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One of the things you might not know about ER Salo Deguierre is that he’s not just interested in ripping off Sonic Youth and the Velvet Underground all the time. No, ol’ Salo has a soft side, too. In fact, he quite loves folk music.

It was 1992 when I first saw a brilliant movie that I highly recommend called Dogfight (starring the late, great River Phoenix in one of his best performances, working alongside the equally phenomenal Lili Taylor). As the credits rolled at the end for this devastating tale of lost innocence in the 1960s, I heard for the first time the dulcet tones of a maestro guitarist named John Fahey and my life has never been the same. I spent the next 17 years not only trying (and failing) to play the way he does but also to figure out how an instrumental guitarist with nobody backing him could sound like a symphony. I wondered for a long time, after listening closely, if his symphonic sound had any relationship to the type dreamed up by Sonic Youth troubadours Thurston Moore and Lee Ranaldo. I was pleasantly surprised later to find that my intuition of a musical connection was not misplaced; Sonic Youth acknowledged at some point that they had indeed used a lot of John Fahey’s alternative tuning approaches to create their own totally original sound. Their debt to him turned out to be so great that they even played shows with him in his waning years (one of which I got to see on my 27th birthday, the best present ever).

John Fahey never sang (he didn’t need to), but until I come up with a guitar sound as fulfilling as his, I have to unfortunately do some croaking on my own material, hoping that if I combine some halfway decent picking skills with a halfway decent vocal, I’ll have something better than both. My results in this pursuit have mostly been a mishmash, but in the last few months I’ve come up with something I don’t mind sharing.

I wrote this song about 10 or 11 years ago but left it unrecorded until this year. It’s about pain, poverty, class resentment. American history, basically. Just click to play.

Kansas 1921
By Eric Rasmussen
Copyright 1999

Go inside the house and get our best wooden chair
Before he comes up our porch
And takes off his bowler hat
And sits down and tells us tales of distant Washington
We’ll feed him corn and watch his face

Seems so long
Since dad’s been dead
But how happy he’d be
To have known a president
On a whistle-stop campaign
In this brave new year of 1921
Just to see our land and give us blessing

Oh ho, high wind, high wall
Won’t you take my hand and pull me down
There’ll be warm spring wind comin’ round

Punch another hole inside your old leather belt
You’re as thin as a bean
And your pants are fallin’ down
And you might run into rich folk in town
Don’t you ever stop to think of who you are?

Try to think that you was raised better than
You was raised
Tie that dog up in the wood
Kick him if he ain’t been good
Lick your fingers, push your hair behind your ears
Don’t smile when they look you in the eye

Oh ho, high wind, high wall
Won’t you take my hand and pull me down
There’ll be warm spring wind
Comin’ round

Image: Simon Howden / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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There’s no getting around it: America is divided. We’ve become more polarized, less tolerant of one another’s ideas and points of view. Less likely to reach across the divide of discourse, less likely to see the ironies of, seek alternatives to or break the paradigms of our own thoughts, less likely to live outside the echo chamber where we repeat the thoughts of our family and friends without thinking for ourselves, where we can’t synthesize seemingly incompatible political ideas. We’ve moved farther apart than ever, refusing to discuss things in a way that might bring us together.

Of course, I’m talking about the tragedy of last night’s Emmy Awards.

Oh sure, Jimmy Fallon was funny wandering the hall like a minstrel and breaking the proscenium stage to sing with Julianna Margulies and Stephen Colbert. Yes, a lot of quality shows were justly rewarded. You don’t even care that they are still calling January Jones a leading lady when she has gotten less air time on Mad Men this year than some of the extras.

But TV has, like America, become polarized, and when you look past the opulence of this gala event, all you see is cleavage … a wider gap than ever between quality and crap on television. The Emmys now have a category for best reality TV show. For those of you who enjoy oxymorons (or just morons)–here is your category. It must be embarrassing for wordsmiths in a writer’s medium to watch the Vandals, Saracens and Goths with their vulgar, vomiting beasts of burden ride across the red carpet and leave horse turds everywhere.

