I love writing historical pieces, and this one was no exception. Thanks Scoutmob!

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I believe that the Devil, in conjunction with bands like Van Halen, Guns n Roses, and others, concocted this lie in order to lure unsuspecting young men into hour upon hour of carefully studying cryptic musical notation — known as “tablature” — in hopes that their efforts might someday be paid back in the form of face-pressed titties.

The Devil does this because, quite simply, he’s an asshole. He wants people to suffer. And maybe he gets a kickback from Fender and Gibson probably too.

Have you ever seen tablature? Here’s the tablature, or “tab,” for the intro to Sweet Child O’ Mine by Guns N Roses:

How the hell are you gonna turn this gibberish into titties? You aren't. That's how.

Do you know how long I stared at those dashes and numbers to learn how to play that intro? I don’t either! At a certain point my brain just gave up recording memories, chucking incoming information from by eyeballs straight into the trash.

What I do remember is playing that intro in Ms. Bellinger’s Homeroom in 7th grade. Hell yeah, I brought my acoustic guitar to school, son. Do you think 7th grade hotties are gonna come to my parents’ house to hear me jam? Hell no! Gotta go where the action is.

I stood up, the other kids fumbling around doing whatever you do in Homeroom. Ms Bellinger marking papers at her desk. I grabbed my axe, put my foot on my desk chair — because I didn’t have a strap for the guitar — and ripped into the opening notes of the most popular song in the land.

Shit yeah, bitches! Get a load of this skill!

Now, at the end of Slash’s intro W. Axl Rose begins to whine and gyrate like a weirdo, but I just sort of trailed off at that point. With a high-powered song like that one, the intro should be plenty. Besides, I couldn’t sing worth a damn, and I’m a bass in any case.

Nothing happened. I looked around. None of the girls were even looking at me. A few were making friendship bracelets and chatting to one another. What the hell?

So I played it again. And again. Finally I got some attention! Yes! One of the hottest girls in my class turned to look at me. She opened her pretty mouth, probably to invite me to a party at her rich parents’ house.

“Play a whole song!” she said.

Looking back now, I know that a fat awkward kid with no friends who can rip a rad solo is like a diseased, mangy housecat who can crap in the people toilet. Great trick and thanks for the effort, but you still ain’t getting petted.

The Ms. Bellinger’s Homeroom me did not understand this, though. What about Van Halen’s “Jump?” It had a badass guitar solo which led into a badass keyboard solo played by the same dude. Why would they do that if it didn’t result in women? Most of their songs were about girls, surely they knew what they were doing.

And what about AC/DC’s “Back in Black?” It has two — two! — guitar solos, and neither one is what you’d call short.

In high school I had a guitar teacher who was a certified badass. He wore snakeskin boots, smoked Marlboro Light 100′s, and had a crotch bulge that made it seem af if he was smuggling cantaloupes down his pants in quarter-round segments.

“The guitar,” quoth he, “is an extension of your dick.”

And that’s exactly why girls don’t care about guitar solos. You might as well be vigorously pleasuring yourself.

Take heed, young hopeful guitarists! Actually I don’t think they’re in much danger as the guitar solo doesn’t seem to figure prominently in today’s popular music, but still.

The Devil will lie to you if he can.

Shit.

I know the exact moment it happened, too. It was the band Justice that did it. Now, you might be saying “Justice isn’t a dubstep band,” and if you are, shut up. Dubstep is just a genre that embodies what is wrong with this style of music, and Justice uses some of the same techniques. For the purposes of this discussion, they’re guilty as hell. But anyway, the moment.

Now, Justice released a tour documentary called “A Cross The Universe,” and if you like music or bands at all you should watch it. In fact, it’s a great piece of art, in my opinion, independent of the band. If there is a better tour documentary in the world, I haven’t seen it.

That said, the music is unlistenable to me. I can tell that it’s good. It’s certainly culturally relevant, but it is unlistenable to me. That’s how I know I’m old.

You see, young people? Do you see how frightening this is? I can see age happening to me!

Okay, here’s a sample of what I’m talking about. Listen to the intro of this song — amazing! — and then take special note around 40 seconds in. There’s a short burst of static on what sounds to me like the “uh” of 4, or the last 16th note of the measure. One, Two, Three, Four — PSSHT, One.

What’s that burst of white noise doing in there? Well, it adds pretty interesting spice to the music, I think we can agree.

It’s especially interesting since kids these days have never had to listen to white noise like we did. You know that Radiohead lyric from Karma Police?

He buzzes like a fridge,
He’s like a detuned radio

They don’t know what that sounds like because they grew up with televisions that all had cable. They they listened to iPods, not the radio. They never had to ride the tuning knob in the back seat of the family car as rock radio stations faded in and out. They never fell asleep watching Letterman and woke up at 3am with the TV showing snow and blasting white noise because, in their world, a TV left on jabbers all night uninterrupted.

So, white noise is an untapped delicacy to kids. To me it’s just noise. Mind you, if there’s a more cranky old-ass sentence to type than “It’s just noise,” I don’t know what it is.

