Regret-A-Day

Exactly what it sounds like. Life's full of regret. And I've made it my mission to post at least one per day. Join me, won't you?


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DAY 1353

We’ve been getting free Sunday editions of the newspaper lately.

Mainly because they think that if we get enough of them, we’ll appreciate the old-fashioned, tactile satisfaction of reading the paper on Sunday mornings. Then we’ll turn around & demand a subscription. 

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Well, that ain’t gonna happen. Because print may not be dead. But newsprint certainly is. To me, at least. 

That’s why, while I sifted through the Sunday paper, I regretted seeing the shitty, shitty, SHITTY state of comic strips.

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It’s been a while, but I’ve already bitched & moaned about Donna A. Lewis’ complete fuckus of a strip.

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So, I’m taking her off the table.

I’m not giving her 3rd grade, diving-bell-and-the-butterfly/my-left-foot style of “drawing” a pass, mind you.

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I just feel like I’ve given her enough shit. She’s only part of the problem anyway. Let’s go through the greatest hits of comic strip regrets.

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"Brevity is the soul of wit" only works if you’re funny in the first place. Also, it’s clear that Guy & Rodd had ONE punchline. A shitty pun about Sweet’N Low. A mini regret is that it takes TWO FUCKING GUYS to come up with this shit.

Alrighty. Next. 

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Is there something here I’m not getting? I mean, it seems simple enough. But even something as basic bitch as “Family Circus” has a 1-2 punch to it. Something like THIS.

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Or, you know, THIS.

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But THIS?

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Sorry, you’re so damn simple & abysmal that you fucking lost me. 

And onward.

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Again, what am I not seeing that other people are? Am I reading the panels in the wrong order? Fuck me, this is infuriating. 

Also, I’d like to point out that these last two strips appear back-to-back. Which makes this shit even MORE confusing.

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They’re both about dogs. One’s created by a guy named Basset, the other’s called “Fred Bassett.” 

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Okay. Moving on.

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So, I’ve seen this crap for years & I STILL don’t know what the shit a “plugger” is. I don’t actually WANT to know. I’m assuming it’s a fan base of desperate “Parrotheads,” sending ideas into this Gary Brookins dude. 

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You know, this sad, tired, stop-taking-my-freedoms generation of oldsters, who shove their political beliefs through this dumbass strip.

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"HA! Whatcha gotta say about THAT, Obummer?"

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So, here’s the last one I’m putting out there.

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Again, no FUCKING idea. And I’m not intentionally being dismissive. Maybe I’d like to know what the fuck is going on here. But when I see brainpuke like this, it reminds me of the stuff Gary Larson rejected.

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But at least the strips Larson didn’t publish were borderline genius.

I just get an sick feeling in the pit of my stomach when I see “Prickly City” for some reason.

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Ahhhhh. There we go. 

Look, if your comic strip is already shitty, don’t cloud it with your stupid politics. I mean, whatever happened to strips like “Peanuts?”

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Ohhhhhhhhh, that’s right.

Sure, Schulz was a steadfast Christian. But he didn’t turn his strip into some soapboxing platform for his own bullshit.

You know what? Fuck it. I’m going back to Hagar. 

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That bastard NEVER lets me down.

D A Y  1 3 5 2

Alright, fuck the Moody Blues. On every level & in every capacity & orifice. 

Fuck my stupid brain for replaying the chorus of this fucking song all fucking day long in my head.

Fuck whatever memory I still have left that allows me to recall hearing this all of TWICE back in 1981.

Fuck the Moody Blues AGAIN for still being around in 1981.

I regret all of these things & more. I just can’t wade through “22,000 Days” enough to put more regrets into words.

DAY 1351

You know what I regret seeing in movies? And I mean more than ANYTHING.

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Okay, that’s going a little too granular. Believe it or not, that wouldn’t be my first choice.

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Yep. Origin stories.

Now, I understand that sometimes they’re necessary. But there’s been a horrible pattern of unnecessary ones over the past few years. 

Enter THIS doo-doo:

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Oh, good. Maybe I’ll learn something new about Dracula.

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Wait. I just remembered something. I already know all I need to know about Dracula.

Alright “Dracula Untold,” what exactly hasn’t been told before?