What used to be called television is today called “scripted television.” These are the things that stir our spirit, fire our imaginations. You might now call them paintings, and reality TV, contrariwise, is a mirror. Is a mirror on society interesting? I guess it depends on how interesting the people in them are. Mostly, I see people on reality TV picking their noses. And when it comes to, say, the Jersey Shore, I find the stuff in my own nose more interesting.

Emmy night lays bare this cleavage (sorry, couldn’t resist), where the best of our artists, like Matthew Weiner, who has tickled our fancy with Mad Men, sit cheek by jowl with Kim Kardashian, who tickles just ass men.  Where Tina Fey, who writes so many jokes on every page of 30 Rock that she makes the paper turn black, competes against the likes of Snooki, who, inside and out, is just turning black.

The Second Law of Thermodynamics suggests all systems are in a constant state of flux moving toward disorder. If you’ve read the work of Ilya Prigogine, the great Nobel laureate winning chemist, you realize that once these chaotic systems reach a level of polarization, they seek a quick, violent means of finding order again. Volatile chemical states reach disorder and strange things take place. Geopolitical disorder also allows weird things to take place. Imagine the Spanish Civil War. First, the political center disappeared in Spain, and pretty soon you had a breakdown in representative government in which each side refused to recognize the other. Then you had skirmishes, three years of conflict and discord and violence, and eventually a return to stasis and conformity in the form of a 40 year fascist dictatorship. Sometimes, amid discord, strange things emerge (like the paradox of an “anarchist government” in Barcelona).

But I like to think Prigogine could also have been talking about television. In a state of disorder, broadcast viewers flee to cable. Cable viewers flee to TiVo. TiVo viewers flee to the Internet and handheld devices. There is no conformity of quality or censorship. We live in a wild west, where a medium that used to be strictly regulated for the family now features regular nudity and sexual situations because the money people have become desperate. We now hear the word “shit” a lot. JWoww will show you her tits. Desperation can lead to phenomenal art (as it did when Hollywood movies underwent similar change in the 1960s). But it can also lead to people breaking the law to get on television. Sooner or later, the system will seek stasis and one side will win. The exhibition or the exhibitionists.

My fear is that people who want to watch something that aspires to be good are going to seek it elsewhere outside of television. Which is sad, because good television can be seriously great (like it is on Mad Men, 30 Rock, the Sopranos, etc.) When the good shows start to disappear from regular TV, the people who stay behind will turn it into a 24-hour spy camera. The Sony Masturbation Helper.

It’s great to see Mad Men and Breaking Bad and Lost win so many awards for their quality, but the Emmys remind you of this disorder between us–that the good shows aren’t the ones getting the ratings. Most regular people find it comforting for some reason to watch people threaten each other on Hell’s Kitchen, beat each other on Jerry Springer, or screw up their big moment on American Idol rather than try to work out that obscure Dorian Gray reference on Mad Men (Note to Weiner: nicely played!).  It’s the same reason that high school gossip is so compelling–it allows you to live vicariously rather than live. It allows you to validate yourself and measure your own worth by the failure of others. It asks you to judge everything and do nothing. Which is very, very, very attractive.

I like to think of this as using TV to live outside of your body. It’s one of the themes of a song I wrote called “TV Head.” Technology is changing our brains, doing the organizing for us so that we can do the intuitive work of life ourselves. But it’s also allowing mankind to follow a spiritual impulse he’s had since he wandered out of the African savannas–to not be himself. When he cannot reconcile the substance that is spirit with the substance that is flesh (and when he can’t see how, as some have argued, that the two are biologically interrelated), he seeks to escape and live inside Jonah’s whale. He becomes obsessed with ghosts. With the idea demonic possession. He seeks heaven, as if there he will find answers as an angel he can’t find now in the encyclopedia. Rather than seeking heroes, he will seek Ryan Seacrest.