Okay, so Justice spices up their music with these sounds that are annoying to me. Fine. But what if there were a whole genre that used it not as a spice, but as the single ingredient? What if they didn’t just dabble, but wallowed in it, reveled in it?

That music is dubstep, and it has made me old.

Here’s a definition from the Wikipedia entry:

Dubstep is a genre of electronic dance music that originated in South London, United Kingdom. Its overall sound has been described as “tightly coiled productions with overwhelming bass lines and reverberant drum patterns, clipped samples, and occasional vocals”.

And here’s a concise, learned breakdown of how and what dubstep is by a DJ named Bassnectar, who clearly knows his shit:

All right, that makes sense. Glad someone laid out the electronic music “family tree” like that because it’s really interesting. So what’s wrong with dubstep?

You’ll hear what’s wrong with it about 40 seconds into this song, “Scary Monsters and Nice Sprites” by Skrillex:

Every sound is calculated via computer to use the maximum of the audio spectrum it possibly can, and I deeply resent it. Just listen to those bass notes! It sounds “like Optimus Prime taking a shit,” to borrow a quote from the Internet.

It reminds me of High Dynamic Range (HDR) photography. At right is an example.

This is an image that represents a normal photograph enhanced to jam every possible inch of the visible spectrum into an image. It is an interesting technical marvel that I want to look at precisely once.

Listen. This is how I know I am old: I enjoyed that the music of my youth, that being 80s music, had much clearer, much more crisp high end than music my parents liked. Now the kids of today are doing the same exact thing to me! Fuckers!

Here’s what I’m talking about. Here’s “Dust in the Wind” by Kansas, one of my Dad’s favorite songs whose lyrics were oft quoted to — and ignored by — me.

Now listen to one of my favorite 80′s tunes, “Sussudio” by Phil Collins.

Notice that “Sussudio” has a badass bass line and other keyboard sounds — by a guy named David Frank — mixed with natural instruments that differentiate it from “Dust In The Wind’s” all-natural instrumentation.

Hear the difference? DITW sounds smooth and sedate, whereas Sussudio sounds like a kickin’ 80′s party where chicks with natural boobs and high-cut bikinis might frolic. A party precisely like this one:

Dubstep, on the other hand, sounds like a filthy drug party in an abandoned house where people do revolting things of which I want no part whatsoever. That is a party that I not only don’t want to attend, but would move out of a neighborhood to get away from.

You can have your dubstep with your gratuitous aural palette, you filthy youngsters. I hope your ears fall off.

Dear Madams,

Oh yes, make no mistake; I do say “Madams,” for you are unfit for the term of “Sirs,” you low-heeled sons of nipples. How droll you must think yourselves, in your New York ivory towers. How vague and wondrous.

I loathe you!

And no, I will not “throw” my “face” in the “garbage,” as you suggest. Obviously I, as a gentleman of some repute, mostly tolerable hygiene, and very fine boudoir-related comportment have underlings to handle the garbage, not to mention my face.

Cock-spurs! You jack-legged uvula-peened clavicle hammers! Shit a monkey off your uncle’s garage and elect it Viceroy! I will read your book in the Devil’s own lap and tap his fiery yambag for emphasis.

Yours (not really),
James C. Hodgson, Jr

Poste Scripte: I seek an officer’s commission on your Frog Team.

No, Louis CK is not a fraud, and he has a new thing. You should buy it.

Better than that, Louis CK is trying a new means of communication against the best advice of people in his life. He’s trying to sell content directly to us, the consumers. This is great news.

It’s great news for anyone who:

• Thinks ads are annoying, pushy, and cacophonous, on top of occasionally being disingenuous when they’re not outright lies.
• Thinks censorship is wrong.
• Thinks artists should have complete creative control over their work.
• Is tired of Hollywood’s bullshit, TV’s bullshit, etc.

By cutting out the content distributors and middlemen, Louis CK is delivering hilarious entertainment directly to us. This is how it should be done. This is the way forward.

Buy his new thing.

I was reminded of those when I spotted The included image in the Thornton Road Chick Fil A yesterday.

Here’s what those numbered points say:

1. If the victim is choking, call 911. Let the victim know you are going to help them.

Hey, I’m going to help you, but first I’m going to make a quick phone call. Don’t worry, you’ll pass out long before the ambulance can get here.

2. Give 5 back blows.

Seems to me like this is something that should happen at the end as a means of thanking the person who just saved your life, but I am not a doctor or anything.

3. Make a fist with your hand and place your (blurry words here about fisting)

I’m realizing here that no mention has been made of Dr. Henry Heimlich. What ever happened to him and his maneuver?

4. Grip your fist with your other hand and press into the victim [sic] abdomen with 5 quick inward and upward thrusts

If you should happen to graze victim jiggling breasts in the process, do not make a big deal out of it. Just file it away for later.

5. Repeat until object is dislodged

Or until you reach completion, whoever comes last.

I saw one of my teachers choking once in high school. A classmate of mine performed the Heimlich, a piece of potato came rocketing out, and pretty much everyone was embarrassed.

