Oh yes, these are the salad days.

Off the top of my head, I can’t recall an experience that changed my perceptions so quickly.

The light distorts what a self-important asshole Adam Young has become.

For starters, Paper Route is about a million times better live. In trying to explain the difference, the only accurate thing I can come up with is: they sound less bitchy. They sound like they mean it. And they seem weirdly polite. Maybe it’s that they’re from Nashville. Maybe it’s because a Detroit crowd would go nuts over someone taking a festering dump on a guitar on stage. I can’t say for certain.

They opened for everyone, I guess you could say. At least, in my mind. I think they had two or three actual fans, so getting a good view at the SRO Royal Oak Music Theatre was surprisingly easy to accomplish. They were loud, and seemed sincere enough, and try as I might to deny it, they were good. In retrospect, I probably should have picked up their CD and given them another chance.

Lights was basically what I expected. She did the Old Navy repertoire, and what are unarguably the best tracks off of The Listening, but that was more or less it. I was disappointed that she seemed rushed and that there were none of the fabled covers (particularly Coldplay’s Lost), but at the same time, her performance and presence was so adorable, I wanted to put her in my pocket.

Finally, it was time for Owl City.

Now, being a moderate Death Cab for Cutie and a stupidly huge fan of The Postal Service, I’ve never been terribly overjoyed by the way Owl City progressively co-opts The Postal Service. But short of Fireflies, other Owl City songs aren’t complete ripoffs, so I went in to it prepared to give them the benefit of doubt.

Right out of the gate, they have this overblown “light up everyone in the band” opening that took far too long. Look! A guy on drums. Oooh! A violinist and a cellist! Holy shit! Keyboards! And then… Adam comes jumping around in an owl hoodie, looking more tweaked than your typical City Club regular.

The gaggle of 15 year-old girls absolutely lost their shit, while me and their parents tried to figure out what the big fuss was about. Frankly, I would have been fine with him sitting in front of a MacBook and fucking around. But no, dude’s making the absolute most of his fifteen minutes. The ridiculous amount of aping he was doing in conjunction with “HOW’S EVERYBODY FEELING?” after every second song was almost embarrassing, at least to me, having paid for the ticket.

Seriously. I’ve seen some real nobodies before, and none have approached the crowd-whoring on display here. Not even Steve “Give it up for me!” Ballmer could touch this guy.

As we had moved around the theatre throughout the night, we ended up really close to the soundboard, and that’s where my hope was successfully killed off.

I know how a soundboard works, and not just because I mastered the hell out of South Lyon High’s 1993 production of Mame (yes, I am going to take full credit on this one, unless you can prove otherwise). The amount of engineering, and pre-prod, and all around fuckery that was going on was almost too much for me to take in.

It’s one thing to rip off another artist and be somewhat original about it. It’s something else to be devoid of talent.

For example: I love the hell out of Oasis, and I’d never dream of arguing that they spent the greater portion of the 90′s dipping in to The Beatles’ well. But in the same regard, you’re legally retarded to suggest that the brothers Gallagher can’t write and perform the shit out of a song.

Owl City, on the other hand… I’m not 100% convinced that the audio engineer doesn’t help Adam shoot up backstage, because he sure as hell does everything but jump around in an owl hoodie when the music’s playing.

Perhaps the most amusing incident of the night was when they got to Fireflies — clearly the only song the Peanut Gallery had actually heard of , as evidenced by them going nutty, and singing along for the first time after twelve other songs.

We left early, and met a woman in the elevator who had taken her kids to the show. “It’s much different than where I was last night.”

“Where were you last night?”

“We went and saw this guy… Johnny Rotten… he used to be in a band called The Sex Pistols.”

It made me feel nice that she thought we were too young to know who Johnny Rotten was, or who the Sex Pistols were. Success.

P.S. If you haven’t seen me whoring this video out before, enjoy:

If Matt Engelbert bitches about anything, you’re going to send Steve Clark out to interview him, and run it as a legit story before the weather?

If you hadn’t canned him, I’d almost worry about you sending Steve Wilson out to pester me on my way to work, now that I’ve posted about this guy twice.

Click this to see the first act.

Sorry. I have no excuse. Hopefully, at least two of you subscribed to the RSS feed.

Using the power of thought, semi-transparent women can infect you.

