Shove This Blender Up Your Ass You Hipster Scum (Volume One, Issue Two)

It's 6:44 in the morning, and I'm writing this, my virgin post, from a Starbucks. If I had known that Starbucks opened at 5am, I would have been here sooner. But alas, at 5am when I tried calling them using IP-Relay the operator refused to sit through the eighth ring. If they hadn't been such an impatient cunt I would have gotten through. Oh well.

If you're wondering why I was using a public service for the deaf to try to call Starbucks in the early hours of the morning rather than using an actual phone, stop it. I'm way past the point where I would normally explain myself. My back hurts, I haven't slept in over 24 hours, and the prick at this place told me that soy milk tastes better than actual milk in lattés. It doesn't.

So here I am, drinking this inferior coffee product, while I look around at the typical early morning Starbucks crowd. Aside from the girl with the huge eye sitting across from me, I assume that all of these people are boring paper pushers desperately hoping the line for recently thawed fusion pastries and inferior coffee product never ends. When it does I'm sure they'll be compelled to schlep off to some eternal hell on the fifth floor where they spend the day wondering what life could have been if only they had gotten the orange-mango-danish-breakfast sandwich with sausage instead of the blueberries and shit coffeecake. There's always tomorrow, they'll say. But I know they'll stick with blueberries and shit. If anyone in here had it in them to order what they wanted, then at least one person would be smiling.

Fuckers.

Luckily, I Heard It Through the Grape Vine just came on, and if I close my eyes I can pretend I'm in my damp car listening to the oldies station. No not the CCR cover you ignorant normie redneck. This is the thick, juicy, slathered in fat ass soul, cut from Gladys Knight and the Pips. No it isn't as good as the Marvin Gaye version, but do you think the slobs that buy their music at Starbucks know that?



I must be one lucky jerk, because Fleet Foxes just came on. It reminds me of something, but in this state of sleep deprivation I can't recall what exactly. Something important, or at least relevant.

Oh right. Some time ago my hard drive up and committed The Big S. There wasn't any warning. Maybe I didn't treat it well enough. I don't know what the protocol for laptop care and maintenance is. I assumed that the things were supposed to be bulletproof so that journalists could have online dick measuring contests while reporting from the front lines of wherever. Or at some concert. I don't know, journalists go through some tough shit.

In a misguided attempt to right the wrong I paid some mac shop a hundred bucks to tell me that all of my music, scripts, pictures of cats, etc. was gone forever. Then like the novice consumer I am, I bought another aluminum monstrosity, and this time bought a fifty dollar plastic cover to protect it. This handy plastic cover will surely make my computer happier. This happened about a year ago, and because I'm a lazy consumer n00b I haven't put any music on this thing.

I got tired of manually adding stuff to my Songza play list pretty early on, and was glad to see that Pitchfork had made a top 100 list on Songza. Just click it, and listen to 100 songs chosen by the premier taste makers for un-athletic, bourgeois offspring of the people who were too lame to take drugs in the 60's. Sounds great right? Well it isn't bad. True to their persona, Pitchfork made sure to include a little of everything, and two of Kanye West. It's going to be a nice day in hell when you all realize that he's a crack baby.

Okay that isn't fair, because for some reason they also included two Vampire Weekend tracks and two Crystal Castles tracks. So you like Vampire Weekend and Crystal Castles. Whatever. I don't care. That isn't even the point I was trying to make. Those acts are both good, just like everyone one here.

Oh damn it. The girl with the big eye left, and she didn't throw out the napkin she's been scribbling all over. I don't know why, but I really wanted to see that napkin. I would have posted a pic of it here and then this wouldn't have been a complete waste of your time. As a consolation prize, I will now Google image search for, "big eye girl napkin," and post the first pic.




Well what do you know? It sucks. Better luck next time.

Right so back to the inferior Motown version of Heard it Through the Grape Vine and how it was a welcome rest to my demoralized ears. The pitchfork top 100 list isn't bad, but I continually felt myself wondering just what the Illinois jerk offs were basing their rankings on, so I went to the site to check out their reviews.

Why did I do this? Didn't I know I would get lost in a sea of misplaced nostalgia, and flagrant misuse of the word irony? You would think that, but somehow I always manage to forget how terrible the writing is, and how obnoxious the fairly thorough reporting still manages to be. Much like this fat sucker who has now had four apple something or others and a huge plastic cup full of what looks like whipped cream and muddy water, I keep going back to stuff my eye holes with shit that will probably make me retarded.

I trudged through the reviews. Skimmed a few. I got what I came for, and no not punishment from hipsters. All this music on this list. Every last fucking song on this 100 song list is blended bullshit. "_______'s new album is a fresh blend of ______ and ______."

Oh good. Just what I need to get some excitement into my life, a refreshing blend of old stale music. You know what this new Assfuckers album needs? A hint of summer. Has the music industry become a fucking juice bar? A juice bar run by a counterculture that defines it's self through meaninglessness? No none of the stuff on the Pitchfork top 100 play list is bad, but none of it is anything new either. There are only so many ways that you can mix beach boys harmonies with dance beats!

Maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm overreacting, but I had to say something. The realization that making music has come down to picking two pre-existing genres and throwing them into a mental blender made me want to throw up. I looked at about 15 pitchfork reviews and counted 8 uses of this blending definition. "So basically, if you're looking for a mix between two different things, you're in luck." Fuck that.

And fuck this.

Some Asian dude in swim trunks just gave his girl a mango-raisin sandwich with a love note hidden inside. She went nuts. I have to take a shit, and there is a line for the bathroom.