The Best Decade Ever

The lists are being created with wanton abandon. Give it a rest, already. Rolling Stone wants me to know what songs and albums were "The Best" in the last ten years. Hey, Rolling Stone, fuck you, OK? Every month you create a list, from the 100 Best Guitarists of All Time to the Top Ten Best Eddie Vedder Impersonators. (Scott Stapp, please Stopp.) When Rolling Stone isn't on their knees fellating Bruce Springsteen or praying to John Lennon, they're busy at the List Machine, making lists.

Time magazine has a whole bunch of "Top Tens." Top 10 Heisman Trophy Winners, Top 10 Beauty Pageant Scandals, Top 10 Things You Didn't Know About Hanukkah, even the Top 10 Disney Controversies. Those are real lists at a real news magazine's website. Maybe we should blame "Countdown" with Keith Olbermann. "Which of these top stories will you be talking about tomorrow?" he smugly demands at the beginning of each broadcast, with that stupid animation of a steel ball rolling around a track in a desert landscape. Hey, Keith, when I start looking to you to tell me what I should talk about tomorrow, I will start wearing ridiculous 1930s era gangster suits and pinstriping my hair.

Movies, food trends, notable deaths, vacation destinations, shoes, cars, purses, toys, Xbox games, hairstyles - you name it - we can find a list for it at year's end. A Top Ten list. A Top 100 list. A "Best" list. And it's all based on the musings of a panel of assholes emailing their suggestions to a bored editor, who compiles the submissions into a neat little list and then tells the readers what they should like or what they should've liked. It happens every December, but it's always worse at the end of a decade. I don't mind reading lists, just don't present them as the authority. It's a list of your favorites in a category.

I can't wait for January, when they start doing their Top Ten Predictions for the Year lists.

UPDATE: A commenter says I sound like Andy Rooney. Shit. I blame last night's tequila for making me a temporary curmudgeon today. And the beer. And the wine.

Put the Headphones On

...and then later explain to your coworkers why you're convulsing with laughter. If you're eating when listening to this, please stop, as laughing while eating is a leading cause of choking, and I won't be held responsible for your death. It's a dramatic reading of a poorly (or hastily) drafted breakup letter. I love this thing on so many levels, one of which is the title: You Make Me Touch Your Hands for Stupid Reasons.














Found via The Assimiliated Negro, whose blog is a must read, and will likely today replace some dormant blog on my Linkers and Lurkers list at right.