One of my resolutions for this the 2009th year of our Jewish subjugation was to get more in touch with my inner musician which I formerly engrossed myself during formative years.
Like any proper suburban adolescent, I loathed the KSFM swill that was popular in my Cordova High years, but as I’ve grown more detached from it, I’ve realized the special comfort inherent in surrounding yourself with that which you despise to the core. Though my fortunes have been whirling downward of late, it centers me to know that there are still plenty of reasons to hate the world. This retrospective yeast started brewing back in October, whilst listening to Sacramento radio I realized that the only songs I recognized were the ones in heavy rotation at Centerfolds.
So, in between Steel Reserve swilling and chain smoking, I spent a large part of the holiday break burning the retina in my eyes and squeezing the blood from my ears watching MTV and VH1, and listening to podcasts of all paths in an attempt to re-discover what “the kids are saying is hip,” and though I’m a better neo-pornographer than music critic, I came to at least one important conclusion during this time: we must bring back the New Kids on The Block.
It might surprise some of you to know that I was the world’s oldest, hairiest, penis-toting New Kids on The Block fan, but before you get your thong in a knot and begin questioning my bulletproof heterosexuality, allow me to explain.
Yes, I owned a copy of the New Kids on The Block epic self-titled debut, and yes, I clotheslined more than a few 12 year-old girls in a scramble for their follow-up, Hangin Tough. I also accompanied a large bottle of Jaegermeister one opening-night show at the old Arco, and was unceremoniously ejected from said arena for disorderly conduct.
But what makes The New Kids on The Block infinitely more tolerable than the latest crop of bubblegum throwaway bitch-pop artists is that they embraced their worthless musical contributions instead of masquerading as real artists. 98 Degrees, I’m talking to you.
So now, after we swallow a gooey load of regurgitated Michael Jackson riffs, we aren’t even rewarded with a look at Ginger’s floating HRM McTitterson money-shot carriers or Britney’s lycra-wrapped roast beef – only some whiny mallrat whose managers spend $200,000 a year to make them look like they just walked out of a thrift store.
Call a spade a fucking spade, people -- if you’re going to sell the souls of nubile young people for platinum records, at least give us, the record-buying public, something to incubate our intrinsic contempt for the shite we hear on the radio..
Fuck it – I should just go back to Centerfolds.
Please don't go girl,


