T.G.A. FRIDAY for Friday, April 16, 2010

I WANNA BE CHUCK LORRE

I’ve decided to be like Chuck Lorre.   So I’ve cobbled together some Chuck Lorre-style vanity card blurbs.   Now I just need to produce a bunch of hit television shows and make millions of dollars.   No problem.

Last week I saw a production of “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat” because several friends were in the cast. Now that damned song has been stuck in my head for nearly a week. It just won't go go go away. I can only remember four words, and three of them are the same.    Because she is so helpful at times like this, this morning my wife was kind enough to hum the song for about twenty minutes. (She can't remember all the words, either.) Just to stop myself from getting bored (because I've accepted that the song will now be in my head forever!), I've started changing it up, playing with the lyrics. For while, in tribute to the cinematic classics from Toho Studios, I was singing, "Go Go Gojira." But then, because of the free-associative nature of my mind, I soon had Blue Oyster Cult doing a production of Joseph in my head. Now I've moved on to Inspector Gadget. "Go go go, Gaaah-jet. Extendible arms... Go go go, Gaaah-jet. Coffee maker..."   Ah, well. When a song is stuck in your head, any theme will do.

A few days ago, I offered some advice and words of encouragement to a friend that needed them at the time. Later, when everything was once again good and fine and as it should be, I received a text message, promising something called an “Irish Hug” apparently as thanks for my concern. I was not familiar with the term, but I am familiar with something called a “Glasgow Kiss,” which is, essentially, a head butt. I replied to her text message, saying that I hoped an Irish Hug wasn’t as violent as a Glasgow Kiss. My fears were quickly laid to rest when she informed me that an Irish Hug is, in fact, a quick grab of the arse. However, this information led to a whole new range of issues concerning the protocols of such a thing. I’m sure an Irish Hug, in its truest form, has a sort of guerrilla aspect to it, no warning, existing mainly for the shock value and quick thrill. But this particular butt-squeeze was now being arranged days, perhaps weeks, in advance. How will that play out, I wondered. Will it be a rather formal endeavour? “Brace yourself, sir. I am about to grasp your posterior in a firm grip for a duration of approximately three seconds.” Or will there be ninja training involved? I pictured myself weeks from now, walking peacefully down the street when suddenly… >NOINK< right on my bum. I turn quickly, but there is no one there. Down a dark alleyway I hear a distant giggle, then silence.   It’s actually kind of intriguing.

Like most people, I learned all I know about alien abductions and anal probes from deciphering the hidden messages in Bob Newhart’s comedy routines. So it was with great enthusiasm that I embarked on a weekend adventure in the emerging sport of UFO-baiting. The important thing to remember is, just like with fishing, you’ve got to use the right bait. UFOs won’t appear for just anyone. So I went out and got a beat up old pick-up truck, a plaid jacket and a hat with earflaps. Then I parked in the middle of nowhere with a bottle of Jack Daniels, a cheekful of Redman chewing tobacco and an 8-track tape of Conway Twitty’s greatest hits. I sat there for hours, waiting patiently with my thumb on the trigger for the 37 spring-loaded nets I’d hidden in the trees, just waiting to catch a UFO. But the UFO fellows are tricky buggers and they snuck up behind me when I wasn’t looking, or awake, or something. Suddenly, I saw a bright light and I was being pulled upwards in their tractor beam. This wasn’t just a normal tractor bean, either. This was like a John Deere tractor beam. Then they knocked off my hat with their hurricane-tickle ray and sent a squadron of mutant squirrels to give me noogies. Turns out the truck had a leaky exhaust system and I’d been breathing fumes for about three hours. The doctors say there was no UFO; it was just another near-death experience, like that time I passed out facedown in the giant vat at the Budweiser brewery. Good thing the vat was empty by the time I woke, because I really had to pee.

GEEK THURSDAY for Thursday, April 8, 2010

THOSE WACKY, WACKY 70’S

They say if you remember the 60’s then you weren't really there.  They should also say if you remember the 70’s then you should be ashamed.  The 70’s were a decade of disco, flared pants and the leisure suit, surely reasons enough to want to forget.    And of course it is my duty to make you remember, so sit back and relax and enjoy this tribute to the 70’s.

