Creepers

I got this in an e-mail from my girlfriend.




If this ain’t love, I don’t know what is.

Happy Halloween.

Fall 2008 Scrambled Reviews

I've recently become addicted to the Scramble application that you can get on Facebook. Ever since junior year of college, when I started playing Boggle with my friends Dan, Luke, and Gina, I've been drawn to letter combination games (used to me more so Scrabble, but now it's definitely Scramble...ah, wordplay). My time has to be filled since this week has a lot of my hours cut back due to XANADU now being our only show to take care of. So, in between Scramble matches and conversations where my girlfriend tells me how much she hates Scramble matches, I saw some stuff and here are some brief reviews:

Deadwood, Third Season -- I should also mention that this was the final season of "Deadwood" and by far the best. Al Swearegen and Seth Bullock actually join forces to protect the camps future against a sadistically murderous and greedy entrepreneur, George Hurst. This season also saw the new addition of Brian Cox to the cast (awesome!), the departure of Jim Beaver's character (no! God no!), Joanie Stubbs and Calamity Jane starting an affair (I knew it), and the best fight scene of the whole series when Dan rips out the eye of one of Hurst's men in the finest episode of the series, "Rich Find".

Bottomline: write HBO and demand a movie version to wrap up all the storylines left hanging by the show's cancellation. You won't regret it.

Man Men, Second Season -- if you didn't see the season finale last night, I'll keep my mouth shut. What I will say, though, is that this show keeps getting better and better, but it hasn't reached, in my opinion, the level of great television. The writing is smooth and the acting is amazing, along with all the little scenic elements that bring the show to life. But for every "Three Sundays" episodes there is "The Jet Set" and like the main character, the show pulls us in better never delivers all the way. I guess there is charm to that. And if anything, credit goes to to "Mad Men" for making the last fifteen minutes of each show absolutely amazing.

Bottomline: who am I kidding? I'm hooked.

W. -- it's Oliver Stone. It's flawed. Get over it. Beneath the all to simplified historical recapping of the past eight years and the behind-closed-doors discussions based solely on assumption lives a unique character study of a man who's never beeen in control of anything (his country, his businesses, his demons) in his entire life. I was worried upon reading reviews that audiences would feel sympathetic towards the portrayal of George W. Bush, but it wasn't really sympathy that I garnished for the man; rather, and understand of what it's like to be used by those around you. It backed what I had long time suspected: that while he's an bumbling idiot, he's also a puppet used by a shadowy group of individuals to have their way in the world. Notice he's never alone in a scene, even in his dreams his father haunts him. If he's in the room with only one other character that person has control over his actions and ideas. By the end of the film, when everyone is sitting at the table, devouring their pecan desserts, W.'s the only one without "a piece of the pie" as it were.

Bottomline: the movie is okay, but Josh Brolin is amazing.

Nick and Nora's Infinite Playlist -- this was the only other movie playing at the theater with "W" that I had a remote interest in. And by the end, I had no interest whatsoever. Sara and I already grumbled over the fact that the movie makes New York City way too accessible to a bunch of high school kids (line cutting to clubs, parking spaces out front, bars where they don't I.D. you), but what really kills me is that here's a movie that could actually be funny and smart, but takes the dumb road. Not only is George Michael Cera playing a mopey hipster in tight jeans, he looks down right bored. Nora is semi-appealing until you realize that a girl this smart would have no business hanging out with her dropped-in-the-Port-Authority-poopy-toilet-gum chewing BFF so why should we? Also, it's another movie about music where certain band define people's lifestyles and instead of building their own road in life, they merely are seduced by lyrics that they feel will be relatable to them ten years after graduating high school.

Bottomline: unless you are sick-o who enjoys hearing a fifteen year old girl have her first orgasm, shuffle-play yourself to something else.

Crumb -- I rented this documentary about the famed underground comic book artist R. Crumb based on a recommendation from my friend Justin. I am severely brain damaged now, but probably in a good way (no, probably not). Terry Zwigoff showcases six years with Crumb, bring his work and twisted family history to light. It's particularly disturbing when Crumb and his brother Max are talking about Max's molestation of a young girl or when his other brother, Charles, talks of repressing desires to stab Crumb in the head with an axe. And they are all laughing about it! Mostly, it feeds into my paranoia that here's a successful artist who's life was fucked up so that means should I reach his level of exposure I will inevitably live a fucked-up life. Of course, this is not a certainty, but it's scary when you realize that for some people it is a reality.

