I'm In Love With This Malicious Intent

My new two favorite websites lately: Defamer and Gawker. Both are well worth five-minute visits on a daily basis. The authors of both sites are young twenty-somethings: hip, hilarious, dramatically sarcastic, mocking and most importantly - talented. There's no better place to find up-to-the-minute gossip about trainwrecks and laughingstocks like Lindsey Lohan, Tom Cruise or Christian Slater, all whom have recently bore the brunt of the razor-sharp Gawker pen. In particular, Gawker's coverage of the now offically insane Tom Cruise has had me laughing out loud over the past week.

Anyway, the two sites are basically sister sites - same idea, different coasts. Gawker fights out of the red corner, representing New York City and Defamer fights out of the blue corner, representing the ever-so-self-important Los Angeles. I don't know much about either of the authors, except that a female named Jessica Coen actually writes Gawker, which I would have never guessed. Knowing that fact, for some reason, makes me blush when I read some of the rather saucy commentary. I believe there's also a gay guest writer who pens a semi-weekly piece called "The Gawker Stalker," which details celebrity sightings around town - always an enjoyable read for its biting commentary.

The reason I point this out is not just because people flock to these sites, which they do. There is a gentleman roaming the streets by the name of Nick Denton who may or may not be building himself a blog empire called Gawker Media. Basically his idea is to centralize several blogs, two of which are the aforementioned Gawker and Defamer, sell advertising around the blog content, and try to make a living being, essentially, the world's first media company powered strictly by blogs. As I understand it, the writers are all compensated, provided they post enough content on a daily basis. I can't imagine these folks are rich. However, it's a neat idea and it appears to be working, if only on a small scale for now.

Mr. Denton's been featured in the New York Times and other major publications and has been labeled a pioneer, although he'll flatly deny it each time. This whole thing is just another example of how fast our world is changing and how media continues its march toward something completely different. While the Gawker's and Defamer's of the world aren't exactly news, it's not hard to envision a time when someone will be the Nick Denton of serious news. Arianna Huffington is currently trying to be that "someone" but in my eyes, it's just not working out. Her attempt at online media involves one single site where seemingly hundreds of people, some well-known, write about their feelings. While largely centered on politics and current events, the whole thing seems too overwhelming and self-important, despite the occasional well-written diatribe here and there. The problem is you really have to work to unearth the gems and who has time to do that?

Regardless, as with all other things internet, these kind of things really fascinate me. Gawker Media isn't just Gawker and Defamer, either, by the way. The excellent Gizmodo provides insights and reviews of the seemingly trillions of electronic gadgets (PDA's, cell phones, etc) that are being released on a weekly basis. Perhaps the most famous of Gawker's writers today is Wonkette, who operates out of Washington DC and specializes in skewering both political parties and the people who run our country. As you might imagine, lots of easy targets there! All in all, I think the Gawker Media collective have about 13 or 14 different sites/blogs, so it seems there's something in there for everyone. Rock on, Beavis. 

I'm Looking Through You, You're Not The Same II

While the transition into contact lenses has been far less laborious and/or gross then originally anticipated, the road to true eyeball happiness is littered with the inevitable speedbump. I mean, the eye still instinctually blinks now and then when you try to stick something in it, OK? Saturday afternoon, as Stephanie and I headed out to a cookout, I showered and popped in the contact for my right eye, then moved to the left side. Tragedy ensued. I missed on the first attempt and couldn't seem to find the lens. After a detailed examination of the floor, the sink, and everything surrounding the area where the attempt was made, I gave it up. A dead soldier, if you will.

Ten minutes later, resigned to the fact that I'd have to call the eye doctor on Monday, I felt a twinge in my eye in the car on the way to the cookout - and right then and there it became obvious to me that it was in there.....somewhere. My worst fears about contact lenses were realized - the thing was stuck somewhere in my orb. We stopped off at Steph's cousin's house in Dorchester, my first true attempt at an expedition to find the lens. No luck. I couldn't see it anywhere, but yet it still felt like something was in my eye. Even closely exploring the general area of the eye's irritation brought no closure. Onward to the cookout.

Two trips to the bathroom proved fruitless. I was beginning to think that maybe I did lose the contact and I just had something in my eye, but the theory just didn't make sense. It had now been close to six hours feeling like something was in my eye. Long story short - eight long hours later, made much easier, I might add, by some phenomenal pulled pork and a stop at Erikson's Ice Cream, I finally found the damn thing after we got back home. It took a lot of light and lifting my eyelid about as far up and far out as humanly possible, but I saw it, lodged up - WAY up - at the top of my eye. Folded in half.

