Imagine Still Sucks

I've mentioned not following the news too closely a number of times. And just today I saw something that is a perfect example of why that is, or why that be, if you prefer. It seems that one of my very favorites ever, Paul McCartney, stooped to playing some gig for Barack Hussein Obama and his flunkies in the White House. Now, 1st, I highly doubt that old Barry is any sort of McCartney fan at all. He strikes me as more of a Whitney Houston, Celine Dion, NKOTB, Chicago, Keith Sweat, The Weather Girls, or Journey kind of guy. Something cheesy and terrible. I bet old Barry couldn't tell us the most rudimentary things about The Beatles, Paul McCartney, John Lennon, or whatever. Although, come to think of it, I bet his favorite Beatles tune is Taxman. It stands to reason. But, I'm guessing someone in the White House is a huge fake Beatles fan and bathed in the power that the Oval Office wields, while duping McCartney into performing. I didn't read the details of the show, nor will I. But whatever went down, it does go to show that someone even as great a genius as Paul McCartney can fall victim to old Barry's jive. I give the guy a pass. He doesn't know any better. There's no way he could. Again, it goes to show why ignoring the news is always the best bet. Because inevetably, you here something that depresses you beyond words.

I've mentioned this once before on this blog in passing, but I did see Paul McCartney in 2002 in Raleigh, North By God Carolina. The tickets were $180. And worth every dime. I enjoyed it almost beyond description. When old Macca launched into Hello Goodbye to start the show, I was pretty much crying uncontrollably. That's how happy I was. And remember, I was a 31 year old me. And it had been 36 years since The Beatles last concert at Candlestick. That's how much I like the guy. In fact, I've argued, from to time, that Paul McCartney is the greatest human being born in the 20th century. And I wasn't kidding, maybe slightly drunk, but not kidding. It's either him or Claudia Schiffer, obviously.

I got a text not too long ago from someone inquiring if I was gonna make it out to Ramada on Loch Raven for some event or other. The thing is that no name come up with the text. So, it couldn't have been from anyone who I'd want to hang out with up in the town Elaine Benes is from, because all of those folks (many of whom read this blog on a regular basis) are logged into my phone by name. So, all I can fugure is that the infamous Boobie (the balding fat woman who runs the awful trivia) got a hold of my cell number at some point over the years and randomly invited me to something or other. I know she talked to me once about being a judge for the terrible version of American Idol they do in the Spring with the karaoke machine. And I turned her down flat. Even if every beer were free the entire time, there's no way I could sit through that garbage. Those singers are beyond putrid (both in talent and appearance). Anyway, I don't think Boobie has this blog address, but if the Jacobys or whoever are ever in the vicinity of the Ramada on Loch Raven some Thursday or Saturday evening, could you please stop in and tell Boobie that I'm dead or in rehab. Thanks. I'll owe you one. Oh, and tell Putrid Breath the same thing. If you're not sure which one is Putrid Breath, the way to fugure it out is by inhaling. Whichever direction the foulest stench you've ever experienced is coming from, just head that way, because that will be Putrid Breath. Guaranteed.

I heard from Brandon last weekend. The kid was down in Charlotte for the NASCAR race (although I think he was actually in Rock Hill). Anyway, he butt dialed me at about 1:30 Friday night. So I listened to the voice mail that was left in the aftermath of this butt-dialing. And for the life of me I thought he was calling from a war zone. Either a war zone or a showing of Star Whores, Episode 1: The Fainting Man Ass (that movie is just odd noises bouncing all over the place - terrible). Either way. Well I dialed Brandon back just to be sure everything was copacetic. And he picked right up. I asked, "Where the hell are you?" He answered, "Kylie & I are cosmic bowling." And I said, "Oh...that explains it. Have fun."

I saw where Rolling Stone has come out with an issue that counts down the 500 best songs ever recorded. And I realize that this kind of list is subjective. But, I was still aghast at some of the crap they rated way up on the list. The most egregious mistake was putting Imagine by John Lennon #3. The song is stupid. And communist as well, but whatever, I don't have an issue if Lennon was a commie. It's barely even a song. I guess it makes some people think or contemplate a better world or something do-goody like that. And if you get inspired to be a better person listening to Imagine by John Lennon, then please stop reading this blog. I LIKE John Lennon, a lot. But I can think of at least 50, no 100, other songs that are infinitely better than Imagine. In My Life? I Am The Walrus? A Day In The Life? #9 Dream? Nobody Told Me? Whatever Gets You Through The Night? Help? Hey, Hey Bulldog? A Hard Day's Night? Rain? I could go and on. I'm not even including any Beatles songs that were written by Paul McCartney that Lennon helped on to various degrees. Also, the Stones have the #2 slot on this not very prestigious Rolling Stone list. And I like the Stones fine. Whatever. But Satisfaction? Are you serious??? That's one of the silliest, most cliched pieces of garbage played on the Classic Rock stations around the country. Again, there are dozens of better Stones songs. Hell, I like Mixed Emotions more than Satisfaction. This whole list thing is tiring.

On the positive side for Rolling Stone, they did have a few newer songs on the list. And yes, one of them was Hey Ya! They have it at #182. And I say, Lend Me Some Suga', I Am Your Neighbor.

I am out ----->