ANCIENT CHINESE SECRET HUH?

Who can forget this commercial and the catch phrase it spawned?  Sure it was a racist stereotype to think that Chinese people own dry cleaners, but this was the 70’s, racist stereotypes were ok back then.    Also notice that this dry cleaners seems to consist of a single washer/dryer.

76 BRADY’S

The 70’s were the decade of the musical/variety show.  Everyone and their brother got a show, including everyone’s favourite merged family.   This clip is from the short lived Brady Bunch Hour, a 1977 show whose sole purpose seemed to be to rape our childhood.

MILKY!

It is my sincere hope that someone was shot for even considering this 70’s toy called Milky the Marvellous Milking Cow.

IT’S LEISURE TIME!

And who can forget the leisure suit.     Well actually a lot of people can, since this fashion statement didn’t make it out of the 70’s.   But look at this guy, doesn’t he look comfortable?  Doesn’t he look stylish?  Doesn’t he look ready to cut a rug at the local disco?  Why I bet mere moments after this picture was taken he had casual, unprotected sex.   Ah the Leisure Suit.  Dead before it’s time.

THEY WROTE A SONG ABOUT WHAT?????

Of course it wouldn’t be the 70’s without a song filled with thinly veiled sexual references.   And there is no better example then Afternoon Delight by the Starland Vocal band, who recorded this tribute to an afternoon quickie.

And there you have it, racism, casual sex, variety shows and the leisure suit.  That is pretty much the 70’s in a nut shell.  And allow me to be the first to say shame on you!  You, as a decade, should be ashamed to have existed.  Why there has never been a time in history so embarrassing as this … until the 80’s come along of course.

T.G.A. Friday for Friday, April 2, 2010

“W”TF?

I used to actively seek out things that I could mock and wonder about. Now they’re everywhere, stupid things. You can’t turn around without tripping over one.   For example, last weekend I used an ATM at a bank that is not my regular financial institution. Initially, the on-screen prompts were fairly standard, what I’d expect at any bank machine.   Enter Your PIN it prompted I entered my PIN (which is definitely not 9823).   Choose A Transaction Type it urged. I chose Withdraw Cash because, after all, that was what I wanted to do.   Then it became… odd.   Normally, the ATM would then ask me which account I would like to access in order to withdraw the cash, and it did, in fact, ask just such a question. It was the way in which the question was presented that got me wondering and, indeed, mocking.   Displayed on the screen of the ATM was the phrase “From” Which Account?   Yes, that’s right. There were quotation marks (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quotation_mark ) around a single word in the sentence.   I immediately realized that one of two possible factors was at play in this situation.   Either…   A: The machine had not only spontaneously developed sentience (SkyNet here we come!), it had also used its newfound intelligence to develop philosophy. It was being existentially ironic, suggesting that, as energy cannot be created or destroyed, only transferred from one form to another (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Conservation_of_energy ), so, too, money cannot be created only altered in form. The money I withdraw won’t actually come from anywhere. It already exists. I am merely altering the manner in which it will be interpreted.   As inevitable as the link between sentient computers and the enslavement of all mankind is, the consequences of a philosophy-driven machine intelligence are even more frightening.   Consider this scenario, in which the epitome of American technology knocks on the door and asks, with an Austrian accent, “Are you Sarah Connor?”   “…Yes,” replies the young woman who looks startlingly like Linda Hamilton.   “Have you ever considered our purpose in the universe?”   Seventy-two hours later the killer robot from the future is still prattling on about the metaphysically artificial nature of good and evil in a post-industrial society, while Sarah Connor puts a shotgun under her chin and blows her own brains out just to get him to shut the hell up.   Or…   B: The highly educated computer technician who programmed the ATM is a functionally illiterate, text-message-obsessed twit who couldn’t use proper punctuation to save his life.   I don’t know which is worse. At least with option A there is some hope for the survival of humanity. When the pondering hordes of neo-Nietzsche automatons from the post-apocalyptic future come knocking, we can just pretend we’re not home. You know, like we do with those other guys.   As I left the bank parking lot, I saw a van with a license plate that read “H E P L.”   As I sped past it, I said, “Sorry, buddy. You’re on your own. You’ll just have to save yourself.” Then I giggled far more than I probably should have. tga