Bottomline: don't make a date night out of it, but don't watch it alone either.

Aim fo' the Head

In the office all day 'til five o'clock rolled near
Went home to a hot plate, television, and a beer
Drank up my first three, startin' number four
'Til I hear the knock of zombies at my door.

Was like, "shit, man, it's the un-fuckin' dead"
I just watched Colbert and was headin' off to bed
Now I gotta get preppin' and grab all my lead
Kick back the shotgun and aim straight for the head.

Killin' zombies ain't easy, but this life is hard
One week they in the basement, next the backyard.
Don't matter if it's day, night, dusk, or dawn,
I'm spray corpses' guts all over my lawn.

Evil dead, that's right; ain't none of them good
Bite the family down the block and there goes the neighborhood.
They get five feet up then I put 'em six feet under
Lightening in they eyes 'til they hear my thunder
Keep askin' for brains just to feed they're hunger,
"What're they doin' in America?" is what I wonder.

Lost my house last week, moved in to the shoppin' center.
Seein' Santa zombies and it's only the end of September.
But Christmas comes early this year I remember
Sendin' chainsaws through their chimneys all the way through December.

Then, like, twenty-eight weeks later
I'm waitin' at the elevator
Open the doors and this dude wants to eat my like a tater,
Click back my pump action 'bout to serve him like a waiter,
But the chamber was empty so I beat him up like a hater.

Recalled from karate the star-of-death-kiss
Used them to dance a number his dead body carcass
For a wicked attack that made his skull crack,
Saw him fall on his back and his eyes fade to black.

Think that shit's hot? Nah, it's we just gettin' colder
As I watched the zombie's arm separate from the shoulder.
Starts grabbin' at my hair like it wanna give me trim,
I'm gettin' my ass kicked by only one limb.
Finally got the upper hand so I started to chuckle,
Put it on the ground and smashed all of it's knuckles,
My day was now ruined and I didn't wanna linger
And as I walked away the hand gave me the finger.

No brains, but I keep thinkin' that they'll learn
After I drop they stock faster than Bear Stearns.
And single zombie exec who came from A.I.G.
Is now R.I.P. and it's thanks to me.

Years have passed and none of them ever really harm me
'Cept the ones last week who looked like the G.O.P. Party,
Tried to run for my life but my face hit the deck
Drafted by the dark army after I was bit in the neck.

I'm one of them now and I don't have a choice
Walk with a limp and I've lost my voice.
We all look the same, but I know it ain't equal.
Please blow my head off, I ain't ready for a sequel.

The Yin and The Yang

"If it's not one thing, it's another." This is a famous quote of Carl's (aka, Papa Bear) and for all it's cynical worldliness, I have to agree with my father on this one. Feels like every time I pull myself out of one ditch I turn my head to the sky and don't see the next one I'm about to fall into. Slip. Fall. Oof!

Yin: My cell phone broke. How? I'm not really sure only that it kept trying to turn itself on. Suppose it didn't help that I said it was a cheap hooker all the time. That probably killed its self-esteem. So I took it back to the Verizon store, having only purchased it a short two months ago after my last phone had a screen full of white snow instead of a visual display. In the store, I was helped by Andrew Bernard's gay doppelganger, Drew (why did they stop calling him Drew on "The Office" -- that was funny). Drew told me that he could give me a new phone free of charge (go disposable society), but since the phone could not turn on all the way he could not retrieve my contacts. Worse has happened to better people in the world. Yet in this day, having to reload everyone you know into your phone...then their phone number...and other info if you got it can be a mind numbing task. That's why Liev Schreiber's people had me do it all those years ago and don't know anyone as famous as was in that phone. Therefore, I must rebuild. Make my contact list stronger than before, with even more people I don't know taking up space on the memory card.

Yang: It took two months but I finally have a new refridgerator in my apartment. It's beautiful. New and custom made especially for me, it's weird to have a lot of room in my already-very-small-kitchen. Seriously, I have a whole six square feet of space that I have absolutely no idea what to do with. The refridgerator was delievered by two guys from my apartment management agency who were very friendly, helpful, and even apologized for it taking so long for them to get the replacement in. Service with a smile and a functioning fridge to make my kitchen complete? Pinch me, I'm dreaming!