On the subject of me, I’m recovering from the fabled H1N1 flu virus, which makes me feel incredibly lame.

I mean, I know I’m getting “up there” in years, but getting the disease of the year so many months after the scare just adds further validation to my waning coolness. It’s like a tack on a map, showing that I am precisely behind the curve I used to be ahead of.

Maybe I’ll do better next year.

Maybe I’ll make you proud of me.

Love me again for the very first time, Internet.

Total stream of consciousness here… my “A” key has decided to take a shit on me, forcing me to hammer the fucking thing, as though I’m writing something very important, like an addendum to a health care bill.

I’m not getting in to that whole debacle. At least, not tonight.

I have a feeling that I’d post more, if I got off my lazy ass (in the metaphorical sense of the term) and installed a decent front-end on my BlackBerry.

It's like telling the outside world to fuck off.

That’s right. My BlackBerry. I’ve been trying to avoid it for years.

I proudly recalled the story (a true story, mind you) in which I, the hero, received a free BlackBerry from Research In Motion at Comdex 2001, and subsequently sent it back with a polite note detailing everything that was wrong with it, and why I couldn’t possibly find a use for it.

Admittedly, back then (Jesus… that’s a legitimate “back then”), the BlackBerry was a glorified pager that couldn’t make or receive phone calls, and I couldn’t get a signal to save my life in South Lyon. But the point was, I was not one of those people.

Now, I suppose I am. Either I’m delusional about work, or I’m getting more e-mail that can’t-slash-shouldn’t wait until the next morning to be responded to or read. Not “I AM VERY IMPORTANT” so much as “I’d like to not be surprised tomorrow.”

And while I’ve been able to send and receive mail on my phone for longer than you have, there’s something about the BlackBerry that causes it to link with your brain and demand to be paid attention to.

The most fucked up thing, is that I got it knowing that the OS has needed overhauling for far too long. Knowing that all the new whiz-bang shit is iPhone-only. Knowing that my flagship 9700 is hardly much different from any other 8000 series or even the 9000, for that matter. It was another Old Man “I just want it to do blah, blah, blah” purchase.

Where have the years gone?

Best. Shoes. Ever.

If you’re not familiar with it, there’s a sensor that goes in your shoe, and a receiver that snaps on to your iPod. The iPod shows how far you’ve gone, how fast you’re going, how many calories you’re burning, and so on. While you’re walking or running, you get an occasional voiceover telling you similar information.

After about a half hour today, I decided my legs kind of hurt, and I was about done. Not a minute later, I get the voiceover… “One kilometer to go.” For you heathens who didn’t have to learn Metric and Imperial units in school, a kilometer is about… well… it isn’t very far. So I pushed further, because I didn’t want Ms. Nike to be ashamed of me. “One half kilometer to go.” Well, this is taking too long, so I’ll turn the speed up. A-ha! Motivation!

I got home, and let it sync with the Nike site. Yay, me. Faster than last time.

Fuck you, sporty whore who can run.

I’m actually working up to running. Right now, it’s more of a brisk walk that takes forever. But Nike has has convinced me that I need a wonderful array of things, conveniently located on their site that tracks all of my uploaded data. Like a wristband. And an armband. And a watch. And better shoes. And a new outfit. All of these things will make me a better runner, even though I’m not really a runner right now. I will be one, and I’ll finally understand the allure.

More importantly, I’ll look closer to the people my age at the gym. Right now, I tend to hang with the 60+ crowd, because most of them are walking pretty slow. So, I imagine I pass myself off in the “medical needs” section, rather than “Holy fuck, he’s huge” when I’m next to some 19 year-old pixie who has been running like a fucking gazelle 30 minutes prior to my arrival, and stays an hour later than I do. Not that I’m bitter about it. Realistically, I can’t be. She didn’t shove those pizzas down my throat.

Speaking of Born to Run, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band are playing this Friday. Had I known earlier, I might have wanted to go if there was an AmEx pre-sale. But I just checked and the whole floor is $92 General Admission, and anywhere else decent is like $103. Maybe if this was a farewell tour, but shit, that’s like a new pair of shoes and a Nike+ watch for two tickets. Sorry Bruce. I don’t think so.

Sounds very serious and almost scary, huh? I mean, that’s a resounding preface and answer for damn near everything lately.