Eager to get right back on the train and willing myself undaunted, they went right back in my eyes yesterday. Uneventfully, I might add.

It was in that same bathroom where the lens drama occured that I share another weekend story. Saturday evening, just before going to bed, I flushed the toilet and looked in utter horror as water started shooting straight out the right side of the tank (not the bowl, thank god). As with all things related to the toilet, my first instinct was simply to run. It takes only a matter of seconds to realize that isn't the best choice, really, but it is the option I really wanted to pursue. Knowing I couldn't do that, I lifted the cover off the tank and found that the culprit was some kind of straw looking thing spewing water that was going nowhere except for my bathroom floor. I was pretty sure I know where the straw-like device should be, but I elected not to experiment, for I believe the thing you should never experiment with is a toilet. That can only lead to true devastation.

When the flushing process was finished, the spew stopped. I cleaned up the floor and was happy to discover it wasn't flooded or anything, just some minor water which resulted in two pretty damp towels. I went to bed.

Next morning I got up and immeadiately hit the fabulous How Stuff Works website, where my premonition proved to be correct - the straw thingy was to be pointed into something called "the overflow tube." Easy fix, really, but anytime I can associate the word "I" and "fixed" in the same sentence, it is reason for a momentous celebration. With cake.

That said, I encourage you all to get to know your toilet. It's probably one of the most important things to know in your house. 

It Hurts, It's Cruel, But It Feels Real Good

Wednesday night found your devoted robot servant driving all over the state in search of fun. First it was a trip to the Geek Boutique, Maynard's mom-and-pop computer store, staffed by friendly, knowledgeable guys and gals. I always try to support the local businesses, so I relied on them to help me pick out a suitable wireless router. After all, it's extremely important that I be able to surf the web anywhere in the house. I mean, if I need to find out some information about Uganda, I shouldn't have to take the five minutes to walk upstairs and turn on the computer, right? Right. I need to know that the population of Uganda is 26,404,543 immeadiately!

After work, it was over to Marlborough, Mass for an 8:30 hockey game, where I play in a men's league. I don't need to say much more than a few words about this one: we sucked eggs. It was our first loss of the season and I pretty much played one of the worst games in a while.

However, any remnant bitterness about my level of suckage in a hockey game was quickly dashed away by a drive afterward to Cambridge, MA, where Sloan took the stage at about 11:30pm and proceeded to deliver, yet again, their unmatched and devastatingly catchy rock and roll, into the early hours of Thursday morning.

The thing about Sloan is this: if you see that band and you leave the club not smiling and feeling thoroughly rocked, then you've got deeper problems that need to be addressed professionally. They have incredible charisma, unstoppable songs and their versatility is admirable - look no further than the fact that all four of them write and sing songs. At one point, the lead singer moves to drums, the guitarist takes up the bass and drummer moves up to sing lead.

And if you don't believe the charisma thing, check this out (although I don't recommend this - easy way to catch a cold):



Say no more.

By the way, word hit the news wires this morning that the arranged marriage between Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes is on. When asked how she felt about being engaged to the man whose posters graced her bedroom walls as a teenager, Holmes smiled with half her face, like she always does, and remarked "I'm not really sure, we've never spoken. Oh wait. No. Yes, they told me that I am very happy! Yes. I'm psyched."

At that point, her Scientology coach punched her. 

I Turn My Camera On

I finally managed to re-size, crop and put together a photo slideshow of the recent visit from Sloan, who, may I remind you, are one of our world's finest live bands. I still don't think the pictures do much justice of the live experience. You simply have to be there to appreciate the effort these guys put in. Someone else was there shooting pictures, too, and some of those make me look like a six-year old amatuer with a camera.

Also grabbed this MVP Baseball screenshot from over the weekend - Dennis Tankersly gets beaned in the head by a line drive off the bat of Kevin Mench. First time I've seen that in this game - the ball ricochet's right off the pitcher head.

 

I Turn My Camera On II

OK, time to play "guess the picture." Go ahead and guess. If you get it right, you'll win nothing except for marginal admiration. Have fun.

 

My Own Sweat Smells The Best

Today is Ray Davies 61st birthday. I've told many people who will listen (and that number is ever-dwindling) that I believe Ray Davies is without question the most underrated songwriter of all time and that I will match his pre-1975 songwriting talents up, song-for-song, against anyone, anywhere, anytime.