HUMP DAY REPORT for Wednesday, March 31, 2010

DUMBERER AND DUMBERER STILL…

“Does anybody here remember Vera Lynn?”*   Of course you don’t.   Nor do you recall the source material from which that first lyrical line is being quoted.   In fact, most of you are so wet-behind-the-ears that for you the Clinton administration is ancient history.   WAIT A MINUTE!!!   I can hear the whine from here. HORNBECK! You’ze am a Canuck and is/am tippy tappy typing from Canada yes? So WHY O’ WHY O’ WHY-OH would you choose to use a U.S. of A. political administration as your temporal hallmark?   Well, my fictitious and vernacularly inconsistent objectionist, here’s your answer: I wanted to reference a defined period in time, an era not-too-broad in its scope. The Americans (as they like to call themselves with that special selective brand of self-awareness-slash-narcissism they exude) limit the period of time over which anyone my preside… them… in a Presidential…sense… so… OH FORCRYINGOUT LOUDSTOPWHINING!!!   YOU’VE RUINED MY WHOLE OPENING NOW!   I’ll start again.   Does anybody here remember Vera Lynn?   Of course you don’t.   In fact, most of you are so wet-behind-the-ears that for you the Clinton administration is ancient history.   So it’s probably safe to say that most of you only ever experienced the technological marvel that was (is?) “The Clapper” when you visited Grandma’s house.   Oh how it once was children… There was a time when the familiar refrain of the mighty Clapper echoed freely across the landscape of late-night TV.   Come on… sing it with me!   Clap on.   Clap off.   Clap on. Clap off…   The CLAPPER!   And do you know what “The Clapper” was, my children?   It was a new and marvellous technology that allowed us to turn things off or on at a distance merely by clapping our hands.   That’s right… like GODS we clapped our hands and lights went on or off in accordance with our will.   Intrepid souls with the spark of ingenuity found ways to adapt the technology to TV sets, stereos, every form of light-fixture imaginable, and (I’m quite sure) vibrators and sexual devices and toys. (This last innovation resulted in the short-lived popularity of a SECOND meaning for the popularly uttered phrase… “giving someone ‘The Clap’”)   Oh… what wonders I’ve seen.   So imagine my surprise when I recently saw an ALL-NEW commercial promoting an ALL-NEW upgraded version of this miracle technology.   And do you know what made this new edition SO special? Wait for it…   Wait for it…   Okay… here it comes…   You ready?   This is it…   They had updated the Clapper by adding… a SWITCH to it!   That’s right, an “innovator” “improved” an existing product…   (Hold on.)    …by adding TO that product…   (Get your migraine medication handy.)   … THE VERY TECHNOLOGY IT WAS DESIGNED TO REPLACE!   Is this a new low?   I think this might be a new low?   “Hey LOOK, honey! They’ve improved ‘The Clapper’!”   “Really, darling? How so?”   “Well, they’ve put a switch in it.”   “Oh darling, that’s marvellous! So you mean, no more tedious clapping of the hands to turn things of and on?”   “No more, my dear. Such trials are now a thing of the past. We, the children at the dawn of a new age may instead simply get up out of our excessively-padded chairs and walk over to wherever we’ve installed our ‘Clapper’ remote switch and cause power to flow with barely a touch of our finger.”   “Darling… is this a miracle? I think this is a miracle? Don’t you? Or is that going too far.”   “A miracle? A miracle to suggest that, should I wish to turn on a light, I could simply walk over to a wall-mounted switch and press a button rather than clapping my hands? No, darling. I don’t think it’s going to far at all.”   What miraculous times we live in.   Oh look… I’ve just invented the paper and stylus WORD PROCESSOR   And another innovation…   … E-MAIL, now using paper, ink, stamps and a vast network of people and transport vehicles to get messages where you want them to go.   Oh… AND…   …An eco-friendly, electric car powered ENTIRELY by cheap, convenient FOSSIL FUELS!   My god, I’m on fire here! I’ve just come up with…   …NEW & IMPROVED DEMOCRACY, a representative system of government in which the interests of everyone are represented by ME in a consolidated and concentrated form of head of state known as EMPEROR.   That’s right baby! One man one vote!   I’m one man and my one vote will count for all votes!   CAN MORE INNOVATIONS BE FAR BEHIND?   TUNE IN NEXT TIME TO THE NEW AND IMPROVED HUMPDAY REPORT… now with a few slightly different words. --G.D. HORNBECK