Yin: My bike's back tire is flat. Again. What the fuck, Bike Gods? Seriously, I just got the tube in it replaced back in August and have been loving my two-wheel life ever since. Now I gotta load up the bike in the back of my truck, take it all the way up to University City, and deal with the upper-crust elite of bike riders at the shop up there that put the tubes in wrong. I know that I'm going to get hell from this one neo-Nazi youth reject who thinks that if you don't know the size of your spokes off the top of your head you better not procreate. What was even worse was that I realized the tube was shot while on a ride downtown today. I got off and started to walk my bike home only to have probably twenty or so people pass me on bikes all the way home. San Diego is great because it is a bike town (plus we get the majority of our energy from solar panels!) but it sucks when you are reminded of that fact by fat guys on their low ride-high bar bikes flying past you as you push your injured oldy back to Market Street.

Yang: I know this sounds weird but it was great to walk a city again. As much as I missed the bike, I got to explore downtown San Diego on foot and made some great discoveries. We have a Chinatown! Okay, not really, but Third Avenue between Market and Island seems to be catering to the Chinese community. Much nicer than Canal Street. Sorry New York! Also, I found some great cafes and restaurants to try out. One of them I tested out tonight: MaryJane's Cafe. I found out later it is part of the Hardrock Hotel, but that's forgiveable because it was a really cool place. Reminded me of the Orbit Cafe from Salt Lake where I got my first job. It was retro-60's decor with flat screen televisions and funky, modern lights finding a nice harmony with each other. The menu was strictly out of "Mad Men", however, so I decided on their famous meatloaf entree and it was delicious, as was the ebony and ivory milkshake that chased it. Forget how much you miss when you are worried about weaving through pedistrians.

Yin: Hard to hear about the Dramatic Writers reunion this weekend in the city. I miss all those people so much it's not even funny. I've been fantisizing about moving back to New York if the Playhouse does not hire me back in any capacity, but I know that it really wouldn't happen or be feasible for at least three years. I moved out to California, I should give it a shot. My dad is encouraging me to visit Los Angeles. I would love to, but honestly, I don't have any thing in my bag of tricks that's L.A.-worthy. New York, New York...you keep calling me. You keep haunting my dreams. Has the wind picked up? Have the movies started to gear up for the Oscars? Are you still just the greatest city in the world? Yes. Yes. And, uh, yes.

Yang: Well, besides the weather only being slightly chilly at night, SoCal is nice and toasty. Justin invited me over for a dinner party last night at his house. Sam, Justin, and I, along with some other folks I'm becoming acquainted with, cooked up a great meal of homemade Mexican food. It was so lip smacking good that we got arrested for assault. So, okay: good food? Check. Good weather? Check. Now, after we ate a bunch of us kicked back with some beers and had a little to smoke, something I don't normally do because I don't like the smell or taste, plus I hate the fact that smoke is in my lungs. But last night was actually a good experience. We were sitting around, coming up with words like "Thundergina" and making up raps about Jenny Craig. Then this one guy Pat started talking about his new job that sounded incredibly boring even though he explained it like it was losing his virginity. By the time he told us that he monitors how many time the word "the" is entered in to search engines Sam, Justin, and I lost it. Sam and I had been making stoned faces at each other and not cracking up, but at that point it was priceless. We laughed for about five minutes straight. Yeah, I know it was one of those "you had to be there..." situations, but y'know what? I was there. And it was great. Cheers to last night.

Living in a Van Down by the River

Not that I haven't been rejected in the past, but this one stung (oh, I'm not talking about rejection in personal relationships; I mean I got a letter of rejection for one of my plays. Personal rejection is a whole blog unto itself that will remain askewed). A theater that shall not be named because one day they might actually like my work and decide to produce it finally got back to me after about a year's wait time. I had high hopes because I had an "In" with their literary department and thought, well...it just might work. I kept waiting and waiting, inquiring to the point where they stopped returning my e-mails because I wanted an answer so bad. Used to be I was too shy to even ask if they had heard of me; now, I'm a something of a bother, which, honestly, is the better of two evils. Back on track: I got a rejection letter. One to add to the growing number I've kept since the age of seventeen when I started be rejected.