Davies ability to shine lyrical light on both the drudgery of the everyday human existence and the struggles with class lines in post-war England are simply unmatched. While the late-era Kinks music was more geared towards the arenas, much, if not all, of their work pre-mid 1970s was a stunning, unstoppable force.

So, gunshot wound and all, happy birthday to the guy who sings for my favorite band ever (probably) and penned many of my favorite songs (definitely).

’cause he gets up in the morning,
And he goes to work at nine,
And he comes back home at five-thirty,
Gets the same train every time.
’cause his world is built ’round punctuality,
It never fails.

And he’s oh, so good,
And he’s oh, so fine,
And he’s oh, so healthy,
In his body and his mind.
He’s a well respected man about town,
Doing the best things so conservatively.

And his mother goes to meetings,
While his father pulls the maid,
And she stirs the tea with councilors,
While discussing foreign trade,
And she passes looks, as well as bills
At every suave young man

’cause he’s oh, so good,
And he’s oh, so fine,
And he’s oh, so healthy,
In his body and his mind.
He’s a well respected man about town,
Doing the best things so conservatively.

And he likes his own backyard,
And he likes his fags the best,
’cause he’s better than the rest,
And his own sweat smells the best,
And he hopes to grab his father’s loot,
When pater passes on.

’cause he’s oh, so good,
And he’s oh, so fine,
And he’s oh, so healthy,
In his body and his mind.
He’s a well respected man about town,
Doing the best things so conservatively.

And he plays at stocks and shares,
And he goes to the regatta,
And he adores the girl next door,
’cause he’s dying to get at her,
But his mother knows the best about
The matrimonial stakes.

’cause he’s oh, so good,
And he’s oh, so fine,
And he’s oh, so healthy,
In his body and his mind.
He’s a well respected man about town,
Doing the best things so conservatively. 

The Olsen Twins Are 19 Today

Quick poll:

a) After getting a haircut, do you tend to race home and take a shower to prevent the little discarded hairs from making your neck itch like crazy?

b) upon buying a shirt, do you immeadiately try to rip the permanent tag off with your hands or, as a more patient person would do, calmly remove the tag using scissors or a similar instrument? I'm not talking about the price tags, I mean the tag that's sewn into the shirt, most often located on the back of the neck. Either way - the question is the same. Do tags from shirts irritate the back of your neck?

Or is it just me? I've put several holes into t-shirts by attempting to rip them off with my hands.

I've known from watching interviews with Tom Cruise over the past couple of years that the crazy-meter was starting to get near the red. Upon watching a repeat of the MTV Movie Awards last night, though, we can welcome a new addition. Katie Holmes introduced Tom Cruise and presented him with some kind of lifetime bullshit award and as she was introducing him, she did some kind of mystifying body contortion. It was one part yoga, one part ballet and ten parts insane. She's now gone from cute teen star to riding sidecar on the motorcycle to cuckoo-land. Sad.

However, Rachel McAdams is my new celeb crush! 

Roll Up For The Mystery Tour

In yesterday's Boston Globe, an article appeared about a soldier in his 20's from here in Maynard, Mass. who died on the battlefield. We've been hearing more and more of these stories lately as the war in Iraq inches toward its third year, fighting for headlines with Michael Jackson, the murder of the day or, uh, blogging. Yep, life in America continues to be an odd mix of the bizarro and the mysterious, yet it shouldn't be taken for granted. It's not the 24-hour-fast-food-all-you-can-eat news channels or the now countless amounts of completely brainless reality television shows (Hi, Britney).

What keeps me interested are the stories of the everyday people who inhabit our country - past and present. The soldier in the article yesterday was a part of the first unit that went ashore at Normandy, France 61 years ago yesterday. The family lived over on Florida Rd., less than a half a mile away from the house where Stephanie & I now call home. In driving by it yesterday, 2 Florida Road looks to be a multi-family unit that's undoubtedly been renovated since those days, but the original walls and wires are probably all still there. Multiple generations have since passed through it and each inhabitant has stared at the same walls & ceilings, dreamed their own dreams and suffered through their own heartbreak, albeit probably not as devastating as the day in 1944 when word came back to the mother at 2 Florida Rd. that her son was gone. The soldier's sister, quoted in the article, speaking of her mother after the news:

"You could not even mention his name, ever, or she would break into sobs. She had loved to dance, but after Vincent died she never danced. And, you know, we did not have a Christmas tree again."