TOP FIVE TUESDAY for Tuesday, March 23, 2010

TOP FIVE WAYS TO TURN SOMETHING NORMAL INTO A WORLDWIDE CONSPIRACY

The world is a big and sometimes scary place.  The reasons behind this are many, and one of those reasons may be that someone or something is controlling it all from behind the scenes.   At least that is what some people claim.  They believe in a grand, worldwide conspiracy, or even worse, conspiracies.  .  And to prove it to you they say certain things, key words or phrases that prove that something is up to no good.   So to explain this appropriately, I’ve decided to use the simple household toaster and prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, how to  prove there is a conspiracy behind it.

5: ADD THE WORD “BIG” IN FRONT OF IT

The phrase “The Pharmaceutical Industry” sounds all fine and dandy.  “Big Pharma” sounds all mean and world take over-ish.   “The Oil industry” sounds almost mom and pop like.  “Big Oil” is ominous and evil.   You see, add the word “big” before anything and it sounds like it’s watching you while you sleep and taking over the world.   Let’s try it:   “The Toaster Making Industry.”    Or   “Big Toaster!”   You see how that works?  I may never eat toast again!

4: ATTACH A WEIRD RELIGION TO IT

Everyone knows that a new religion that we don’t understand is up to something, something much worse than the old religion we don’t understand.   It goes like this:     “Did you know that the fact a toaster uses electricity means the makers of the toaster believe in a religion that worships the god Thor?  It’s true.  And we all know anyone who worships Thor in this day and age is up to no good!”   I’m scared already.

3: ASSIGN A POLITICAL DOGMA TO IT

If there is one thing right/left wingers hate, it’s encouraging left/right wingers.  And so to make a more perfect conspiracy, throw some politics in for fun.     “Did you know that Glen Beck eats toast?  Yeah, so does Bill O’Riely and George W. Bush.  In fact a lot of right wingers eat toast regularly.  That obviously means that toast is a far right conspiracy.  I mean Hillary Clinton eats Bagels, so what does that tell you? “

2: LIST CELEBRITIES WHO MAY OR MAY NOT BE ATTACHED TO IT

Celebrities are weird.  They do weird things.  Attach your conspiracy to them and suddenly toast becomes weird.     “Did you know that Tom Cruise uses a toaster?  And so did Elvis!  And we all know how well Elvis turned out! “

1: JUST KEEP REPEATING IT AND SOMEONE WILL BELIEVE YOU (EVENTUALLY)

There is nothing like wearing a person down.  Jennie McCartney believes vaccines cause autism.  She has no proof, but she just keeps repeating it and people believe her.  So why not follow her lead.   “Toasters are taking over the world!  Toasters are out to get us!  Whoever controls the toast controls the world!”  Repeat over and over until someone believes you, then ask them for money.

T.G.A. FRIDAY for Friday, March 19, 2010

A SONG AND A TEAR (WITH PICTURES OF WHAT A REAL BANJO PLAYER MIGHT LOOK LIKE)

St Patrick’s Day was earlier this week and in honour of that hallowed event, CPFOG the Blog and TGA Friday proudly present a new song, composed for just this occasion, complete with banjo accompaniment.