The letter reads:

Thank you for sending us OUR MOTHER, STATEN ISLAND and MY FRIEND DAHMER for consideration. We enjoyed the opportunity to get to know your work.

OUR MOTHER, STATEN ISLAND is a heartfelt and harrowing portrait of a family in crisis, bravely investigating the tensions that linger among the victims of Katrina. However, as much as we appreciated your tender character writing (YES!), we felt the plotting of the piece was a bit contrived (Damnit. They must have read an older draft.) As for MY FRIEND DAHMER, unfortunately...this piece just isn't for us.

There was other stuff like "thank you for writing to us" and "hope you find a home for these plays" but that's standard. It was nice to have honest feedback about my work even if it did end with the crushing blow of defeat. Y'know, maybe they're just not that into me. Womp-womp.

I suppose the reason it stung was that I've been trying to imagine where I will be next year. Hopefully at the Playhouse, hopefully in the Literary Department, and hopefully employed generally. With all my student loans coming in I keep biting my nails in hopes of that "big break" coming through so that I can be whisked away to dream land, where I am paid to write brilliant plays in one draft. Yes, dillusions of grandeur. But if I think about the other side to it, I drive myself into a worse spiral of fantasy-that's-too-close-to-reality. Basically, I become Doug.

Doug is not Doug from the show about Doug apty titled "Doug". Though that show is great, I'm talking instead about a real life man named, as you can guess, "Doug". Doug works in the shops at the Playhouse. He wears clothes that don't look like they've been washed in ages, tattered and dirty. Doug can often be seen talking to himself as he walks to his van in the parking lot where he lives. I'm not making this up: Doug sleeps in a van in our parking lot. He never leaves. Maybe to get food or something, but I've seen him in there, cooking away on a hot plate (worse than mine!) and listening to sports on his portable Walkman radio. And this is what I fear: my life turned into a Chris Farrelly sketch from the mid-1990's. If I don't make it in this world as a writer -- and honestly, it's too late to go back and try to start all over again on something like, oh, I dunno, cartography -- I'm almost certain that I will resemble Doug later in life.

Therefore, let's think of the upsides:

1) Don't have to pay rent or buy a new hot plate

2) Working in theater

3) Could finally own a sticker reading: "IF THIS VAN'S A-ROCKIN'..."

Portrait of the Artist as a Bitter Twenty-Something

Dear Patrick Fugit,

How are you doing as of late? I recently watched your movie "Wristcutters: A Love Story" and I have to say, you've come quite a long way since the days of roaming the West Institute Building during our summers together at Youtheatre. While I wasn't a big fan of the movie (strange considering it had Tom Waits and Will Arnett, two performers who never seem to let me down) I think you did a fine job portraying the same teenage-blank stare character you seem have pulled off since "Almost Famous" (that one I'll forgive you for because it was your first time at the rodeo and actually served the character well). What makes you so special, huh? We both went to that theater school. We both came from under the Zion Curtain. Now that our hair is practically the same length, I can't quite place what put you on top and me at the bottom. Sounds like I'm angry, huh? I'm not. Just bitter at life's cruel twist of fate. Often times in the night I scream out, "LIFE! NO! TAKE ME, NOT PATRICK FUGIT! ME!" only to awake with a puddle of tears gluing my eyes to my pillowcase. Anyways, no hard feelings...really, I wish the best for you. You've worked hard and regardless of overall range in ability, there is something to be said for that. Just, can you, in your next movie, play a character who isn't so much...I don't know...like you? Just a suggestion."

Love Always,
--The Little Guy from TSFY

I don't really know why "Wristcutters" upset me. Guess it's been a combination of things that remind me I'm young, capable, and not anywhere near the level of success in my career that I wish to be. Guess that's a lot of 23 year olds. On the other hand, I feel like I've been working my ass off for a long time (this will be the third year I work through the Christmas and New Year holidays) and it still seems like a far climb to the top. I was driving on of the XANADU actors to the airport the other night. He's about 25, spent only the past two years in New York, and well...did I mention he's in the national tour of XANADU? Not bad. I was escorting him to the airport because he had a concert last night that was written by him and performed by him, along with a few friends. He was on the phone for most of the ride to the airport, talking with a friend, and saying over and over again, "It's it so crazy? Oh my god, it's just so fuckin' crazy! We were just sitting down and writing some dumb songs in our living room in February and now we have a sold out show with the lead singer of the Counting Crows showing up!!! It's so crazy!" Now, to clarify, I'm not jealous of this man (I don't write music and I don't like the Counting Crows). However, I'm jealous of his capabilities to be seen and heard and acknowledged critically and monetarily for what he is doing. And just since February! Of 2008! Shit...I've been writing dinky plays in my underwear and headphones with only a bag of chocolate covered raisins as a companion for god knows how many years now. When's it gonna be my time, God! Huh? When you gonna toss a little sugar to ol' me down here!?