That sentence really rings, doens't it? So while one generation dealt with the ultimate heartbreak, the next inhabitants of the house may have been realizing their dreams. Maybe it was their first house? Maybe they were just passing through and renting for a year? Regardless, they all flipped the same wall switches and all had their own stories to tell - their own cherished memories, documented through keepsakes and pictures on the mantle. That's America.

It was late autumn of last year when Stephanie & I were in the throes of a kitchen renovation, perfecting our own dreams, I suppose, when we found the book pictured above. The plumber needed to get into our attic to run a vent up through the roof and when he came back down, he held "The Love Book" in his hand. Being fully Americanized, I immeadiately thought it was some kind of anitique porn that might fetch many dollars on EBay or something. In opening its extremely brittle pages, however, I discovered it was merely a set of short love stories with a military slant (i.e., absent husbands returning from service, etc). The monthly issues were clearly targeted towards women whose husbands were off serving in the war. It made me wonder again about the lives of the previous owners of this house. Did they have a son or husband in the war?

The ads are quite fascinating, too. Of course, there were several encouragements to buy war bonds, but there were also ads for picture framing services "for your young soldier" and things like that. More curiously, there seem to be an extraordinary amount of medical ads, particiularly for skin conditions like eczema and psoriasis. We can only wonder.....

Anyway, the plumber said there's a whole stack of them up there in the attic, in good condition. I haven't made the climb to fetch them yet and I'm not terribly anxious to do so. It does leave me wondering what else is up there, but I'll get to that enventually. While we continue to renovate the house to make it "ours" and bring it up to date, I take great pride in leaving parts of its past intact. I've kept a series of old coffee cans in the basement, each lined up perfectly on a shelf and filled with different size screws, nails, odds, ends and small tools. Each can is painted beige and has written labels of what's contained in them. It's both practical and romantic. Newspapers from the 1930's fill some of the space in the basement where insulation should be. Those are staying.

I'm starting to ramble now, but I think my point is this: there is nothing more sad or beautiful than generations changing hands. We are here, we laugh, we cry, we love and then we move on and we pass the baton to the next set, who do exactly the same. That's the way it's been forever. The faces keep changing and the world keeps changing, but in the end we're all made up of tissue and nerves, seeking trust, information and comfort from those who came before us and hoping we can do the same for those who come after us.

I hope that soldier's family remembered yesterday. 

Short On Tact In Long Island

Yesterday was one of those surreal business travel days where you end up in a haze of travel by late afternoon - planes, trains and automobiles, indeed. One specific event, however, capped it off.

My morning alarm went off at home at 5am, and out the door I went to catch a 7am flight to LaGuardia. Upon arriving at the airport, I discovered that my flight had been cancelled. After traveling so much for so many years for work, I seem to actually be getting used to cancelled flights these days. Mildly fearing I'd miss an important meeting, I was faced with making a quick decision: go to Avis immeadiately and just a rent a car and get down there, or wait in a long line to see what transpired. I elected to roll the dice and wait my turn in line to see if I had a shot. Good choice. I ended up on an 8:00am flight, no real problems. It was also a gorgeous day to be flying - nothing but sun.

From LaGuardia, it was an uneventful ride to Penn Station, where I met up with a co-worker and we hopped a train to Long Island. Again, uneventful. However, the next stretch of roughly ten minutes proved to be the centerpiece of the day, and not for any good reason. We stepped off the train and headed over to a cab stand, where they actually make you share a cab with others. Initially I was mildly agitated by this, as we just wanted to get to the place we were going. However, upon thinking about it I concluded this was acceptable, in an age when conserving gas and energy is going to become essential sooner than most think it will.

Joining us on the cab ride was an older woman, who sat in the front and a Middle Eastern woman, who sat with us in the back. So far, so good. We all cited our destinations and off we went. The Middle Eastern woman got on her cell phone and was speaking in a foreign language - most likely calling someone to let them know she was en route. After about a minute, the cab driver half-turns and actually says "Hey, shut up. I hate that foreign crap."

Did you just pause? We certainly did. Both my co-worker and I looked at each other in amazement, mentally asking each other "did we really just hear that?" We did. As if that weren't incredible enough, another minute went by and the cab driver blurted out in a very frustrating tone: "We've got a camel in the back seat there."

