Rovepocalypse Now.

I tend to take following/friending folks on Twitter a little more seriously and selectively than I do on Facebook (where, like, anyone I could have ever possibly met allowed in to be privy to tasty, juicy, personal fact-gossip like...how I dreamed of Indigo Girls songs last night. What, you got a problem with "Least Complicated"?) or Livejournal (on which the migration away from, like birds from...something that birds migrate away from rapidly, and demise of, I fully intend on writing about at some point). Mostly that's because with every social network I invest myself in I tend to censor myself a little less, to the point where I can pretty much assure everyone that whatever comes three steps after Twitter will find me basically screaming drunken obscenities about how fucking awful The Catcher In The Rye is and how Salinger can bite me, yes, bite me, if he genuinely thinks that I couldn't capture the essence of teenage angst better than he and that, in fact, his fucking face is the fucking problem, is what it is.

So that's why when Jill told me that the Dark Lord of the Bush administration himself, Karl Rove, has a Twitter account that basically seems pretty much authentic, I had to add him.

This has nothing to do with the fact that I will add any celebrity who maintains their own Twitter feed (see: the brilliant, zen-koan awesome nuggets, which are like McNuggets only with more real meat, that are Shaquille O'Neal's Twitter updates).Or maybe it does. Or maybe I'm just a fan of Rove's now-legendary rap skills (which, debatably, just may surpass Shaq's. Don't tell Shaq I said that).

Also, like many sick, twisted, masochistic Americans, I've been morbidly obsessed with the inner workings of the Bush administration for quite some time now.

(Before I go off on the evils of Bu$h,a brief detour into little-known facts about me , volume XIVVV: I was raised a flag-waving, card-carrying Rush Limbaugh fanatic, and actually called into his show several times to applaud his use of the word "feminazi" and his detraction of the damn "bleeding heart liberals". I was like ten, I had no idea what he was saying and was basically mouthing "mega-dittos" phonetically because it made my Grandfather proud. I can't decide which is worse, that period in my life or the time I was a Parrothead.)

Upon being pointed to Rove's Tweets, which sounds like the worst and most-poisoned-ever-with-the-blood-of-trees candy shoppe ever to exist, I immediately posted a little something and began following Rove. The next morning, I had a flock, a gaggle, a bevvy, a what-do-you-call-a-massive-grouping-of Conservative Twitter Pundits who had suddenly added me. I could understand that, and can now even more after spending the day yesterday watching Fox News' snarky, jilted-lover coverage of the inauguration of President Obama (damn that feels good to type). Sample quip: "we're hoping to get a cameraman over to that route soon. Since hope is all that's required these days."

What I don't understand is what I woke up to this morning, in my gmail inbox:

OH. MY. GOD. Like Rockwell said, somebody's watching me. And that somebody is Karl Effing Rove.

A sure sign of the apocalypse, or just an indication that, um...crap, I really don't know. I can assure you that if, as of this moment, I fall off the face of the earth, Rove, having begun his plan to monitor my every move so as to re-indoctrinate me into the First Church Of Latter-Day Limbaugh (my thoughts: the term "feminazi"? No thanks, especially not with my minor in gender theory. The painkillers? YES PLEASE!) will tie me up in a secret lair somewhere underneath a waterfall and force me to listen to those god-awful offensive song parodies from Rush's program, or Klaus Nomi, ohwaitsamething, so watch the skies: if I get in trouble I'll shine the Rachel Maddow symbol in the air.

There really should be a Maddow hand-signal, akin to Jay-Z's "Rock-a-fella" sign, so that one could, feasibly, "throw they Maddows in tha sky". And then Rachel Maddow can best MC Rove in a rap-battle and finally put out an album with Jean Grae and then they'll tour as Maddow-Grae and then...and then...and then...

Whoops. I think I just wrote Politi-Hop fan-fiction.

Let me also note that, in a tweet-vs-tweet contest, Maddow wins hands-down. Her commentary on the inauguration? All it needed to be. Two words. Short, simple, poetically stated and brilliant, a majestic summary of all that America as a country has come through over the past 8 years and the sweeping changes needed by Barack Obama to turn it all around, encapsulating the hope, tears and emotions of all Americans united for a moment as one:

"Holy mackerel!"

You couldn't have said it better yourself.

As a minor foot-note, I'd like to encourage everyone to check out Jill's downloadable Jock-Jams compilation, just because it's both awesome and has nothing at all to do with the republican party or Rush Limbaugh.

My Fellow 'Mericans

Today was a historic day.