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What? Are you fucking serious?

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Yep. An undead Caligula turns Vlad into a vampire. 

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My sentiments exactly, Tim Gunn.

I mean, I’m all for creative license or whatever, especially if you’re tackling subject matter that’s been done to death. But if you’re putting Caligula & Dracula in the same room, don’t attach it to the original source.

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Although I’m sure just about EVERY Dracula flick has attributed their work to lovable loser Bram Stoker.

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I said “just about.”

For the record, my ass ain’t seeing this steaming pile. Sure, it’s got some interesting visuals in the trailer, I guess.

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But considering I’ve been in versions of both Dracula AND Caligula,

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I don’t know if my feeble mind could take it.

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Good God. Tyler Perry must blow a line of editors & studio execs in full drag just to get a picture locked.

DAY 1350

I’ve been fascinated by obscure punk bands for a while now.

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You know, the ones who are just footnotes in punk oral histories. Ones who known punk bands cite as serious groundbreakers in the scene.

And I’m talking before the genre became a parody of itself.

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Before the general public became aware of it.

Before weak mohawks.

Before EVERYBODY had tattoos. 

And before the UK turned it into an entire movement of grotesque caricature, based on ONE INCIDENT, where Richard Hell used safety pins to keep his clothes together before a performance.

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I’m obsessed with the early days, when performers were taking shit back to basics. Bands that weren’t even categorized as “punk” because that term hadn’t even been coined by Legs McNeil & his crew yet.

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The point is, I’ve read enough punk bios, autobios & oral histories to become geeky as hell about seminal bands that seemed to slip through the cracks. 

For example, on the LA scene you had bands like The Screamers.

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These were brilliant nutjobs who were churning out blistering music as early as 1975, around the same time as The Ramones on the East Coast. The only difference is that The Screamers never officially released anything apart from a few scattered demos later on.

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You caught them live or didn’t catch them at all, which is why every LA punk band worth their salt namedrop them as huge influences.

Same with San Fran’s Crime.

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Unless you were rabidly collecting obscure 7” records back in the day, your only chance to catch something this awesome was if you were there.

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And as you’d expect, the NYC scene was a lot artier. Pretty much anything was game when it came to CBGB’s. I mean, it’s not like Hilly knew what the fuck was going on, 

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so he didn’t care what happened onstage as long as people were drinking. Like Debbie Harry’s first band, The Stilettos.

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It had a punk-like flavor, but this was only 1974/75. It’s not like there was a definitive scene going on. They were just playing what they wanted to play. You know, as long as it didn’t resemble whatever bloated prog, maestroism & buttrock was happening at the time.

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And that brings us to my biggest guilty pleasure of obscure punk bands:

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Steel Tips. 

It seems like apart from the occasional flyer,  

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rare 12”

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or random video

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there’s almost no trace of these delinquents. 

And yeah, maybe I have a thing for them for reasons that have very little to do with the music. Like, I don’t know, a backup singer gal, 

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who has no qualms about dancing wildly in a Catholic girl outfit?

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What can I say? I’m utterly predictable.

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Well, while scrounging around for morsels of this band on the cyberwebs recently, I found this article:

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Wait a minute. This is about the dude who draws “Mutts?!?” 

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I mean, nothing against him or that strip (which I kind of dig), but I’m Google searching “Steel Tips band punk CBGBs” here. Why did…?

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Hold on a second. You mean Steel Tips’ little Catholic school girl

is the “Mutts” guy’s wife? Okay, yeah. I can totally see it.

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But who was HE in Steel Tips? I know he wasn’t the dude who blew himself up with firecrackers in the only video I’ve ever seen of them.

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That’s Joe Coleman, who went on to become a pretty amazing painter.

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And I’m pretty sure he wasn’t the chubby backup singer.

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Then was he THIS guy?

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No, wait. Maybe he’s the drummer.

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Yep. I can kind of see it in the nose.

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Regardless, my mind is fucking blown wide open today. 

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Look, I know there are a lot of people out there who hate the fact that nothing’s really much of a mystery anymore. They miss the days of not knowing EVERYTHING about a piece of pop culture.

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Holy shit! You mean there was a GUY inside that Wookiee suit?