So the cleavage is not just within Christina Hendricks’ generous embonpoint. The rift in the Emmys is within us. Life is short and none of us wants to say we spent the entire journey watching Kim Kardashian achieve our dreams for us when she has no discernible skills or talents. The thing I like about a show like Mad Men, for instance, is that it’s so smart it makes me do the work. It makes me live in my head. It forces me to do something other than just sit there. And, unlike most of the other manifestly awful things on television, it reminds me that sitting is exactly what I’m doing. I have to ask myself, “Could I be more interesting than Don Draper if I tried?”

Ask yourself. What’s in your nose?

You can listen to my song “TV Head” here: TV Head

Image: Salvatore Vuono / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

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A song with references to one of my favorite books from high school. My wife likes this song because it reminds her a bit of Pink Floyd. That wasn’t my intention, but I’ll go with it.

Just click to play.

Ford 632
Performed by ER Salo Deguierre
Music and Lyrics By Eric Rasmussen
Copyright 2010

And I won’t speak the truth to you
When the jackboots come I won’t say my name to you
The daylight came up faster than our eyes can meet it
When the morning comes it’ll tell you who you really are

And when I looked into your eyes the look was the same
From the dawn of time lovers look away in shame
But when the daylight came up that morning
And the thugs broke down the door
Now I won’t speak the truth to you anymore

And when they hauled you away you were wearing my new jeans
And when you stuffed your legs and belly in between
I saw right away how my jeans fit you
And my shoes and my shirt and my coat
And I won’t ever wear those hated clothes anymore

Two lovers fall to the garden from the skies
And they clean that garden’s beauty with their eyes
For any kind of love they could beg or steal
In a world that they can touch but they can’t feel

And I won’t say your name to the officer
And you won’t say my name to me anymore
Your face it looks like mine does in the daylight
And when I looked across the bed to my surprise

A policeman’s daughter you only brought him shame
That’s why you couldn’t bring yourself to say his name
But if I tore my eyes out completely,
I could still hear it in my brain
You brought me joy but you only left me pain

And you’d take my name if it weren’t already yours
And I won’t speak the truth to you anymore

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I’ve always been fascinated by the story of Malinche, or Marina, the Nahua woman from the Mexican Gulf Coast who was sold as a slave to Cortez, became his translator, his mistress, mother to his child, one of the first mestizos and therefore the symbolic mother of Mexico. I’m obsessed with her story because nobody in literature seems to be as exalted and at the same time maligned. She’s considered a forerunner of her new country on one hand and a traitor to her people on the other, a motherly whore. Even her nickname “Chingada” means literally “a woman who is fucked.”

Cortez & Malinche

Her legend is such that she’s been referenced everywhere from Laura Esquivel and Octavio Paz novels to Neil Young songs and even Star Trek.

I myself have been so intrigued by her tale and this legendary beauty of hers, one so great it supposedly undid a culture and bewitched statesmen and warriors, that I’ve named at least two different characters after her in my fiction. I also wrote a song about her when I was 22, which I’m sharing with you now in an updated version.

“La Chingada,” by ER Salo Deguierre is either further exaltation or further insult, depending on how much you think the song sucks. The good news is that, if Malinche were here, she would no longer have to listen to the song on MySpace. That’s right, I’ve upgraded my Word Press account and embedded the song on the blog. Just press to play.

La Chingada

I hope to post (and repost) more music here in the next few days.

La Chingada
By Eric Rasmussen

Copyright, 1992, 2010

Marina they trade you for horses

And swift galleasses that slice through the seas

Marina, they trade you for flowers and meat

And took you away from me

When you came back you had learned a new language

Were decked out in colors, a mistress to kings

But do you remember at all

When we sat all alone

and knew none of those things?

Marina, caught up in intrigue

You helped the invader to bring down a king

Sat by while his own people stoned him to death

For the shame that he brings

Marina now some fish swims inside of you

What kind of child will you be mother to?

Will he hate your impossible beauty and body

As much now as I do?

