Dave the Marble

So the last time I posted, I said I'd deconstruct some Hoobasuck lyrics the next time I posted.  I didn't put a time limit on this promise, so even the fact that it's been a while since I posted shouldn't matter.  A promise is a promise.

Well guess what?  The Tuna lies.

Fact is that I have one of those jobs with a workload that is directly proportional to the number of people in the office on any given day.  Today being December 30th, most people are still out on holiday, which makes my workload very, very small.  As such, I'm effectively on call in case something catastrophic happens, like a squirrel hiding under the kitchen oven and chewing on exposed wires.

It took a week to get the smell out last time.  Do you know what flash-fried squirrel smells like?  Here's a hint: not like barbecue.

So I'm bored, and it's the kind of boredom that results in your brain giving all of your excess energy away to charity because, hey, you're obviously not using it.  I barely have the fortitude and drive to type, much less think of something hilarious to say about a crappy band's crappy lyrics.  Not that doing that takes more energy -- it's pretty easy and comes naturally.  I'm pretty sure that it takes more energy to watch linoleum curl.

Sooo.... what will I write instead?  How about a story about a marble named Dave?

DAVE THE MARBLE
by The Tuna

See, Dave was just like any other marble in the bag.  He was glass, he was round, and he had one of those freaky colored swirling patterns stuck inside him like a semi-permanent visible acid trip.  But one thing Dave wasn't was complacent.  He wasn't happy to sit around and be knocked about and dropped and grabbed by grubby little kid fingers like the other marbles, especially this one loser named Carl.

Now unlike Dave, Carl, a marble with a pattern inside that looked like a constipated goldfish, was more than happy to just be a marble.  As a matter of fact, it somewhat offended him how badly Dave wanted to be free and see the world.

He tried to convince Dave.  "Now Dave, come on, you're just a tiny glass ball!  There's no life out there for you!"

"But Carl," retorted Dave, "How can I know that without seeing it and deciding for myself?"

That question actually stopped Carl long enough for Dave to make his move.  With one mighty push of his glass muscles (they exist, look it up), Dave rolled off the table (the kid was playing with his marbles on the table, did I forget to mention that?) and onto the floor.  The particular house the kid lived in had very poor foundations and was therefore slightly skewed, so he immediately began to roll.  Carl yelled after him, but Dave paid him no heed.  Only seconds passed before he rolled out the open door (also, there was no weather striping or sill on the door.  The people who owned this place paid a fortune in heating bills).

Oh, the glorious freedom!  The kid was a shut-in, so Dave had never been outside.  And what a world it was out there!  The blue skies, the warm sun on his glass face (unlike yours truly, Dave did not live in the Pacific Northwest), the warm breeze!  Blades of green grass shot toward the sky as though crying for freedom, the same freedom he now felt!  Birds twittered joyously as though celebrating his feat!  This... this was living.  He did not know how to describe his life before this moment, except that he could no longer call it life.

Then he bounced into the street and a car ran over him, thereby reinforcing that one should never shed conformity for a moment of bliss because the ensuing pain is just totally not worth it.

*     *     *

Wow, I'm laughing at myself for writing that.  Well, hope I didn't ruin your day.  Go have a ball!  But not a glass one that bounces into the street.  Ciao!

Views On Music And Why I Hate Hoobastank

You know, I'm one of the first people to admit that my views on music are odd, and I'm not just talking about the kind of music I personally enjoy.  Finnish symphonic metal bands aren't everyone's cup of tea and I understand that.  But I really do have odd views on the whole spectrum of music as a whole.

I know, that makes no sense.  But consider first how people's general views of band or artist usually line up pretty well with their perception of their skill.  It looks kind of like this:

Notice how it's a fairly linear graph from left to right, with almost perfect correlation between the two values.

Now I've noticed something odd -- my opinion of bands and artists doesn't follow this linear graph.  Rather, it seems to be more of a bell curve when graphed along with skill, and not a particularly uniform one at that.  I love a great band, but I maintain a certain amount of respect for terrible bands, because more often than not they're trying and you can tell they're having fun.  My true ire is saved for those mediocre, middle of the road bands that have just enough talent to sound decent but not enough drive to actually rise above sounding like everyone else.  Observe:

I really don't think this is too harsh.

So who falls into that middle of the road category?  You probably know them pretty well.  Bands like Nickelback.  The Jonas Brothers.  I'm sorry, but Coldplay.  Artists like Cyrus, Beiber and the rest of all those Disney Channel androids.  I'd put Creed here but they've been done ten years now and that'd be disrespectful to the dead.

And of course, my ultimate nemesis, who is so hated that I refuse to write their name correctly and insist on referring to them by a clever pseudonym I made up:  Hoobasuck.  I do not understand how anyone could possess talent and willfully choose mediocrity over actually going somewhere.  If you listen to them (please understand, I'm not actually recommending you do this), you can tell that they know their instruments.  They can play.  The lead singer can sing, although he could stand to not, you know, sound like every other frontman in the business.

But they choose this mediocrity.  It's all bland, uninspired, sounds exactly like a huge mishmash of everyone else, and it just aggravates me to no end.  Even their lyrics are terrible:

What do I have to do / to get inside of you / to get inside of you / Cause I love the way you move / when I'm inside of you / when I'm inside of you

That's sick and stalker-esque, not to mention downright irritating.  I come up with better lyrics by farting through a cardboard tube. 

You know what man?  If you're writing tons of songs like that about a girl that left you, I've got a pretty good idea why she left.

Forgive me, but these guys really get me going.  I feel it's only appropriate at this point to end this angry rant with the following image:

Back from the dead

I do this weird thing sometimes where I'll give something a good, solid try for a while, and then stop.  This doesn't happen because I get bored of it, necessarily.  Rather, it happens because I get busy with something else and flat out forget about it.

In this case I was too busy singing and dancing in the streets to blog, but I'm all done with that and back to stay, I promise.  I've been pepper-sprayed one too many times in the last few weeks and blogging is much safer.

Now this doesn't mean I was part of the Occupy protests, because those people are silly and think that real change comes from people camping in parks.  I'm just trying to manufacture a meme as funny as pepper-spray cop.

Up next, watch as I apply critical thinking to and deconstruct Hoobastank lyrics!