They live for the days when you DIDN’T know all the behind-the-scenes magic, where you’d have to dig & research your guts out to find those little morsels.

Sadly, I’m not one of them.

Because I regret that I can’t seem to fully put together the pieces to this puzzle within this wacky information society we live in.

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I mean, Steel Tips were even on the Uncle Floyd show for Chrissakes!

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Why can’t I find ANYTHING ELSE about these people?

Man, this is gonna slowly kill me for a long time.

D A Y  1 3 4 9

I swear I’ve done a regret about this video/song before, but mainly I’m doing one today because the chorus to this shit has been on repeat in my head all day. And I regret that this is the case.

Not shitting on Alan Parsons Project, you understand. But I’d much rather have something like “Games People Play" or "Time" or fucking "Eye In The Sky" playing over & over if I had a say in the matter. 

That being said, I regret the following about this thing. Ooooooooo, a two-parter!

THE VIDEO ——————————————————————————-

$50,000 GETS YOU THIS? SERIOUSLY? THAT’S ALL?
That’s the budget. So, why didn’t Marvel jump on the guys who did this & crank out something better than “Spider-Man & His Amazing Friends?” Sure, these were 1984 dollars, but the bad guy in this seems like a prototype for the Hulk’s “Joe Fixit.” And is that Tony Stark?

ANIMATED ALAN PARSONS IS SOMEHOW SADDER
There’s a reason videos like this work for his group. Even in their cameo, they look like a band of dads. It’s animation, people. Give that dude something more flattering than the combover he has in real life. And God forbid you should make them look like they’re actually playing. 

THE SONG ——————————————————————————-

TRUE TO FORM, APP, TRUE TO FUCKING FORM
The 80’s were a weird mish-mash of truly odd shit. Matthew Wilder’s “Break My Stride” on the same chart as Julio Iglesias/Willie Nelson’s “To All The Girls I’ve Loved Before.” Which gave Alan Parsons free rein to release the most Alan Parsonsest Alan Parsons song ever Alan Parsonsed. 

ALL ALAN PARSONS KARAOKE, PBR’S ONLY $1
I’ve never seen anyone do this (or ANY Alan Parsons) at karaoke, but I’d imagine it’d go over like “Kill The Poor" at a GOP convention. The lyrics basically lead you down one road unless you understand irony or have a sense humor. Looks like Fiona Apple just got booted off my list.

DAY 1348

I still remember the first time I heard this album.

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I was working at a college radio station. And it seemed like every DJ there had a signature band that they focused on during their time slot.

The guy before me seemed to play a buttload of Hagar buttrock.

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He called himself “Red Rocker” (natch’) & tended to stick to Hagar’s solo work, even choosing Montrose or HSAS songs over Van Halen material. 

I’d start & end my show with some rare Floyd shit.

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A shorter, more obscure song like “Murderistic Women" at the top & then a longer one from a bootleg at the end like the original "Embryo.” 

Once my shift was over, my friend Marilyn would take over & play almost nonstop Ramones.

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Sometimes I’d hang around during her show & we’d talk about music, college bullshit or whatever. Mostly she’d just try to convert me into a Ramones fan.

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This was a time in my life when I was discovering a LOT of music I’d somehow missed in high school. I mean, I’d been a punk fan since I was 15, but I was pretty selective in my tastes.

Case in point: THIS album was the apex of what I thought punk was at that age.

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It was dark, snarky & filled with politically-charged lyrics that made you want to question EVERYTHING authority figures were selling you.

Dead Kennedys educated me by telling me to be careful who I trusted.

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The Ramones were bums from Queens singing about sniffing glue.

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But Marilyn knew there was place in the world for both. She also pointed out that without bands like The Ramones, there’d probably be no Dead Kennedys.

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Much less hardcore punk. So, that started me down the road of learning the fundamentals of punk. Which got me to read one of the best books on punk ever written.

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Which, in turn, helped me appreciate the groundbreaking nature of THIS album.

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Marilyn made me a tape of it & I honestly had to listen to it a few times to figure out what I liked about it. Then time & other obsessions took over.

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The truth is, I never actually owned The Ramones’ debut until recently. You know, in any form other than a mixtape. Well, I’ve been listening to it for the past week in the car

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And now I just can’t stop listening. It’s so fucking good. 