We just couldn't believe what we were hearing. It was just pure hatred and ignorance from someone in a very public seat. I was hoping and praying that the woman was paying too much attention to the person on the other end of her cell phone to hear this sad excuse for a human, but I'll never know. We arrived at our destination, where, I might add, I paid this sad sack the exact fare and not a cent more. I was actually preparing in my mind what I wanted to say to him, but in the end quietly stalked off, not saying a word. In retrospect, I really regret not saying anything. I wanted that woman to know that most of us are compassionate, accepting people. I now fear that maybe she thought we just didn't care. We did. Very much.

However, as we got out, she just continued talking on her cell phone, so I am going to try and believe with all my heart she didn't hear a word the guy said. Look, I'm no fool. Sadly, these people exist and they walk among us every day, that's just the way it is. I wish they could comprehend how sad their existence is and how hurtful a few sentences can be. I suppose they're entitled to think and feel what they want, that's their right. But to vocalize it like that? Just stunning. And so, so sad. Not to mention dumb.

Anyway, after our meeting, it was back in a cab to LaGuardia, back on the plane to Boston, back in my car and home by 6:30, with a nice traffic jam on the Mass Pike to top it all off. I really should just open an ice cream stand.

 

The Sun's Not Yellow, It's Chicken

Some interesting reading here about China's energy use. It's a short article, so don't cop out. Read it, and when you do, keep in the back of your mind that China is the world's fastest growing economy and that their energy use is projected to increase by 10x its current amount, largely driven by one of the worst agents of pollution, coal. They don't necessarily want to use coal, they just have to for now. They want large-scale energy alternatives, though. That's right - the driving reason they're using coal is that they simply cannot afford anything else. Sad.

I swear this is not turning into an energy blog (really, I promise), but you might also be interested to read about how our current politicans are purposefully downplaying reports of the effects of carbon on our enviroment or how Exxon has played a role in influencing U.S. decision-making on the Kyoto Treaty.

And about that pesky Kyoto Treaty: for now, I'm actually finding myself marginally supporting Bush on his decision about Kyoto - Paul Roberts' book devotes and entire chapter to this - and the details of the treaty, while unquestionably packed with good intentions, do seem to support the theory that the treaty, as is, could seriously harm the U.S. economy in ways you probably can't imagine. Do I think Bush is influenced by the oil companies? You bet I do. That the administration is actually trying to dispute scientific fact about the consequences of carbon is puzzling, to put it mildly.

So their solution is to open up the Alaskan Reserves and drill for more oil? This solution would actually make sense and I would support it if it were going to move the needle in terms of seriously decreasing our need for foreign oil. But even if we squeeze every drop possible out of Alaska, our dependance on foreign oil is still projected to rise and don't let anyone tell you differently. Production of oil from our own sands is going nowhere but down, Alaska or no Alaska.

OK, off my soapbox. I only wanted to write one paragraph about energy for today and look what happened. What else is up? There seem to be an abundance of really good albums being released lately. Of all the things I've been digging lately, I'm sure most of the people who know me would not guess that I've been all over the new Aimee Mann album, The Forgotten Arm. To say that I disliked most of her past work would be glossing it over. But there's something about this one that I've taken quite a liking to. I can't explain it.

I might have already mentioned Gimme Fiction here before, but Spoon's new album is really doing it for me. Ever since the disbanding of Pavement, I've been looking for a band to hang my indie rock hat on and this is the closest I've come. It could be on the verge of borderline obsessive soon. These guys are a great band. Their new single "I Turn My Camera On" would make the "Miss You" era Mick Jagger blush with envy.

You will find it very difficult to convince me that Scotland's Teenage Fanclub wasn't one of the top 3 bands of the 1990s. Their new album, Man-Made was just released and while it doesn't approach the rock peaks they hit back then, it's still a supremely crafted set of pop songs, just a little more wimpy. Wimpy is ok in the right setting, though, and this album is well worth having if you like the band. Bonus: they'll be making the rounds in the U.S. for the first time in a while this summer. Can you say "I'm not missing A THING for that?"

I had also resigned myself to the fact that I would pretty much hate everything Ryan Adams ever did again. Heartbreaker was such a great album, but when he followed it up with Gold, I threw up. Hard. Everything since then has been, to me, like jumping into a pool of rubbing alcohol with cuts all over my body. Cold Roses, however, has turned my head. A little. Lots of critics are comparing this to the Grateful Dead's peak era (Workingman's Dead, American Beauty, etc). While I can't agree with that just yet, the output on Cold Roses is encouraging. Now let's watch him ruin it as he releases like 86 more albums this year. Ick.