Truth be told (and I mean it this time) I know that the road I chose is a long and tiring one. Most people barely scratch the surface before they are thirty and even then it's just a scratch. Plus, these guys above are phsyical performers who get in front of an audience to work their magic. I'm the guy in the backroom with a cigarette and a typewritter, clicking away in dreamland. Same medium, two different angels, and not really a fair comparison. I had another airport run last week that was truly encouraging though. It was 6:15 a.m. on Yom Kippur (before the secret telling and all...) and I was in a van outside a hotel waiting to take Douglas Carter Beane to the airport. I was told only that he's really tall and really nice. So around 6:25 a.m. a very tall man in an untucked button down and hoodie, with glasses and long hair, waves at me and I know it's him. He offers me breakfast but the fast keeps me away. Douglas gets in the car and immediately wants to know my story. I go through the whole list: college in New York, working out here, wanting to be a playwright. He listens intently and seems to identify greatly with my struggles. Then he says something that's been floating around in my head the last two weeks: "I write every day, even if it's not on paper." Yeah, this guy, the book writer of XANADU, sometimes writes a whole act, puts it down, and does not look at it for a year. He's got all these projects going on, but they take years and years to come to fruition. So far, he's been one of the kindest and understanding folks I've met since working here. I could just tell, he got it. He got what I was in and what I wanted to do. When he got out at the curb of the terminal he waved and said, "it's all gonna be fantastic." He should come back soon because I need more words of support. For now, it's all fantastic.
It's all fantastic.
It's all fantastic.
It's all fantastic...

Closers Get Desks

Secret-secrets are no fun. Secret-secrets hurt someone. – The Office, “Ben Franklin”

“Actually, I’m pregnant,” she said. I had to do a double take. This woman from work, who I’ve had all of about twenty minutes conversation with during my five months here, was putting this news to me first. Of everyone. In our whole entire office. A few minutes before hand I was explaining to Steve about how fasting for Yom Kippur works. Then this woman walked into the kitchen and simply stated, “I’m not fasting this year.” Steve, being the in-the-know-person that he is remembered that she had gone to Scotland where a stomach virus had attached itself to her insides. Scotland? Stomach virus? It all seemed a little weird to me. Steve went about his merry way and not a second after the door had closed did she drop this small, almost meaningless spec of information on my ears. Why me? I’m not sure. I didn’t even know she had a husband or was Jewish up until this point. “I just don’t want to tell Steve because then, y’know, the whole place will know within a matter of minutes.” I nodded in agreement. She said there would be a big announcement this coming week, but it still does not answer the question of why she would inform something so private and personal to an almost complete stranger. But there you, now I’m in the know. That was enough to fill me up until breaking the fast later that night.

Hey, man, are those pennies from Heaven? – Passerby on the incident below

“Damn, man, that sucks,” Hipster Shoe Owner dully let hang from his lips with the same post-modern ennui gloss he has over his eyes whenever I see him. Yes, I live above a shoe store. Run by hipsters. Which never has any one in it except other hipsters who never seem to buy anything. Honestly, I have no idea how the place stays open. I wish I lived above the bakery, but that’s slightly adjacent to my building. The bakery is the reason I gathered the past four months coin collection. The coin collection is the reason I had to go outside yesterday. The old Fruity Pebbles cereal bag, which I put the coins in for transportation to CoinStar and ripped seconds later, is the reason Hipster Shoe Owner chimed in with his two cents (seriously, no pun intended). The economy is going down the tubes! So says every single news report in the country. I was the poster boy for the American Recession at that point—an unwashed 23 year old writer in his pajamas and on a bike picking up his seventeen dollars and eighty-two since in nickels and dimes to buy an overpriced sandwich (in all honesty, the bakery is local and grass roots, so I don’t mind forking over a little extra change for the quality…the sandwiches are amazing). But y’know what? I didn’t let the economic climate get me down. I got down on my hands and knees to pick up every last goddamn piece of currency…so, who’s broke now, suckas?