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Okay, before you start judging, here’s a certifiable rock snob’s perspective. I sincerely believe that you have to be ready for certain bands/albums. That could mean different things to different people:

• You happen to be more mature & ready for something new
• You find something that reminds you of your childhood
• You’re bored with what you’ve been listening to over the years
• You hear something that completely changes your perceptions

I got on a Ramones jag for a little bit thanks to Marilyn, but I let it slide & found other stuff that I felt was more important at the time. But now,

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it’s like the weird, staccato singing & the machine gun riffs that I thought were just stupid or goofy before are hitting me someplace that wasn’t there before.

On one hand, I regret that it took me so long to hook into this beautiful album. Although I don’t feel TOO bad about it. After all, it took Morrissey decades to admit he was wrong about them.

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On another hand, I regret the fact that this seminal album was only certified gold this year. It seriously took 38 years to sell 500,000 copies?!!?

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And on the third hand (?), I regret that Marilyn isn’t around anymore so I can talk to her about it.

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Damn, she would’ve read me the riot act about letting it slide for so long.

DAY 1347

CAVEAT: I just reread this post. It’s particularly brutal & full of rage, basically reflecting the hateful place my head’s at right now. Some of it may spill out on you.* Or maybe I’m just saying what you’re thinking. 

Just remember this: if you’re offended somehow, ISIS wins. 

Fuck me running. Today’s post is about things that shouldn’t even be Goddamned things. And that’s why I regret the existence of them all equally & for only slightly different reasons.

Let’s take the lighter one first. We’ll ramp up later.

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Listen, I’m a HUGE supporter of local businesses. But a joint in Burnsville, MN called Anser Innovation is shoving this out pretty soon:

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I’ll let you figure this one out for yourself. It’s called PetChatz.

Get it?

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GET it?

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GET IT!

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Yeah. It’s not a tough leap.

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The point is, fuck this. Fuck this on a few levels:

• FUCK THE ENTIRETY OF THIS PUDDINGHEAD IDEA

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If you own a pet & suffer from “separation anxiety,” consider one of the following options:

A) Don’t own a fucking pet in the first place, you knob

OR

B) Quit your job & die penniless with your starving pet

• FUCK THE PUDDINGHEADS WHO’D ACTUALLY BUY IT

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Look, spend your money any way you want for all I care. But you’ve just proven DEVO & Mike Judge’s point if you buy this. You’ve officially de-evolved.

• FUCK THE PUDDINGHEAD PRICE POINT ON THIS THING

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Oh, that’s just the beginning. You wouldn’t wanna be a fucking dunce & be caught without all the accessories, right? RIGHT?

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So, what, you’re in the hole for how much now? Roughly $450.

I mean, I like to think I’ve got a little savings & a measly amount of disposable income, but even my fucking CAT wouldn’t stand for such a fucking puddinghead idea.

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MY CAT - Hmmmmmmm. There’s that asshole again.

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MY CAT - Yeah, fuck this.

Okay, next.

I don’t give a fuck about football.

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And you know what? Neither should you. Because the sub-mental bloodsuckers running this show don’t give a high-ditty shit about you.

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They only care about selling tickets. And no matter how many times some pituitary case shows his real self,

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the corporation will continue NOT giving a fuck. Which means YOU’LL continue NOT giving a fuck. Which makes you as heartless as the corporation is.

So, to recap. Buy a ticket, support a felon.

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Or stop watching football & maybe they’ll get the message.

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It’s a lot to ask, I know. And I don’t know why I’m wasting my time suggesting it. You won’t do it anyway. Because, like most of America, you have a weakness for wife-beating, child-abusing millionaires. 

And I regret that that’s how it works.

Lastly, THIS.

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I’ve already railed against Urban Outfitters more times than I can remember. Mostly it was about stupid shit like the fact that they carry vinyl that NONE of their vapid demographic could possibly appreciate.

Or the fact that they’re selling the dumbest fashion known to turd.

But THIS? This is a different thing altogether.

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Now they’re playing the innocent card on a vintage Kent State shirt they put out into the world.

Just read this & try to figure out what’s so regrettable about it:

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Who’s the chowderfuck writing your retractions? Goebbles?

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No, it couldn’t be.