Why can’t you give me extra Sweet & Sour sauce for my McNuggets? Oh, the economy you say? Dear me, I had better adjust my monocle so I can see the plight of my fellow man.

Seriously? You think he's figured out government secrets to free money?

Whether you’re looking for a reasonable price on a new television, or need to find yourself a job, people will tell you where to stick it, and if you ask why, they’ll say “The economy!”

That last run-on sentence? Periods are expensive, commas aren’t. It’s the economy, y’know…

Because I am a master of this internet, and will someday be as internet famous as some of the people on YouTube have been, I’ve seen a lot of ads targeting people who are impacted by the harsh and unforgiving mistress we call “The Economy.” And I’d like to share with you one very simple truth. This information is valuable. This information will save you money. Hard earned money, which, according to people who talk about being employed, is the only kind of money there is. Here it is:

Nobody wants to give you free money. Nobody.

I’ll blow my wad on periods here, to drive this point home: Nobody. Wants. To. Give. You. Money. For. Nothing. (insert lame “chicks for free” reference here)

This man's money is clearly hard-earned. Harder than anyone. Don't believe me? Check out the fucking hat.

So there’s the part of me that’s all “How in the name of all that is holy are people still falling for the Nigerian scam e-mails?” I’d think with the ever-watchful eye of Channel 7, even the oldest senior citizen with e-mail would be well aware that Uge Watumbe does not know a long lost millionaire relative you’ve never met. Yet, the scams still flow, because people still fall for them.

What’s more disturbing though, is the ridiculous online marketing I’m seeing now, which is really what prompted me to tug the old soapbox from the closet and bitch.

When you see a banner ad offering you something ridiculous — let’s say free money for your opinion, or a mortgage with $0 down at 2.5% interest, or $2,000 televisions for $199, it is almost certainly bullshit. Nobody gives a shit about your opinion, and they’re sure as fuck not going to pay you for it. This thing here? I pay for it. Sure, I should write it off on my taxes as a public service, but never the less, nobody is paying me for my opinion. Incidentally, my opinion is better than, and worth exponentially more money than yours.

Change you're a fucking retard to believe in.

Similarly incredible is the sheer number of ads online that profess that Obama has shooed in some magical law that is guaranteed to reduce your mortgage payment. But it’s a big secret, and the only way you’ll learn about it is by clicking on the seizure inducing flash ad on underground sites like CNN and The Weather Channel. Tip: If you’re 10 years in to your 30 year mortgage and you reamortize it, you’re going to pay less, unless you’re actually one of the dumbest people alive.

Similarly, there are ads professing “debt relief” (often of the guise that Dear Leader has bestowed this to his loyal subjects as well). The mysterious program? Fucking Bankruptcy. That’s the magic program.

Yes, it’s a federal program. Yes, it reduces your debts. It’s goddamn bankruptcy, for fuck’s sake! The only secret you’re unlocking is that you’re kind of a fuckup when it comes to your money, since declaring bankruptcy makes it public record. So when you see or hear about the program that lets you manage your debts if they’re over $5,000, think about the stupid fuckstick who is declaring bankruptcy over that kind of money.

Nobody is giving free money. Not wealthy marketers. Not people in charge of the estates of dead relatives in Africa (unless you actually have a dead relative in Africa who left you some money). Not Obama. Not the rest of the government. Stop clicking on the damn ads. Stop calling for more information when you hear them on the radio. As the wise philosopher Susan Powter once said: “Stop the insanity!”

Today, for instance, I picked up some five-gallon bottles of water from Kroger, and knowing full well that they aren’t U-Scannable, I went to a regular line.

First line: soccer mom with enough cereal and Lunchables to fill up a minivan. Next line: an unattended cart where someone forgot something. Last line: an older guy with a watermelon.

Naturally, I picked the last line. The guy was buying a watermelon. Worst case, the guy wants to whip out a coin purse and start counting, right?

This motherfucker actually pulled out a check. Instinctively annoyed, I started to think that maybe he just doesn’t go out much and usually pays in cash. Or maybe he has a strange accounting system going where food is paid for with checks. In any case, he certainly has a check card so the cashier doesn’t have to do a background check, right? Right?