GRANNY’S DRUNKEN LULLABY   Toora loora looral   Rah rah, siss boom bah   Ave Maria   Que sera sera   When I was but a wee baby   Me granny liked to drink   She’d stare at me over her whiskey   And say, “A lullaby, I think.”   She would start to sing me a bedtime song   But she’d get her merds wixed up   Then she’d say, “T’ hell with it all,”   And pour another cup, singing,   “Toora loora looral   Rah rah, siss boom bah   Ave Maria   Que sera sera   “Rememb’rin’ words is for pussies.   You only need carry a tune   Until it no longer matters at all   For ye’ll be plastered soon.”   She’d take me wee pram for a toddle   And waddle straight down to the pub   She’d prop me up on the bar for a lark   And give me tummy a rub.   She’d offer to trade me for spirits   But the barman said, “Nay, not allowed.”   Then she’d make me dance a wee jig to get money   Busking for the crowd, while she sang   “Toora loora looral   Rah rah, siss boom bah   Ave Maria   Que sera sera   “Rememb’rin’ words is for pussies.   You only need carry a tune   Until it no longer matters at all   For ye’ll be plastered soon.”   Now the years have gone by and I’ve grown up   And me granny, so sad, has passed on   But we all raised a glass in her mem’ry   And sang her this dear bedtime song   “Toora loora looral   Rah rah, siss boom bah   Ave Maria   Que sera sera   “Rememb’rin’ words is for pussies.   You only need carry a tune   Until it no longer matters at all   For ye’ll be plastered soon.”   She sang   Toora loora looral   Rah rah, siss boom bah   Ave Maria   Que sera sera   (spoken) G’night, Granny. We miss ye, ye wee drunken cow. (copyright 2010 T. Gregory Argall Thanks to William Poulin for the inspiration and concept.)

HUMP DAY REPORT for Wednesday, March 17, 2010

PEOPLE ARE GETTING DUMBERER AND DUMBERER… BUT THAT’S NOT THE POINT! COUGARS ARE ON THE PROWL AS STUPIDITY GETS COYOTE UGLY IN T.O. !

Getting right to it today.   No preamble. No clever wording-about beforehand.   Just gonna just dive right on in.   So here we go.   You ready?   Well, this is it…   Wait, did I say without “preamble”? ‘Cause if I did, that would be wrong. Just saying there’d be no preamble was a kind of preamble.   Of course, both of you out there who are reading this are sharp and astute enough to have caught that already so I won’t say another word about it.   Because if I did say more about it then----   THIS JUST IN:   THE LEAD IS BURIED… LONG LIVE THE LEAD!   Alright so…   Don’t know if you’ve heard but apparently the City of Toronto has a problem with Coyotes.   And before you say it: NO. The problem isn’t that they’re “…Ugly”.   (In fact, “Coyote Ugly” is a condition most often associated with Cougars.)   Apparently, some Coyotes ranging within the treed and wooded environs of Toronto, snatched up a beloved house-pet as an appetizer, apparently thinking it was more candy than canine.   The “problem” is that apparently these Coyote’s are unaware that THIS… [GORD: can you insert a picture of some improbable miniature ‘dog’ of some kind here? Then delete this text, obviously.] [HORNBECK: Consider it done.]   Is actually considered by some people to be a dog.   Look folks, I love our fuzzy little parasites as much as the next guy…   --Unless the next guy is my friend Bill. If it’s Bill, then I love our fuzzy little parasites WAY MORE than the next guy---   …But let’s face facts: You can keep a rat as a pet if you want to but it’s still a rat and it still occupies a rat’s place on the food chain.   You can also choose any one of hundreds of specialized, freak-breeds of miniature, toy, quivering rat-sized dogs because they fit in your purse BUT…   …Don’t expect the Animal Kingdom ---the domain of ACTUAL animals living and foraging for food as best they can in spite of our presence--- to know the difference between your Fifi and fois gras.   Between Ling-ling and lollipops.   Between Sir Yapsalot and… whatever tiny, bite-sized morsel might alliteratively serve to make this sentence work.   My point is: Your “dog” is less likely to qualify as Coyote catnip if he’s actually, you know… a DOG! You know, a DOG-SIZED DOG?   Haven’t heard of any German Shepherds or St. Bernard's or Labrador Retrievers being snatched up by Coyotes have you? No. You know why? Because it’s IMPOSSIBLE for a Coyote to look at another canine, like himself, and mistake it for a bon bon.   You don’t look at your brother-in-law and think “Hey, I could pop that in my mouth right now and it’ll tide me over till dinner”, do you?   (If you do… seek professional help or at the very least keep your hands to yourself you slut.)   Here’s a tip: If your dog is smaller than a Beagle then it’s probably not a real dog.*   *Exceptions apply only to dachshunds (badger hounds) and terriers (earth dogs) which are actual breeds of real dog which make up for in cunning and viciousness what they lack in size and which would have no problem surviving in the wild if they had the opportunity.   But I’ll give you this much… If you find yourself among the confused, it’s not surprising. Even those who are PAID to keep you “informed” can’t seem to get it right.   The other night on CTV News when the story broke, local anchor Ken Shaw had to read THIS off the teleprompter as a seque from some other dog-related story to a report on the very Coyote “problem” noted above:   “You know folks, dogs are one thing. But Coyotes? That’s something completely different.”   Uh… No it isn’t. Now, dogs and vacuum cleaners… THOSE are completely different. But dogs and Coyotes? Pretty much no difference.   So what’s to become of our Coyote problem? Well, at some point the same PETA-head morons who feed scavenging wildlife and then wonder why it comes looking for more will probably revert to their humano-centric roots and scream for blood.   That’s right, Coyotes snapping up voles, mice and Mr. Cuddles will probably be hunted down.   But meanwhile THE REAL THREAT REMAINS UNADDRESSED…   Apparently Toronto doesn’t have a problem with Cougars feasting on its young pups.   Won’t someone think of the children? ---G.D. Hornbeck