For one, he’s long dead. And for two, Hitler’s Minister of Propaganda might’ve been deviously evil, but he wouldn’t have been THIS FUCKING STUPID.

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This “one-of-a-kind item” was immediately snatched up & then posted on eBay for an asking price of $2500.

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Although there was a semi-positive spin on it in the end.

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Or, you know, just fucking destroy it or donate it to a museum or some shit. 

Jesus. 

Ultimately, this is Urban Outfitters’ shitshow, who I’ll be giving a little bit of advice to starting now:

Read a Goddamned history book before selling something you found in the crawlspace of your supermodel torture chamber. That way you’ll be doing a little research before engorging on so much of Satan’s molten, double-headed snakecock.

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* I warned you.

DAY 1346

You know the MAIN reason I hated the Star Wars prequels?

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It’s the exact same reason why Patton Oswalt hated the prequels:

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I don’t give a SHIT where the stuff I love comes from. I just love the stuff I love.

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Hey, do you like Angelina Jolie? She give you a big boner? Well, here’s Jon Voight’s BALL SACK.

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That’s right. The pink, glistening ball sack she SWAM out of.

Well, news flash, I feel the same about THIS upcoming shitshow.

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Ooooooo, look! It’s Bruce Wayne, Jr. And Catgirl. And, HOLY FUCK, is that a young Detective Gordon?

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Holy shit! A pre-Penguin Oswald Copperpot?!!? Somebody’s been reading my DREAM JOURNAL!!!!

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Look, if you’re jizzing your own balls over this, if this is EXACTLY what you’ve been waiting for, if this is right up your alley, I’m happy for you.

Maybe you’ll feel the same way these dunderhead critics feel:

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But I regret the fact that THIS is the direction a DC franchise is going. I mean, GREAT, you’re pushing out a “Flash” series.

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"WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!"

Kudos for somehow greenlighting another one about Constantine.

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"Derp."

I just regret that the people responsible for making these decisions can’t see how even FARTHER behind Marvel they’re going. 

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Shaddap’ you face. No, you’re fucking not.

The needle’s going the wrong way, you ding-a-lings. Once you decide to toss in a cape & cowl, lemme know.

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I MIGHT watch.

DAY 1345

There was a time when I was a car collector. 

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Okay, maybe that’s not the preferred nomenclature. The point is, I used to collect THESE.

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It was a simpler time. Before I knew what a “Star Wars” was

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& well before I had any interest in girls,

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I was highly addicted to little cars.

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And like most kids, I wasn’t exactly brand-loyal. No, I was an unabashed, die-cast car whore.

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Didn’t care which company I was getting my fix from. And as far as what I stored them in, I might as well have been mixing my Coke with my Pepsi.

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This thing was filled to the brim with any vehicle I could get my grubby little hands on. And I had shitloads, most of which tended to be melded with whatever flavor-of-the-month, pop cultural garbage that was happening at the time.

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But eventually, my interest in these things waned when I realized I could coat them in my mother’s nail polish & light them on fire.

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The STOVE!?!?! Of COURSE! I wish I’d thought of that.

Luckily I didn’t do the same with my pets, otherwise I probably would’ve wound up a serial killer. 

Well, unlike most things in my life, I was able to easily turn my back on this & never look back.

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Until now.

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Why, God? Why?

Look, I already covered Atari’s nothing-to-lose attitude towards co-branding

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so it’s not exactly a surprise that they’re putting out crazy-cool, geeky stuff like this.

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And like their Atari/Denny’s merger, I don’t exactly regret that this is going on. In fact, THIS makes more sense than a set of video games involving greasy menu items.

But the worst part is regretting the fact that I may actually be pulled back into car collecting after all these years.

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Oh, c’mon! Really? That 2600 TOTALLY looks like an EM-50 Urban Assault Vehicle.

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Damn, dude. You’re fucking killing me over here.

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"And then, depression set in."

_______________________________________________________________

BONUS REGRET:

Ummmmm, seeing this. I’ll let you figure out which part I’m talking about.*

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* HINT: ALL of it.

DAY 1344

We don’t really know anybody. We always wish we did, but that doesn’t change anything. 

Take two recent losses we’ve faced in the entertainment industry.

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These guys had proper demons.