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I must apologize, dear “Beauty is Imperfection” reader. I posted six new songs the other day, and advertised one that I don’t think was quite ready for air time. Though I won’t bore you with technical details, suffice it to say that I do the final mixing of these songs in my headphones to make them sound the best I can (with my limited technical ability). “TV Head” is a song I like a lot, and though I worked hard to make it sound good in actual speakers, I didn’t realize how much the song would be hurt by the thin bandwidth of an MP3 and the even more horrible degradations of the MySpace player, didn’t realize how the diminishing sonic returns of such formats would make my ditty sound really rank by the time it reached your tender ears. I should have given it an extra listen, and I didn’t. I’ve tried to fix some problems, but I might well take it down and futz with it a little before reposting. Sorry if you heard it and it made you sick. I guess it’s too much to ask you to imagine how it should sound.

Just when I was most disillusioned, I had dinner and wine with a new friend last night, an excellent musician named Christian who has really got music production down and understands audio engineering in ways I can barely fathom. You can check out his work with his band Montalfish here and see what I’m talking about.

Christian was very gracious to give my music a listen last night and tell me that, despite its flaws, it has some promise, and I’m grateful for some of the tips he gave me, mostly about my drum parts (not tight!)

But since that will take some time, and since I’m not as disappointed with some of the other songs on here, I’ve decided to share the next one with you anyway.

This one is called “Leaving Babylon,” and is a short story of political intrigue set to music. I should add that I created an alternate version of the melody sung by cats that, as far as I know, is the only recording my wife likes.

Leaving Babylon by ER Salo Deguierre.

“Leaving Babylon”
By Eric Rasmussen
Copyright 2010

He was just right out of college
On his first tour of Baghdad
Working for a private concern, a no-bid contract for his dad
His first assignment is to carry a suitcase filled with pounds and gold
A payoff for some Baathist Army to keep the locals in the fold

He was disguised inside a convoy when they hit an IED
He was blinded and left bleeding, an Arab boy helped him to see

For two months in a cinder block cell, the Arabs retrain him as their own
To hold the standard of the Sunni, fighting for the pan-Arab home
But he was carrying special orders, with that million dollar check
Embarrassing to the multi-nationals, the M15 marks him for death

He doesn’t even know his father
He doesn’t even know his name
He just wants to find some morals
In a world where there’s no blame

In business handshakes there flowers money
On CNN there flowers fame
But only purity of purpose
Can keep the borderline man sane,

He’s caught downwind of fair Bathsheeba,
her ablutions drove him mad
And he lost his moral compass
Lay her body in the sand

Swimming in her shallow kisses,
don’t know which God to call by name
So he raced out into the desert
Sackcloth ashes and a cane

Have you come to throw a boulder
And to strike Goliath dead?
Or could you wake up back at Dartmouth
With a co-ed in your bed?

Someone take me to the Green Zone
Call the Congress if you please!
Let me just talk to my mother
I throw myself upon my knees

As you lived among the Pagans
Did you lose your mother tongue?
Did you eat the heathen idols
As Bathsheeba drew her gun?

Someone take me to your leader
I don’t want to die alone!
How I weep as if for Zion
And for my imagined home

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Promotional materials for a well-known Christina Aguilera album.

I know that you have a lot of things on your desk right now–the BP oil spill, fights over government spending and debates over whether to let the Bush tax cuts expire. These are not small issues. Some environmentalists even fear there are thousands of deep sea oil wells just as poorly tested for safety as the Deepwater Horizon was. And of course, national debt has become a crippling concern, as U.S. citizens demand services and infrastructure and overseas military spending that they seem unwilling to pay for with higher taxes. This leads us to finance more government spending with debt, selling out to the Chinese and the Saudi Arabians to do for us what American productivity used to. An unsustainable condition.

So I am almost embarrassed to call your attention to a problem that might seem small by comparison, but I believe it is eroding our national morale, making us weak at the wrong times, even crippling our ability to act on these pressing concerns.

I am talking about the song “Beautiful” by Christina Aguilera. Mr. Obama, I have heard this song every day for eight years, on car radios, in clubs, in grocery stores, in convenience stores, in delis, in airports, at the beach, at the spa, in the U.S., and even in Japan. I find that no matter where I go, I cannot escape the cello-driven, melisma-laden 2002 hit song penned by Linda Perry for Aguilera’s Stripped album. Now, I would never pass a value judgment against a song that has brought pleasure to millions and which indeed boasts an incredible vocal. The song is a great one, in which Aguilera’s voice rides the crests and troughs of more than two octaves, where she shows off her many nuances of mood and feeling and shading, not just wasting notes, but using them to look into the heart of a person in the darkest of states, someone reeling in the fugue of depression and emaciated self-esteem. She claims that she is beautiful in every single way, that words will not get her down, and that her listeners should feel the same way.