GEEK THURSDAY for Thursday, March 11, 2010

THE NEW RULES FOR ROCK & ROLL

Like most people I have a soundtrack to my life. That soundtrack is Rock and Roll. Thanks to my brother Brian I grew up on it. (Although I still say The Who is better than Zeppelin.)   There are times I look back and remember the soundtrack with the moments. Like The Who's We Won't Get Fooled Again that I listened to before each and every High School exam. Or Rock & Hyde's classic yet little known album Under The Volcano that was THE album for me in High School.   How about Pink Floyd's Another Brick In The Wall: Part Two that all the kids in grade school kept singing, not realising that there was a whole concept album behind it that I, and only I, out of all those grade school kids, had listened to.   How about this. Brian had a book of interviews from the Rolling Stone magazine. I borrowed the book and was reading it on the bus to school. Another kid saw what I was reading and proudly proclaimed "I hate the Rolling Stones!"   And yet that music I love so much has grown up around me and is no longer the same as I remember it. Like most middle agers it has grown a bit around the waist and slowed down a bit.   But I have the solution. I know where to cut the fat and make Rock and Roll what it once was.   And it is with this that I proudly present CPFOG’s Laws of Rock and Roll. Law One: Any song that uses the phrase Rock and Roll in a positive sense MUST be a genuine Rock and Roll song. (Former teen sensations AJ and Aly, I am looking at you!) Law Two: Rap is not Rock and Roll. Rap is its’ own thing, so don't insult both of them by placing them together. Just give Rap its’ own damn hall of fame. Law Three: No one, no where, at no time may cover American Pie again! (Thanks to Madonna for ruining that one for us.) Law Four: Any Rock and Roller who releases two consecutive albums of mostly slow music can no longer be called a Rock and Roller. (Goodbye Bruce Springsteen.) Law Five: There is no such thing as New (or Neo) Punk. You are Punk or you are not Punk. End of story. Law Six: No band formed after 1977 can call itself Punk. The Sex Pistols were Punk. The Clash were Punk. Green Day is not Punk. Law Seven: Hair Metal will hereby stay dead. Law Eight: U2 no longer has the moral authority to perform any song from their first five albums. Infraction of this law comes with a punishment of listening to the complete political speeches of Bono in one sitting. (That'll teach him.) Law Nine: The 80s New Wave never happened. Do you hear me, IT NEVER HAPPENED!!!!! Law Ten: Any hot guitar chick who becomes a fat bloated guitar chick is hereby forced into retirement. Law Eleven: Double standards still apply. Law Twelve: Country, in any form, is not Rock and Roll. I don't care what you thought of Johnny Cash. Law Thirteen: (Otherwise known as Rod Stewart's Law) You are allowed one (1) album of standards before you will be shot. Law Fourteen: Any musician or group that compares any of his/her/its music to any Beatles album will hereby be stripped, shackled and have rotten fruit pelted at them. This goes double if your name is Paul McCartney. Law Fifteen: Paul McCartney must stop! NOW! Law Sixteen: Appearance on a reality show is an automatic ejection. (And not the good type.) Law Seventeen: Multiple wives/lovers at one time stops being cool after fifty. Yes Mick Jagger, I'm pointing at you. Law Eighteen: No person/band can call its’ album by the color on the front. It's been done to death by better people than you. Law Nineteen: The