To a casual observer, these demons were invisible. But to these two men, the demons perched on their shoulders day-in & day-out. 

Even the people we THINK we’re close to are still miles away. And those we SHOULD know like the back of our hands are usually the ones we know the least about in the long run. 

John Lilleberg was like that for me.

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He was in the first show I ever saw in the Twin Cities, even before I’d done my first show here. Then in 2002, I found myself as the drummer in a demented, three-piece orchestra for a show at TRP called “A Night At The Black Pig.”

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There were 30 talented actors in this fucker. Many of whom I’d work with again over the years. And Lilleberg was one of them. 

Okay, see where that chair is center stage? Train your eyes up a bit. Right above that dark vom is where the orchestra was placed.

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This meant that we spent a majority of the show just watching what was happening onstage. Which in some shows COULD be a horrible existence. But I figured out a system that made it all bearable.

I decided to watch a different actor’s path throughout the show every night.

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Again, we’re talking about 30 actors here. The possibilities were endless.

But about two or three performances in, I found that I only focused on Lilleberg. And this continued every damn night of the run. 

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His character - apart from all the others - embodied a sense of pent-up lunacy. A rumbling underneath that the audience was only seeing a part of. Something you strive for as an actor.

Not showing everything. Just enough to make the audience wonder. 

It’s something I immediately stole from him. 

Years later, I’d do a one-man show called “Thom Pain (based on nothing).” And I’m happy to admit that at least 75% of what I brought to it was a sense of “What-Would-Lilleberg-Do.” 

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Not showing everything. Just enough to make the audience wonder. 

Not long before that, I recommended him for a feature I was working on with Collision Pictures.

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The director was looking for an actor who could play the part of a priest. But this character needed to be someone who was offering solace, while looking like he himself had his own demons to struggle with.

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John was fucking IT, dude. It’s a small role, but his performance REALLY stands out for me

The last time I saw him & one of the few times I ever worked with him was in 2012.

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Basically a three-man job, “Viscosity” was like going back to school for me. I’m acting across from a dude who had a MASSIVE effect on what I perceived acting to be. And yet when I watch it, I see how much I’m fucking acting & how effortless Lilleberg is making it all look.

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All this comes down to regretting that I knew John, but I never really KNEW him. You know what I’m saying?

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Every time I’d see him in person, it was like meeting some big screen idol. Even though he never acted that way. Lilleberg was the quietest man in whatever room I was in with him.

Honestly, he always reminded me of John Milner from “American Graffiti.”

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Something under the hood going 100 mph.

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I regret that the Twin Cities lost such a stellar talent. I regret that the world has lost the same.

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One more thing.

I’ve been writing a screenplay for years. The main character is an indie filmmaker who faded into obscurity, but is suddenly thrust back into the spotlight, digging his heels all the way.

That main character has always been John in my mind.  

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I’ve written it in his voice, using all his mannerisms. Every time a line of dialogue hits the page, I can see John Lilleberg saying it. 

He’s a character haunted by proper demons. And maybe it’s selfish of me, but I regret that NO ONE could possibly play that role now. 

DAY 1343

Obviously, every American can answer this question about 9/11.

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I was rehearsing a touring show in Boston that morning.

I’d woken up at 8:30 am, strolled leisurely down the street to the rehearsal space, passing drunks looking at their watches, while they waited for the corner bar to open.

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As I walked up the stairs to the rehearsal space, I could hear a news report being broadcast. Then I found my cast huddled around the TV.

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That was my first glimpse of what was going on. And I still remember making an ill-conceived, poorly timed “Project Mayhem” joke.

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Yeah. Reeeeeeeeeal smooth, Cliff.

When I realized it was the real deal, I felt pretty horrible. Especially when some of my cast members couldn’t get in touch with friends & family in NYC.

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That’s when one of our producers bolted in & said something to this effect:

BOSTON THEATER PRODUCER - Guys, I know this is a difficult time. So, if you need some time to chill out for a bit, please do that. Wanna make any phone calls at the office? Be our guest. But I need to tell you this in all seriousness. We open in a week, so whatever you do, DO NOT STOP REHEARSING.

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These guys were running a business, people. Know what I’m saying?