Of course not. And in the midst of contemplating the value of asking someone “Is this your phone number?” (like a criminal is going to say “oh, no, that’s totally bogus”) I realized that the man wasn’t someone who was a financial luddite. He was a hostile prick. He knew exactly what he was doing, and the beauty of it: how can you bitch at someone legitimately paying for something?

The News is something that happens on Channel 7. Channel 4 is sensationalist bullshit, and watching the news on Channel 2 at 10:00 makes me feel like I’m watching news for old people. Old people who are not edgy enough to stay up ’til 11:30, and will miss out on anything that happens later than 11:00.

Sunday is like the catchall for soft news. Even their Sunday weather guy seems like he doesn’t really believe what he’s talking about. I certainly don’t believe him. He’s no Hodak, you know. “The Chief”, Diana calls them. I am on a first name basis with her. With the whole team. There’s investment here, damn it.

They’ve got this lady, JoAnne Purtan. She may be Dick Purtan’s wife. Or daughter. That’s the only plausible answer for her being on TV, let alone “The News”. I would probably shit myself in disbelief if someone could prove that she’s ever done anything other than provide ditzy narration over some meaningless AP story over stock footage from 1989. (Note: after writing this, I decided to look at her bio, and learned that she is, in fact, Dick’s daughter. That explains everything.)

Sunday is like her featured day. But not today.

Today, there was a big INTERNET ALERT, which on Channel 7 usually means that somebody forwarded JoAnne a virus alert from Bill Gates and Jared from Subway, or that she just stumbled over Friendster and wants to warn you about your teenage daughters becoming stupid and throwing caution to the wind as they fly off to Florida to suck off middle aged car salesmen.

But today was different. There was no JoAnne on this one. In fact, they put Steve Clark in the driver’s seat on this one. So, I paid attention. Despite his cheesy and sometimes painful segues, I am willing to believe what he says.

Steve wanted to tell me… well… us… about two ten year-old twins. Ariel and Zoey, from Ann Arbor. They sing, and in his words, if you look up “cute” in the dictionary, you will find them. More precisely, Steve fired up the Dictionary app on his Mac and they ran with a graphic of it with the two girls Photoshopped on it.

As a slight aside here, nobody at Channel 7 understands that DVR’s exist. That, or I’m the only person who thinks it’s funny to look at things they’re not supposed to show on TV. A while back, it was the full contact info for someone who won a drawing. Today, it was the actual definition of “cute” in Mac OS, which says “informal: sexually attractive.” Look it up on a Mac, nonbelievers.

Apparently, they’re well known for singing covers of Muppet songs. If you ask me, they’re Detroit Famous (more on that later), but I’m just speculating.

Well, someone sent them a horrible, scary, and perverse e-mail! THIS COULD HAPPEN TO YOUR CHILDREN! There were threats! Well, sort of. CLEARLY, THIS PERSON IS DISTURBED!

Skipping back a bit, here’s how they sold it on the bumper. Words on the screen in huge letters are bolded for your convenience:

Two young twins targeted by cyberstalkers. An e-mail too frightening to ignore. Too disturbing to reveal! The biggest shock? Who wrote it! Steven Clark shows you what you need to to to keep your kids safe online!

The bumper, by the way, had scary Nightmare on Elm Street type music, with random bits of text scrolling outside a purple window with lightning. I’m not even sort of making this up, and I am stone cold sober.

Back to the story… Their dad is completely blown away by the e-mail. His family has been “terrorized”, he says. Every douchey “INTERWEB SCARY!” sentiment was out there on the table, while he sits on the couch with his surprisingly attractive wife who looks somewhat frightened, either by this man’s lunacy, or by the terrifying e-mail.

Oh, and back to the e-mail that’s “too disturbing to reveal”. Well, Channel 7 revealed it, superimposed on the twins’ web site. And here’s your money shot:

Name: Sam and Hailey

Email: horsecraZe301@aol.com

Comments: Hey ariel and zoey!!! We love you so much and saw you at tamarack and it changed our lives!! Everywhere we go we always try to fund the rainbow connection. I’m 35 years old and I listen to your inspiring music every day. My mom can hear it from the next room and tells me to turn it down or I won’t be able to live with her anymore. So I turn it down and turn on Kitten Sex Noises. which is her absolute favorite. You should do a song of sex noises!!! Lol then my mommy and I could listen and Enjoy together! I dropped out of college to pursue my lives dream of living on the moon and in the sea will you join me? You do not have to bring any clothes. I have that covered. wink wink. I have the lyrics
to Massachusetts embroidered on a quilt and I sleep with it every night. And I never ever wash it because then the magic will wear off. You should get a twitter so I can follow you every second of every day. Not like I don’t already but sometimes your windows are tinted and they’re hard to see through.
I LOVE YOU! ! ! I visit you website every 3.5 hours for updates. I look at your pictures and imagine you wearing whipped cream and jello then I pretend to lick it off but mother yells at me for having fantacisms. can I borrow your hair just for a day?? I just want the smell. You can just leave it on your doorstep. when I think of you I get a special feeling in my pelvis. Then I faff to get it away. I pretend that in my dreams I’m riding a pegasus in mid evil times and your the pegasus. I wanna rip off your skin and wear it to my birthday party. I want to bottle your sweat and wear it as perfume. I wanna photo shop my face into all your pictures so everyone can see how we are best friends. I love you.

I’m at your door. Come and get it.
Xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxxoxoxo
Xoxoxoxoxoxxoxoxoxoxoxoxxoxoxoxox
Xoxoxoxoxoxoxxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxxox

First thing that popped in to my head: “That’s kind of funny.”
Next: “I wonder which forums the person who wrote this came from. Seems Farkish to me. Not nearly sophisticated enough for Something Awful, and too few non sequiturs for YTMND.”
Then: “What an incredible douche their dad is.”
Finally: “Holy fuck, this is the worst story I’ve ever seen them dedicate this much time to.”

As it turns out, Daddy knows someone at the FBI, who tracked the fucking message down. If I become this dense when I’m in my 40′s, just kill me. And if I have an even more dense friend who will do my bidding, kill us both. (Note to self: This guy almost certainly Googles himself, and will probably take this as a legitimate threat / suicide note. Fuck. I’ve got a bet with myself on this, so let’s roll the dice with keywords: Hi, Matt Engelbert from Ann Arbor, Michigan.)

Well, The Feds found that the message came from two teenage girls in West Bloomfield, who they probably scared the ever loving piss out of, with Special Agent Dickweed busting in to their English class demanding answers.

While I don’t advocate sending messages like that to 10 year-olds, I super don’t advocate flipping out about it. Or calling the fucking news.

And now, Steve Clark’s earlier-promised advice for protecting your children: “…”

Not even a “You should watch what your kids are doing online.” He did, however, mention that Daddy wants the Legislature to come up with a law to prosecute people who send e-mail like this. Again, I’m not making this up.

What has this world come to?

I guess the track Minimum Wage is a little telling in itself. I associate it with $4.25/hour, and now it’s… uh… $7 something? I don’t know, but it seems perfectly reasonable to me now, because I don’t make minimum wage and therefore can not relate. And here’s that circle again, showing that I’m just old and out of touch, and I can’t possibly understand what kids today are going through. (Although I’m told it has something to do with those fuckwits Heidi and Spencer who are on some MTV show that’s staged, but not staged, but totally staged.)

Christopher Walken and Grace Jones. Seriously. I dare you to deny the awesomeness of this movie now.

So right now, I’m watching A View to a Kill, which is the only James Bond movie I’ve ever liked. And again, this has everything to do with me becoming a senior citizen sometime over the past year.

For my money, Roger Moore is the only legitimate James Bond, because I’m too young to feel strongly about Sean Connery having played the role before. And while I realize that makes me “too young” for something, he’s like 90 years old now, so there’s not a whole lot of comfort in that.

I think it may be a combination of the soundtrack by Duran Duran, or the fact that this is an extravaganza of innuendo and foreign lady nipple to a 10 year-old. Regardless, it makes me kind of sad that there hasn’t been anything similar to hit my radar. And one thing’s for damn sure… they don’t make movies like this anymore.

Just a side note here… I actually own the soundtrack, which tries to convince you that it’s basically a Duran Duran album. In reality, there’s the theme song “A View to a Kill”, which is by Duran Duran. Followed by things like “Romance Theme from A View to a Kill”, “A View to a Kill – Reprise”, “The Blimp Incident (A View to a Kill)”, which are not. When you’re 9 or 10 and have been saving up allowance to buy this album, this fucking sucks.

God damn kids today can just download it for free…