Not sure if there were any back blows, but I don’t really want to know anyway.

“What is wrong with you?” he asked, so I figured it had potential and wrote it out.

I remember watching a History Channel show about prison life in which a former prison hit man is talking about having to store his stabbing weapon up his backside. He referred to it as a “keister stash.” It’s kind of a terrible juxtaposition, you know, since being a hitman might be the most manly thing a man can be, while getting penetrated anally is arguably the least. You could see the conflict in the man’s face on the television.

That got me thinking about how uncomfortable it must be physically to carry a knife that way, and then I started thinking pragmatically about what a person might do to ease the discomfort.

And so, the idea of the dildo-handled shank was born. Here’s the full article:
“Prison Hitman Ostracized for Fashioning Dildo Handled Shank”

I’m also in the process of moving to an emerging neighborhood, which got me thinking: what must it be like to have a smartass move into your neighborhood and have the gall to refer to it as “emerging.” What a smug prick!

So, I wrote an article about that very thing:
“Emerging Neighborhood Emerging Too Slowly, Reports Homeowner/Victim”

And I was also tricked into watching Grey’s Anatomy by Cheryl, though I did get dinner out of the deal. That got me thinking about what other sorts of deception someone else’s Cheryl might engage in to get them to watch Grey’s, so I wrote an article along those lines as well.

It is here:
“Grey’s Anatomy Treachery Suspected”

I’m still working on my novel project, although I haven’t had a lot of time to get into it over the holidays, what with the eating and the drinking and the moving. December should be a strong month, ideally.

I also had an idea for a story today. It goes like this.

Two vacuums who are both standup comedians by trade are talking. The older, more established one is mentoring the younger newcomer.

“Listen,” the older vacuum says. “You’ve got to get the change jokes out of your act. Everyone does jokes about change. We’ve heard it all before. When you’re run over change it makes a lot of noise and just falls out again. We get it. That’s hack shit.”

The younger vacuum is hurt but tries not to show it. “Well, yeah but my joke is a play on words. We fear change. Get it? Change like money but also…”

Older vacuum cuts him off. “I get it, and I’m telling you it’s hack shit. What’s next? Mao Tse Tung? ‘Change must come from the barrel of a gun’?”

The younger vacuum looks as though this is a pretty decent premise for a joke he’d have happily included in his act had this conversation never occurred. The older vacuum senses that he’s not getting through.

Older vacuum tries again. “Did you look at the crowd out there?”

“Of course I looked. I thought it went-”

“Well it didn’t went. You bombed. You did not suck.”

“Aw, come on I totally sucked.”

The older vacuum realizes he is talking to himself. Not that he’s not being heard, but that he’s talking more to a younger version of himself that he sees in the younger vacuum than to the younger vacuum. He relaxes his attachments and leans back a bit. The younger vacuum senses the tension go out of the conversation.

“You know,” the older vacuum says, finally, “You’ve got a lot of promise, kid. You are going to be fine.”

This is a short selection. I’m still introducing the main characters and their environments.

Here I’m describing how the Martian colony came to be what it is. Enjoy!

The human race discovered that it was the only sentient form of life in its solar system at about the same time as the first aliens came around to politely mug us. Human scope took a great leap then. At one moment, humans were warring bitterly against each other over Earth resources, and the next they were hugging each other in mortal fear and fighting as one.

We have now adopted the much more civilized practice of financially ruining one another rather than the barbarian practice of hacking each other to bits. Some call it progress. Some say it is better to be dead than ruined. Only the ruined say the latter, though, and they’re famously maudlin.

In the course of repelling the first wave of muggers, Earth scientists captured and reverse engineered every piece of alien tech it possibly could. By war’s end, humans found themselves able to travel the heavens with relative ease, which led to manned exploration of the solar system. This, in turn, led to colonization attempts on anything that had a solid surface to stand on, and a few new kinds of celebrities.

Some planets had supported colonization very well. Others not so much. The colonists were nothing if not enterprising, however, seeing each and every planet as a giant ball of resources just waiting to be mined.

Of the colonized planets, Mars was the most heavily populated. It had a surface that one could stand on, a little water, and wasn’t too cold. Miners had flocked to it hoping to discover untold riches in gold or diamonds, but had limited success. What gold they found was barely valuable enough to pay for the process of mining it and shipping it off world. In short, Mars was exactly what it appeared to be from above: a giant ball of rust.

Not willing to give up so easily, the wealthy Earth businessmen who backed the colonies bought heaps of advertising and a fleet of lobbyists on Earth to tell the story of the first planetary gold rush. Books were written. Blockbuster movies were made. The tourism trade flourished, generating many thousands of times more money than any mining operation. Profits soared, weighed down only by the cost of the mining that the tourists had come to see and take part in in the first place.

As a result, the miners became adventure travel guides. They began to be paid not on the value of the minerals they mined, but on how miner-ish they looked. Geologists and engineers were fired, and hard men with lantern jaws were hired in their places. This was fortunate, as mining crews occasionally fought over the most scenic travel spots, and engineers are quite useless in a scuffle.