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That’s right. The addition of that wink insinuates that we were actually rehearsing porn. And if you’d seen the show, you’d realize that the only people getting fucked were our audiences.

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Okay, we’re getting off track here. The point is, another 9/11 has come & gone. And with it, a glut of THIS kind of stuff.

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Well, at the risk of sounding unpopular/anti-American, I kind of regret the existence of that whole forgetful angle. 

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Look, we’re not talking about the fucking Alamo here.

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In terms of the absolute timeline, this JUST HAPPENED.

We lost close to 3,000 people on our home turf.

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Which pitched us into a completely unrelated war, needlessly killing even MORE Americans for no reason in the grand scheme of things.

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Not to mention, this shit COMPLETELY fucked air travel from then on.

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So, as much as I appreciate the sentiment, just quit with the whole “remember”/”never forget” thing, please. We don’t need to be reminded every year. Maybe once we get far enough out, this’ll be necessary. 

But 9/11 is forever burned into our collective consciousnesses. I’m not saying all this to demean what happened. But this isn’t fucking “Memento.”

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NONE of us will be forgetting this massive fuckus anytime soon, thanks. 

D A Y  1 3 4 2

Alright, alright. Let’s clear something up right here & fucking now:

Winger blows.

You’re entitled to your opinion, of course. But if the word “blows” is magically replaced by “rules” or “rocks” in that sentence, we need to hash this out right here & fucking now. (I repeated that for emphasis.)

Look, I try my damnedest NOT to be that rock snob who shits on other people’s tastes. But on this I just can’t budge. Sure, Winger isn’t as bad as, say, Poison, but this band still sucks knob.

But let’s say you actually LIKE Winger. Here are potential categories you probably fit in:

• You’re defending them in some ironic way, like when people say that really like “The Final Countdown.”

• You’re one of those jackanapes who gets excited when a song like “Melt With You” plays on the radio for the billionth time.

Or maybe there’s a legitimate excuse. For instance, maybe you:

• Actually owned Winger’s self-titled debut on cassette
• Saw them when they opened for Enuff Z’Nuff
• Rimjobbed Kip Winger in an abandoned carnival ride
• Had some early sexual encounter that involved all three, but with a guy (or girl?) who only RESEMBLED Kip Winger

If you fit into any of those last four categories, I guess you get a pass. 

So, now that we’ve crossed all those bridges, I have a confession to make:

I actually LIKE this song. 

And before you start jizzing judgement in my hair, let me clarify. My liking this song has NOTHING to do with the following:

• The swatches of color in an otherwise black & white video
• The director’s daughter who’s playing the leggy blonde
• The unnecessary use of TWO keyboard players for this song
• The uncharacteristically antique microphones he’s singing into
• Pretty much every trace of 1989 in this entire video abortion

Here’s my rationale. Play the whole video or just click the times below:

:23
First off, this thing jumps into a key I’m never expecting. I’ve always heard that this was a “ballad,” but it doesn’t really have that feel to me.

1:48
This step down into the bridge is intensely satisfying to me for some reason. Not so thrilled with the bridge itself, but whatever.

2:03
There’s a moment here that’s eerily similar to my favorite moment in one of my least favorite songs: “Don’t Speak” by No Doubt.

2:09
And THAT butts up nicely with the guitar solo. Maybe it’s the key this song is in, but it’s pretty fucking spectacular. (Jesus. I just typed that.)

3:00
Here comes that step down harmony again. But instead of going to another bridge, it slinks down into this really quiet part I kind of dig.

3:11
This is where the song takes a completely different turn. For the last minute & 30 seconds, this goes about as far into prog as Winger will ever go.

3:43
I don’t know what happens here, but this change is fucking chilling. Also, Winger’s guitar player has clearly knelt at the temple of Gilmour. 

4:08
I mentioned prog earlier. And I swear there are moments where Winger’s drummer is squeezing out as much Bill Bruford as he can.

4:12
There’s that weird change again. It almost seems like a mistake. Like something they planned on fading out, but just kept in.

4:19
Damn that drummer, man. He’s pulling off stuff here towards the end that NO band in late 80’s radio was attempting. Just sick fills here.

______________________________________________________________

So, where’s the regret? Well, I think it’s obvious. I just spent half the night writing a post that extolls the fucking virtues of Goddamned Winger. 