The day I became a fan of croutons on Facebook.

(Thx Lauter)

This one's called 'Outlaw'

For me, there's something about waking up to a new U2 song that is kind of unfortunately like Christmas morning. I say "unfortunately" because, where I come from, Christmas morning is always a serious coin-flip as to if what's under the tree reeks of whiskey or Wal-Mart lay-away. The former would indicate something last-minute, thrown together and ultimately far more expensive (guilt may be a useless emotion but, in terms of gifts from my family it has proven to be both a powerful force and a wonderful thing), whereas the latter would indicate something planned and sensible-like a blanket, socks, or a bag of cheese-puffs. Not crunchy Cheetos, no-to wake up on Christmas morning to a bag of the slender, thin, snap-crackle-pop-in-your-mouth with neon-orange-cheeze-ee-goodness wrapped ever-so-haphazardly would indicate that one or both of my parents actually had any idea what my preferences for super-fattening fake cheese snack products were. Instead, I'd wake up to either a $20 Target gift card smelling like pot smoke and cheap booze or a bag of thrift-store-brand Cheesy Puffs. You know, the super-rotund air-puffed kind that spread their Crayola "Orange Peel"-colored jizzm over fingers and counter tops and clothing without any taste ever actually being imparted into the mouth of the consumer.

The. Worst. Kind. Of. Cheese. Puffs.

A new U2 song, particularly the first song released from an as-yet-unheard new album, falls exactly into that dichotomy of afore-stated Christmas potential: it's either going to be quick and useful or...or, well, gift-wrapped 99-cent Cheese Puffs.

I'm not the world's biggest U2 fan. I'm not going to write a Matthew Perpetua-esque dissertation on "Joshing The Joshua Tree: Bono's Myriad Voices Throughout The Ages". I don't know art but I know what sort of bombastic grandiosity I like, and I don't know much but I know I love Bono and I tend to let that be all there is to know. That said? Achtung, Baby, with the impeccable Brian Eno production, the lush musical textures and Bono's wry, cutting, sarcastic, sadistic love-lorn lyrics, is one of my favorite albums ever. The rest of U2's output I can take or leave, and I tend to cherrypick through all of it. For instance, the pretty-much-universally-hated POP album has its moments, and for my musical dollar (aka free, downloaded via Soulseek...erm, um, I mean I SUPPORTMUSICIBUYWHATILIKE or something like that)they are more plentiful then the obligatory millennium "Return To Form" record that was All That You Can't Leave Behind. What both of those albums have in common, though, is that their first singles were these giant, massive, explosive, world-affirming (well, ok, "This-Is-Bono's-World" affirming) statements of shapeless, boundless, formless platitudes like Hope and Trust and Faith and Woo-Hoo and Hey-Yeah and Change and Love and All Right All Right and other similar big ideas.

That's why this new U2 single, "Strap Your Momma To Ireland" or whatever it's called, is such an insane disappointment. It's not just that the guitar riff unfortunately conjures thoughts of lost 90's flannel-rockers Collective Soul (and let's be honest there, there is no way to conjure thoughts of Collective Soul that can be deemed "fortunate"), or that Bono's vocal pacing pretty much splits the embarrassing difference between Madonna's rap about shopping at Fresh Market and using non-dairy creamer on "American Life" and, well, and the ENTIRETY of Escape Club's "Wild Wild West". It's the fact that there is not a moment in this song in which Bono reminds us-you, me, the world, HIS world long live the King may his name be praised and worshiped and glorified-reminds us of, ya know, Hope. Faith. Love. Art. Any of those big-ticket items.

It's like that moment in American Psycho when Pat Bateman finds religion via Bono at a U2 concert, and immediately shuts down and rejects everything he's been filled with. U2 is meant to be stupidly uplifting, unjustifiably inspiring, full of platitudes unfettered by longitude or latitude. U2, the musical collective hivemind of the Edge, Bono, and those other two dudes with the glasses who did the song for that Tom Cruise movie, are supposed to function as a mirror to the world's collective souls, not sound LIKE Collective Soul (oh, schnap! Yes! HIGH FIVE, RUSS, HIGH FIVE!). If the first single can be said to operate as a new album's harbinger, the Silver Surfer to the Galactus that is the forthcoming U2 record, which will inevitably be titled Bono Sings! For You or Segways In The Garden Of Allah , then this...this...this new song indicates that any following album certainly will not rattle, and it most assuredly will not hum. This is going to be less a booze-scented gift card to somewhere and more a hastily-wrapped bag of convenience store junkfood.

