Monday, October 15, 2007

Muggles Gettin' Mad Cause I Got Me a Firebolt

Finally, a version of this song that doesn't make me want to gouge myself in the eardrum after 30 seconds. Unless you're living in a cave or Wentworth Miller's closet, you've probably become painfully familiar with Soulja Boy's "Crank That." It remains one of the top downloaded songs on iTunes, probably because of its progressive feminist views and its appreciation of the English language. I think the lyrical gem "supersoak that hoe" is my personally favorite. Here is a vid I found surfing YouTube. And yes I downloaded the complimentary mp3; its that ridiculous.

Harry Potter Crank That


Heres the amazing, yet still misogynistic HP Lyrics

Ahhh...
Harry Potter in that hoe
Watch me flying, watch me go
Watch me fight that Voldemort
Then stupefy that hoe

Harry Potter in this hoe
Dropping peeps down to the floor
Stupefy that hoe
Yeah, watch me crank that Dumbledore
Magical,
Now watch me curse
Cursin on them villains man
When I do that Crutcio I flick my wand and crank that thing
Now you...

I'm hexing on your witch ass
And when we get to doing I'll be jinxing on your witch ass
Catch me at your local Hogs Head,
On my head a lightning bolt
Muggles getting mad 'cause I got me a Firebolt

Blender, Getting Laid Can Help

Okay so I'm further procrastinating. Tomorrow brings yet another midterm, whose outcome has no bearing on my life other than the premature aging it provokes. Wrinkle lines will be with me long after the standard deviation of the comparison distribution.

Daily WTF: Blender Magazine
I'm not really sure who reads Blender Magazine besides wannabe potheads (posers who think pretending to smoke weed is actually cooler than throwing out 5 bucks for the experience) and Generations pre-Y who somehow think the publication is a link to the present music scene. Blender is essentially a collection of lists; 25 Greatest, 15 Worst ... blah blah numerated blah, in addition to crappy reviews and boring interest pieces. I mean a full length feature on Vanessa Carlton. Her? Most of the time I couldn't give a monkey's elbow what their latest issue is about. But when Blender, with their pompous criticism and arbitrary selection criteria, decided to include in their 40 Worst Lyricists in Rock History hometown favorite Ben Gibbard as #16, I feel slightly challenged. Peeved if you must.


Gibbard, the frontman for Death Cab for Cutie, Postal Service, and All Time Quarterback is undeniably talented. His songs are beautiful enough to generate mass appeal, but his lyrical stylings, which can only be called poetry cover everything from teenage love, to death, to childhood abuse and abandonment (see below). Although Plans seemed to take DCFC mainstream, they have an impressive resume; a solid body of work that includes Transaltancism, Something About Airplanes, The Photo Album, We Have the Facts and We're Voting Yes, not to mention a cultish fan base to rival the greats. I agree the emo scene has been exacerbated to all most unbearable proportions as of late. But mostly this trend has been propelled by lower-rate sideshow bands that fail to find something new or original to say in 10 tracks, let alone multiple albums. Ben's projects are different. In many ways he has redefined the modern indie music scene with poignant, yet relatable messages about love.

Personally I think the editors over at BlenSuck need to get laid more often. Their obvious animosity towards lyrics that express "dangerous" amounts of emotion can only mean one thing: someone's celibate, and not by choice. Click here to see the full article, thus proceeding to write I hate Blender mail. (Heads up to fans of Paul McCartney, Common, Anthony Kiedis, or Jim Morrison, they've also made the list.) I mean they put these artists, a former member of the Beatles for flips sake, in the same list as K "Popozzao" Fed. Hell freezing over as I speak.


Death Cab for Cutie, Styrofoam Plates
Lyrics by Ben Gibbard
There's a saltwater film on the jar of your ashes
I threw them to sea, but a gust blew them backwards
And the sting in my eyes that you then inflicted
Was par for the course just as when you were living

It's no stretch to say you were not quite a father
But a donor of seeds to a poor single mother
That would raise us alone, we never saw the money
That went down your throat through the hole in your belly

Thirteen years old in the suburbs of Denver
Standing in line for Thanksgiving dinner
At the Catholic church; the servers wore crosses
To shield from the sufferance plaguing the others
Styrofoam plates, cafeteria tables
Charity reeks of cheap wine and pity
And I'm thinking of you, I do every year
When we count all our blessings
And wonder what we're doing here

You're a disgrace to the concept of family
The priest won't divulge that fact in his homily
And I'll stand up and scream if the mourning remain quiet
You can deck out a lie in a suit but I won't buy it
I won't join in the procession that's speaking their peace
Using five dollar words while praising his integrity
And just because he's gone, it doesn't change the fact:
He was a bastard in life, thus a bastard in death

Tragedy; Only the talented can turn it into art.

I can only hope Blender employees start receiving free prostitution as part of their benefits package. Hey it could be constituted as a tax write-off; it really is charity in some cases.