Recently podded:
Spoon: Jonathon Fisk
Dramarama: Memo From Turner
Uncle Tupelo: I Wanna Be Your Dog
Linda Thompson: Dear Mary
Bob Dylan: It Takes A Lot To Laugh....
Nick Lowe: American Squirm
Jimi Hendrix: Hey Joe
Sir Douglas Quintet: Texas Me
The Marathons: Peanut Butter
The Soft Boys: Kingdom Of Love
Johnny Cash: I've Been Everywhere 

When I Was Young, I Never Needed Anyone....

Inspired by a post on Ken Norton's Blog, here are some things I would have written about had blogging been around in college (1989-1994):

- Rage Against The Machine is so overrated.
- Why I have to hear "Brown Eyed Girl" every time I go to a bar.
- Why only 800-1000 people show up to a Div. 1 hockey game at Kent.
- All the free Ben & Jerry's ice cream I'm getting from working in the student center on the 10pm-3am shift.
- Saw Pearl Jam at Peabody's Down Under with like 100 other people just before "Ten" broke huge. Incredibly intense show.
- Leaving the Helmet/Faith No More show without a shirt. In February.
- How my law teacher looks exactly like Seinfeld.
- The ubiquitous character called "Fuck You Bob." He's this guy with Tourette's Syndrome who wanders around Kent, Ohio at all hours and no matter what you say to him (for instance, "Hello Bob"), his response was to show you his middle finger and shout "Fuck you!" very loud. I don't make this stuff up. I never utter a word to him, but plenty of others do.
- Why can't the Bruins ever beat the Penguins?
- How did I ever manage to get a luxury box with free beer & food for the U2 show at Cleveland? (first leg of the Achtung Baby tour)
- Working in a supermarket has its advantages. For instance, if anything is damaged, it could be eaten. There are lots of "accidents."
- Why I always choose Ministry's "Stigmata" on the jukebox at Ray's Bar. Answer: the live version is about 15 minutes long.

Recent pod tracks:
Preston School of Industry - "The Furnace Sun"
Three Dog Night - "Shambala"
Bruce Springsteen - "Where The Bands Are"
Foo Fighters - "I'll Stick Around"
The Clash - "Wrong 'Em Boyo"
Apples In Stereo - "Tin Pan Alley"
G.L. Crockett - "Look Out Mabel" (from the fabulous Chess Recordings set)
Bare Jr. - "You Blew Me Off"
Screaming Trees - "All I Know"
Merle Haggard - "Workin' Man Blues"
Vulgar Boatmen - "In A Minute"
Centro-Matic - "Calling Up The Bastards" 

You Radiate Cold Shafts Of Broken Glass

So, word comes out of the jolly U.K. that Pink Floyd will be reuniting for the big Live8 concert being held this summer. It's not a true reunion, for Syd Barrett remains in the womb-like place where Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes are on their way to (start the arm flailing and cue the crazy-bird cackles). Nonetheless, it's as close as we'll get, and that lineup did put out some great stuff. None greater in my eyes than 1977's Animals, their darkest, most bitter piece of work. Naturally, it's not only my favorite Pink Floyd album, but one of my favorite 1970's releases. A five song concept album in which our fellow man is reduced to a type of animal (pigs, sheep, dogs), the lyrics are biting and the music is murky, all making for an interesting and captivating listen. The middle three songs each run more than ten minutes (give or take) and the two bookend songs are each less than two minutes.

A desert-islander? It probably just misses the cut. But it is by far their most underrated piece of work and has stood the test of time for me - through high school, through a heavy bout of Animals-obsession during college (including a specific recollection involving a girl, too much beer, a single bed and cigarette breath - and it's not what you're thinking, pervs) and then a renaissance period over the past couple of years.

Now, if I were to be the one who dictated the set list for the Live8 reunion this summer, it's a pretty simple call - I'd just write down the five songs that appear on Animals and let them go for it. It would be such a gutsy move and it would certainly satisfy a lot of their fans. Alas, I think we all know where this is headed - Wish You Were Here, Another Brick In The Wall, blah blah blah. The shit you can hear every day by tuning into your classic rock station. Ah, well.....a kid can dream, can't he?