re just the smaller animal in the food chain that pokes through their shit for food. Record reviews aren’t a product; they’re a parasite of a product. And maybe music crap does draw hits in the greater web sense, because for some reason, people want to know what other people think about their favorite Rush album, but for some reason, it just doesn’t seem like creating. The glossary seemed the same way to me. It wasn’t even reporting. It was maybe collating, and along the way I got to put in a few inside jokes, but it wasn’t a work of art. Novels are. Novels are still broken in the sense that someone will listen to ten seconds of your album and say “wow, nice guitar!” or whatever, whereas people will be handed your 300-page book and say “sorry, I don’t read. Except maybe Harry Potter.” Books have their problems. But at least a book is more real than a bunch of reviews.
I don’t know what’s next. One of the problems as of late is that I am walking or biking to work every day, and that kills reading. (And please don’t say “podcast”, because that’s a huge crock of shit.) It’s good that I get to think a little on the way to work, and I am getting in some exercise (and even sortof losing a tiny bit of weight) but as far as finding the next project or whatever, I’m still wavering. Maybe I should spend some more time writing on here until I get a fragment or two that could be turned into a real short story or book or something.
I saw the movie Prozac Nation last night, and it is probably the worst, stupidest movie I’ve ever seen in my life. Even the fact that Christina Ricci was naked in it couldn’t save it. I haven’t read any Wurtzel books, and I don’t really feel that I need to. (I know, I know, “how do you know if you don’t like if if you don’t read it?” Well, I have never eaten a piece of shit and I’m pretty sure I don’t like it.) Anyway the movie was mostly about this self-absorbed chick with a daddy complex who gets a free ride to Harvard and then completely goes psycho. The movie was cliche after cliche, which probably means lot of people watched it and said “oh wow, that’s just like my life!” The funny thing is, the movie almost totally says nothing about Prozac, except at the last second, she starts taking it, and then she’s probably in the best shape of the whole movie, and almost as an afterthought, has this little freakout with her shrink and does this whole “I don’t know who I am anymore!” rant. Then close with Michael Moore text on screen saying seventy billion people take Prozac, oh that’s horrible. If the medicine turned the stupid bitch from the entire movie into a regular person again, it’s a fucking miracle cure and should be immediately added to every water supply in the world. But we’re supposed to think that it’s bad, because… um, I don’t know why. Maybe the book explains it. Anyway, Ricci played the most unsympathetic character, and through most of the movie, you think she just needs a good slap in the face, like those old 30s movies where the woman gets all wacky and frentic and the guy just belts her across the mouth. Okay, maybe it’s bad to say that, but it was a really bad movie.
related link from the alt.tasteless archives.
That’s all for now. Gotta go clean my apartment.