But if I were to pick any song in the history of recorded music that I would want to listen to every day for eight years, would this really be the song? Is this one better than, say, “When the Saints Go Marching In?” or “Someone To Watch Over Me?” If most people had a choice, wouldn’t they choose a song by Cole Porter or even the Beatles? But even then, could we do it every day? For how many years could a person really stand listen to “Hey Jude” every day, or “You Are My Sunshine” or even “Happy Birthday” and “Jesus Loves Me”?

At some point, even Christina Aguilera would likely admit by now, the importance of her message has likely become trite from overexposure. Michel Foucault once wrote that the proliferation of discourse on a subject of sexuality was one way of hiding the truth of it. We use certain words so much that we become numb to their meaning as anything but empty discourse, and they start to ring false. I believe something similar has happened when I listen to the words of “Beautiful” over and over and over and over again. I believe Christina Aguilera doth protest too much, and that by constantly declaring hers and others’ need to repair their fractured self-image, she has lulled us into a cultural welfare state of mollycoddling and patronizing that actually makes our self-esteem lower than ever.

In other words, I think Christina Aguilera is talking to us like we’re a lot of stupid, not-beautiful dummies who constantly need reassurance to salve the open wound that is our collective American soul. She’s keeping us weak and unattractive. I am reminded of the episode of “The Odyssey” where the lotus-eaters wasted away on pleasant sensations. I also think of that episode of “Quantum Leap” where Scott Bakula is transported into the body of a retarded man and starts acting as retarded as everybody treats him.

I say this to you, Mr. Obama, not because I have anything against Christina Aguilera or her other great songs such as “Ain’t No Other Man.” It’s only that I believe that this song has lulled me into my own fugue state more times than I would care to count over the last few years, sapping my vitality at moments when I would be better served by the joy of expression that comes from listening to, say, The Ramones, an expression some social critics have called violent and crypto-fascist, but one you must admit gets you pretty charged in the morning. I also feel that “Beautiful” dulls my perspicacity, putting me in a contemplative mood at the worst possible moments, perhaps when it’s more important that I stay sharp and count change or stay on the ball at the Post Office. Just as a side note, most of the people who work for the U.S. Post Office are rude and don’t like absent-mindedness when you come to their windows. The kind of absent-mindedness caused by a song like Christina Aguilera’s “Beautiful.”

Ultimately, that dreaminess, that lofty, airy, ethereal demand to live in the moment, has turned us all into wide-pupiled, belladonna-drunk 19th century ingenues, the type regularly ridiculed by Chekhov, Flaubert and Aaron Spelling. If the economists will follow up on it, I believe the song has directly hampered our gross national product, earnings per share and EBITDA and has exacerbated our trade deficit.

I’m asking you to pass a law that will give the radio back to the public in a nationalized radio format like the BBC’s, one that has some responsibility to the public good. Or if that is too much in our politically charged era, I ask simply that you ban this song like George Bush banned the stimulant Ephedra. I supported him then, I will support you now. Thanks.

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You didn’t ask for it. And yet I’m giving it to you anyway: new music from ER Salo Deguierre. I am sorry to keep sending you, dear “Beauty Is Imperfection” reader, to listen to this stuff at MySpace, which I’m sure we all hate equally by now. It’s just that I haven’t found a music player I want to pay for, and I still don’t think I’m quite ready for the ITunes store.

While most of my music is made at my kitchen table with nothing more than a guitar and a cheap drum machine, this new song benefits from the addition of a MIDI controller and the background vocals of my beautiful wife Stephanie. Because she doesn’t quite approve of my musical hobby, I had to fool her into doing this by convincing her it was a sound check and then manipulating her voice electronically. OK, that’s an exaggeration. But only a minor exaggeration.