DAY 1341

So, Apple just announced their new iWatch yesterday.

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And although I’m normally a fucking hater, I don’t actually regret their announcement.

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Seriously.

Yay.

One more thing to help thin out the brainless herd.

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On one hand, I regret the fact that Google tried to correct me when I typed in “Apple watch.”

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No. No, I DIDN’T mean that.

Maybe I was looking for something like THIS, dick.

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Maybe I’ve really been meaning to decorate my kitchen in more of a retired schoolmarm motif.

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Ever think of THAT, Apple? You’re not the ONLY apple-related product in town, you know.

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I’m okay.

On the other hand, I regret the fact that so many people are already jizzing balls over this.

And the fact that this thing probably won’t go the way of, say, THIS

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or THIS.

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And I say that because I actually own ONE of these. You guess which one.

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ME - Alright, DK. Prepare to… AAAAAAAAAA! My fucking corneas!

In all seriousness, if you ever get a chance to play Virtual Boy’s “Waterworld” tie-in,

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I advise choosing a method of suicide that’s quick & painless.

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C’mon. Do it, pussy. 

DAY 1340

Alright, I’m a copywriter. So, you may think I don’t have a dog in a fight that involves graphic design.

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See, I work with talented graphic designers all day, every day. For that reason, I can’t help regretting the existence of shitty logo design when I see it out in the world.

And I’m not even talking about the cardinal sin of the dreaded Papyrus font 

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or even the overtly sexual logos that some clod actually approved.

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I’m talking shit like THIS.

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I’m not even gonna go into the assiness of the messaging.  

Hold on. Lemme zoom in.

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Little more.

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Disco.

I hope to Christ a legit designer didn’t actually have a hand in this. My hope is that they just pulled this shit from a stock house. You know, like the same one that churned THIS fuckus out.

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That sketchy figurine shit pisses me off more than anything. Papyrus not withstanding. It’s outdated & fucking horrible even when it wasn’t.

So, I’m putting this out there to any businesses looking for logos. 

A) Just because your nephew learned Photoshop doesn’t mean that Millennial waste of space is qualified.

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I’m all for nepotism. But I guarantee whatever this asshat comes up with is gonna suck balls. And fuck deadlines, BTW. His “R&D” will involve subdivisions of porn you never dreamed existed.  

B) You always get what you pay for.

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Let’s say you actually drop some money on a logo. First off, good on you. But even if you go to some shithole like THIS,

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keep in mind that THEY DESIGNED THEIR OWN LOGO, TOO. And no amount of kudos from fellow cheapskates can change that.

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Okay, guy-from-Subway-I-used-as-a-scapegoat. You’re off the hook.

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GUY AT SUBWAY - Hey, thanks! I got off easy.

D A Y  1 3 3 9

Jesus. Tapdancing. Christ.

I don’t just regret watching this, I hate myself for watching it. Just angers up the blood. 

Let’s go down the line & figure out why, shall we?

PLEASURE OF FLIPPANCY
Some people actually get off on not knowing things before they were born. They almost seem like they get a thrill out of saying, “I don’t know what that is” or “I wasn’t born yet.” It’s dismissive & it always steams me.

LET’S SAY YOU’RE ALL 16
So, you were born in what, 1998? This song only came out seven years earlier. I recently went through songs that came out seven years before I was born. Out of the top 100, I could name at least 50. C’mon, people.

NIRVANA’S LYRICAL CONTENT
There’s a reason the creators of this series picked this song. The lyrics are inane. Doesn’t make Cobain a shitty songwriter. But I don’t give a shit about the lyrics to, say, “Swap Meet.” I’m in this shit for the bitchin’ riffs.

YOUR SHITTY KNOWLEDGE OF MUSIC
Caveat: an old man is talking.* Are your ONLY cultural touchstones Kanye & Kid Cudi? Well, news flash, dunce caps. Those guys didn’t make a dent until well into the aughts. You’re roughly a decade off, ding-a-lings.

But I guess the biggest regret is that I just watched the “Gangnam Style" version. And I regret that I actually sided with these dumbass young’uns. 

* That’s a Simpsons reference, kids. But since it started NINE years before you were born, I guess it doesn’t matter either.