Eagles touring is no longer interesting. Law Twenty: If a quorum of your band's members are dead, you can no longer call your band by the same name. (Are you listening The Who?) Law 21: If you are a female singer, you are no longer allowed to sing "Mercedes Benz" or "Another Little Piece of My Heart." It's been done to death, and probably by better singers than you. Law 22: Unless the name of your band is Boston, any ten year gap between albums is an automatic retirement. Law 23: There is no choreography in Rock and Roll. Law 24: Any song with a political statement must be a good song first and foremost. Are you listening Bruce Cockburn? Law 25: Actors can no longer release albums. Musicians can no longer act. Once you cross that line you can never go back. Law 26: To be called Rock and Roll you must destroy at least three hotel rooms in a span of five years. Law 27: It is no longer enough for parody albums to be good (The Rutles second album) or funny (Spinal Taps’ second album). A parody album must be good and funny. (The Rutles and Spinal Taps’ first albums.) Law 28: (Paul McCartney's Law.) If you publicly announce that you cannot read or write musical notations, do not be surprised if the world goes "Well, that explains it." Law 29: Everyone who still considers themselves a hippie will be placed in a cryogenic freezing tube and only revived when either a: Being a hippie is back in style or b: The end of the world. Whichever comes first. Law 30: Neil Young must finally make up his mind for good. Is he in CSNY or not? Law 31: You are allowed only one (1) sequel to a previous album. Breaking this law means you have to change your name to Meatloaf. Law 32: One album of duets is fine, two is acceptable, after that you are washed up. Law 33: The number of Greatest hits albums is directly proportional to how washed up you are. Do you hear me Chicago!?!?!?! Law 34: Spirituality is fine. Push it too far and you'll end up making duet albums. (See Law 32 and Santana.) Law 35: Merchandising is fine. Pushing it too far means you'll end up with something called the Kiss Army. Law 36: The Grateful Dead is done, over, kaput. Any band that tries to be the new Grateful Dead is hereby punished by getting The Grateful Deads’ fans. Law 37: You don't tell me how to vote, I won't tell you that you were washed up fifteen years ago. Agreed? Law 38: You are allowed to sign one (1) song of yours to be in a TV commercial. More than one and you must shave your head, spout pseudo-political and pseudo-philosophical rantings and become a dance music vegan. Hellooooooooo Moby! Law 38: You are allowed to sign only one (1) song of yours into a TV theme song. This law does not count if the TV show features men dressed as women. Law 39: One song is a tribute. Two songs is weird. Three songs is a potential stalker. An entire album is grounds for the insanity plea. I'm looking at you Oasis! Law 40: Yelling "Rock And Roll" at the beginning of a party shows your age. That is punishment enough. And there you have it folks. Forty laws that I feel will bring Rock and Roll back to life. Do I expect anyone to follow those laws? Nope. Why? Money. Money drives business and business is what Rock and Roll is these days. Which brings me to the final law. Law 41: Rock and Roll was the rage against the machine. The voice of the generation that was going to change the world. For everyone who was there and doing it and are now not doing it, your punishment is the most severe. You get to live in the world that, face it, you made. Have a good day.