I’ll be posting lyrics here over the next few days for different songs, but this was the first one I finished. It’s not quite about my recent personal pain, though it touches on some themes I’m obsessed with–mostly what it means to be alive and to be in your own body. Enjoy (if possible).

TV Head
By Eric Rasmussen
Copyright 2010

What would you do if you woke up in the morning
Your brain unplugged and you wake up with a TV head?
What if your friends came over just to watch you?
They don’t even know how long that you’ve been dead

The remote control is so polymorphously perverse
You have to touch each button just to stay alive

La la la la la la la la la
La la la
When you find me dead and gone
La la la la la la la la la
La la la
You can turn my spirit off or turn it on

I am nothing more than a receiver
Turn me on and keep my antenna high

What would you do if your car was possessed by the devil?
And the thing it just won’t come to life?
What if Beatrice ripped out of the bull’s belly?
What if Jonah wrote his name on your ribs with his knife?

What if she held her tongue up in her hand to show you?
How she never ever again would lie?

La la la la la la la la la la
La la la
If she ever sees me frown
La la la la la la la la la la
She can stab me with her smile till I go down

The whale has taken over my life completely
Aren’t you glad you’re you and you’re not I?

What if your ghost was trapped within your freezer?
What if you watched yourself from across the hall?
Floating through your life outside your body?
Drifting away atop your own weightless soul?

I’d give anything just to touch her face again
Hers is the only body I have known

La la la la la la la la la
La la la
Sometimes you gotta sing a song
La la la la la la la la la
La la la
Because you’ll be dead someday yourself before too long

I am just a ghost inside a freezer
You can only free me with your eyes

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Rock ‘n’ roll legend Neil Young recalled his glory days of rock ‘n’ roll in the ’60s, ’70s, ’80s and ’90s with the help of a 19-year-old journalist on Monday, an interview that revealed the deep inner spiritual journey that Young has taken, at least as far as he can remember it with the help of notes, journals, recordings and documentary film footage and the huge contribution of the journalist, a reporter for the student paper at SUNY Buffalo.

“It all started … where did it start?” Young asked journalist Lauren Brackman, a fan of the proto-grunge rocker since she was 12.

“It started in Canada, right?” Brackman suggested. “You used to drive around in a hearse.”

“Right!” recalls Young. “I had this hearse.”

With Brackman’s help, Young then remembered that he drove his hearse to Los Angeles in hopes of making it in the music business back in 1965. He wasn’t having much luck, but then he was spotted one day by an old friend he knew from the folk club circuit.

“And that was …” Young hesitated.

“Stephen Stills?” Brackman offered.

“Right!” Young exclaimed. “He saw this hearse on the road as we were stuck in traffic and Stephen said …”

“That’s got to be Neil?”

“Right! And that’s how we formed …”

“The Buffalo Springfield?”

“Yeah. Wow, those days were wild.”

Brackman then helped Young remember how he had actually entered the country without a green card and was actually performing illegally in the United States for many years.

“But I got all that settled,” Young said. “I’m legal now.”

“Yes,” said Brackman. “As of 1970.”

However, Young’s friend Bruce Palmer, the Buffalo Springfield’s bassist, made only erstwhile contributions to the band after facing a series of legal setbacks with drugs that eventually led to his deportation. Several times he was replaced in recording sessions, Brackman reminded Young.

“Yeah, that was too bad,” Young said.

After she helped Young remember the Buffalo Springfield, she jogged his memory about his career in Canada with the Rick James-fronted band the Mynah Birds. The band broke up after James was arrested for being AWOL from the U.S. Navy, Brackman reminded Young who nodded.

Brackman also recalled Young’s solo career, including such classic albums as Harvest. After that, Brackman politely elicited memories about his participation in Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young and Young’s years as a rock ‘n’ roll outcast, sometimes embracing the spotlight but other times spurning it with such erratic records as the synthesizer farce Trans. Later on, Brackman reminded Young, he became a godfather to the nascent grunge movement and reignited his career with the album Freedom in 1989.