If only one good thing comes from the release of a new CD from Bono & Co (which sounds like the best Sunday morning political talk-show ever, co-starring Rachel Maddow, yes please), it will be the fact that my friend Jill, the originator and maintainer of the Bono Photoshop blog, will be forced into further creative action. She is truly an artist of the highest caliber.

(from Jill's Bono Photoshop blog)

Frankly, I'm kind of pulling for a photoshop of Bono in a bag of Cheese Puffs. The big, fat, air-filled kind. Gift-wrapped. Under a Christmas Tree. Because frankly that's what this sounds like.

Still on that Microcastle tish

It isn't often in conversation that I mention the fact that I'm one of the co-owners of the music blog Resonator Magazine (or, if you're one of the cool kids, which I most certainly am not, it's "Res Mag", because abbreviations are so hip for 2009, particularly if they're three letters long and, um, if there are two of them). This is for a few reasons. One is the fact that my writing there is done under the pseudonym of Shaun Bateman-an homage to a recurrent character in the fiction writing of Bret Easton Ellis, who, yes, I am always talking about.

The other is that, um...it's RESONATOR. It's not exactly like we're talking Superfamous IndieRock Review of Ye Musicks That Is For The Listenings, or anything like that. I mean, Resonator has had some mentions here or there...mentions which, if given the proper opportunity, or a few vodka tonics (which basically ends up equaling "the proper opportunity" when all's said and done), we will trot out and trump up again. And again. And again.

Ask me about the time NY Magazine mentioned us. Do it. And then ask me again, because I'll repeat it.

So that's why, when last night at Bookhouse, which has become my new favorite little Atlanta spot to nurse something which, when imbibed, will cause me to lose all fear of the police, I distinctly heard, in a booth across from my friends and I, discussion involving Res Mag. So distinctly, in fact, that my friends all perked up to listen.

I mean, one would assume that, were one to operate a music blog, that there's like one billionth of a hundredth of a chance that one person might read it, and that an operator of said blog could, potentially, be in the exact same room as said blog's one reader at some point. However, chances are exponentially better that you'd die in a fiery plane crash, and as a result I'm now I'm never, ever, flying again.

I use all of this as an overly-wordy intro to the fact that, though I feel that my writing on Res has gotten away from waxing intellisophical on whatever I'm currently listening to and moved more towards a "this is new. here you go. form an opinion" mindset, which I fault squarely on the fact that most blog-based music writing is awful, artless and has absolutely no grounds to call itself "criticism". This isn't to say that my music writing is, or has ever been, artful or well-done, but hell, at least I try. Tried. Try. Still try, honestly, just not as often as I should.

And that's why I wanted to point a little link to some musings I did over on Res recently regarding the album that was, and still is, tops of the year for me: Deerhunter's Microcastle.

I began thinking both of how totally Proustian (read as: bedroom-ridden and bedroom-written) most of the album's lyrics are, and how my favorite song on the album (and my favorite song of al of last year), "Nothing Ever Happened", is totally the first forward-motion on the album, conjuring, for me, thoughts of my childhood hometown of Marietta, Georgia, and my need/desire to escape it.

In fact, I actually wrote, over on Res, something akin to:

The lyrics, like “focus on the depths that were never there/eliminate what you can’t repair”, take the rest of Microcastle’s Proustian qualities of bedroom stasis and actually force it into a sort of hesitant motion, in which you get the feeling that the song is pulling Bradford, rather than operating under his direction.

Pretentious? Oh god yes I am. And I don't deny it. But, to me, that's a better analysis of a piece of music than 'HEY D00DZ CHECK DIS", which is what I'm seeing so much of in terms of blog music writing these days. I don't know, maybe that doesn't bother you. But also, maybe, you're really a damn LOLcat...in which case, AWWWWWWWW!

You can read the rest of it, if you so desire, and also hear "Nothing Ever Happened" and a few more Deerhunter songs, at Resonator. Res Mag. Res.

We really need to figure out what abbreviation we're going to use and stick with it.

Fiction Contest...correction

Ok so I was super-wrong. Or "premature". Hey, I'm told it happens to everyone sometimes.

The Creative Loafing 2009 Fiction Issue is online RIGHT NOW. And you NEED TO READ "Medicine". And you need to do so immediately, if not sooner.

And you need to avoid the silliest photo of me ever.

I am going somewhere to learn how to teach myself to begin learning to not talk with my hands like that. I was discussing Bret Easton Ellis, probably. Since apparently that's all I ever do.