“Wow,” he said. “It’s hard to sum up 40 to 50 years of insanity. You can’t just put it all into words. Or pictures. Or memories.”

While trying to steal a few new nuggets of information from the aging rocker, Brackman eventually gave up and pretty much just went back and used the research.

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–*Snooki of the reality show Jersey Shore dies in bizarre a pre-show red carpet appearance after somebody accidentally pours salt on her.

–*Steven Tyler sings a musical version of his cease and desist order against his band mates in Aerosmith who would dare think to continue without him.

–*Lady Gaga arrives dressed as the Solar System. Scientists on the red carpet criticize her inclusion of Pluto, while Joan Rivers says she looks like Uranus.

–*American Idol sensation Larry Platt sings his surprise hit songs, “My Pants Are On the Ground,” “Help I Need Insulin,” “I Haven’t Eaten In Three Days,” and “What Are You Laughing At, I Just Said I Haven’t Eaten in Three Days.”

–*Lady Gaga dresses like an outrageous cross between a white tiger and a Lincoln Towncar.

–*To outdo her performance last year, when she performed while pregnant, the artist M.I.A. this year breaks water onstage.

–*Lady Gaga dresses like a suppurating appendix.

–*Stephen Colbert keeps the ceremony loose by reminding us its OK to laugh and to dislike tonight’s Grammy-nominated music.

–*Colbert makes a joke at Susan Boyle’s expense. Since she isn’t at the Grammys in person, it’s safe to say we’re laughing at her not with her.

–*3-D “Grammy Glasses” handed out before the show allow viewers at home to be literally surrounded in mediocrity.

–*Michael Jackson is remembered for the spunk he put in every adult and child.

–*Beyonce’s song “Single Ladies,” beats out the Beatles, Shakespeare, quantum physics and Darwin’s work on the evolution of the species as the apex of human achievement as far as Kanye West is concerned.

–*Taylor Swift is blonde.

–*The Black Eyed Peas debut their new song, “I’mma Drop M’ Vowls.”

–*Lady Gaga and Elton John appear covered in soot, spermaceti wax, No. 5 viscosity motor oil, cheese whiz, Gerber baby food and anything else we can throw at them.

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We have all recently heard a lot about a rising young music star named Taylor Swift, the teen pop/country sensation who was named Billboard’s Artist of the Year and whose second release, Fearless, was named album of the year by the Academy of Country Music Awards. Besides her meteoric rise to fame, she is also known for her personal life. She is currently rumored to be dating Taylor Lautner.

If you, like me, are unfamiliar with Swift’s music, my 10-year-old nephew Colin has penned a review of Fearless that explains all you need to know about this new musical heavyweight.

Taylor Swift Is Hot With A Capital H
(Or, How Much Taylor Lautner Is A Boob)
by Colin Miller

Taylor Swift is hot with a capital H. Her music is smooth, really great, and she should not be dating Taylor Lautner because he is a boob. Her music is touching. Her music can teach. She can sing really good. She is a hottie. If I ever get into Taylor Lautner’s bedroom he better believe I’m going to get in his kitchen and steal a knife. He might have a gun on his shelf because that’s the kind of thing that he does.

Her hair is silky smooth. She is really hot, like I said before. Her voice is really great. She is the best guitar player in the world. And she’s 20, so that makes her hot. Her songs are the only ones that I know. “You Belong With Me.” And “Romeo and Juliet.” Those are good songs because she sings it good. They’re not even good songs if my uncle sang it. And if she wasn’t around, I would have no reason to live.

She is hot. She has good hair. She’s skinny. She’s only dating Taylor Lautner so she can dump him next year and make him feel like nothing. And she is a beauty. And she makes Britney Spears look like Fat Albert. And that’s all I have to say about Taylor Swift.

You should go out to buy her album because I think it’s a music video and you can make out with the screen. And her songs are really good because she actually sings good. She’s not just pretty. She sings good. And you can buy her album in the next year–she’s going to make an album about how much Taylor Lautner sucks.

Photo: Colin’s rendering of Taylor Swift. Here she is seen kissing Colin while Taylor Lautner lies off to the side, cut in half.

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