Strange times… — The Black Keys, “Strange Times.”

My mind has been a little bit of a buzz the past few days. I’m not high and I have had one beer and half a glass of wine in the past 72 hours. Very rarely do I feel like I’m on the right path—the right direction to getting to the right path I feel constantly—but this week I saw a glimmer of hope. A director at our theater, who is in charge of selecting plays and molding new ones for the seasons, had a talk with me about next season. Out of nowhere in this little chit-chat conversation I told her, “I want to be your assistant next season.” She looked a little bewildered and then got a smile on her face, “You do, do you?” I nodded. “Have any experience?” I listed my former jobs of coverage writing, which, I realized at that point, tallied at a grand total of three years. Jeez, I didn’t realize the time had added up. “Okay, send me your resume and a writing sample. I’ll see if it’s in the budget for next year. Maybe just part-time.” Hey, I’m getting no time now so part-time sounds like an oasis in the desert at this point. Since then (Tuesday) I’ve been in a state of thinking what to give her and how I should compile everything. Use Doug’s letter of recommendation? Perhaps, but that was specifically for Princeton. Melanie’s! Yes, she even told me to talk to this director! I’ll use Melanie’s and then my coverage on The Food Chain. Perfect! All of these ideas were swirling in my head today as I was driving our beat up POP Tour van out of the Whole Foods parking lot. Without warning, a black 1976 Mustang pulled out in front of me. I was confused because a big Latino guy rolled down his window, making erratic hand gestures. I motioned for them to move ahead, but that wasn’t what he was talking about. I rolled down my window…

Me: Uh…?
Mustang Guy: Homes, for reals, yo…
Me: For reals? What?
Mustang Guy: I own a body shop. I could do a custom job on your ride.
Me: OH!
Mustang Guy: Good work at a good price.
Me: Well, it’s my boss’ car. I’d have to ask.

At this point I shrugged and the guy pulled away. This is the second time I’ve been approached car-to-car, driver-to-driver by a salesman. Strange, yes, but also a good example about the mindset in SoCal. You have to sell yourself because no one is going to do it for you. So Monday, I’ve got to be prepared. I’ve got to walk into this director’s office ready to show her what I got. I’m the diamond in the rough who isn’t going to wait to be discovered. I’m going to dig myself out if that’s what it takes!

Xanadu In, Summer Out

With the arrival of the XANADU cast yesterday it seems that summer has finally come to a close. I always knew it would happen, even if the climate change and weather patterns hardly reflected it, when our big holiday musical came to town. This meant a long day in the van with much frantic running around, but an overall smooth landing for nearly everyone involved. All that on the road time did get me thinking about the radio I've been subjected to since moving to California and driving in the vans all day long. Summer radio has to be the worst. It's unimaginative, overplayed drivel that makes some artist careers off dinky one-hit-wonders and makes most of us cringe to the point that we'll take the commercials where the two people are fighting over something any day.

Keeping that in mind, I present to the 5 Best and Worst Songs from the Summer of 2008:

The Best

1) "Look Out Young Son" -- by Grand Ol' Party. Probably not the most mainstream song across the country, but here in San Diego, where Grand Ol' Party is from, this song broke up the monotony of summer strumming tunes. It's got blue grass inflections over classic rock riffs and who wouldn't want to date the devil's daughter?

2) "Paper Planes" -- by M.I.A. Yes, yes, yes this isn't exactly a new song, but thanks to it's includement with the "Pineapple Express" movie trailer, a Sri Lankin terrorist's daughter became a household name. With good reason: it's so catchy it gives you heatstroke. Just try listening and not pumping your hand back with your trigger finger.

3) "Whatever You Like" -- by T.I. I'm usually not that big of a T.I. fan. Nothing against him, it's just until I heard this song I didn't really respond to what he was saying or how he was saying it. This song is pretty typical: girls, money, gangsta shit, etc. but T.I. is smarter to take the music to another level along with his lyrics and with a prison stint looking to come in his near future, this might be a farewell for now single that leaves us wanting more.

4) "Bottle It Up" -- by Sara Barellis. Look, "Love Song" was great until it wasn't (see more on that below) and this one could technically be called that love song she didn't want to right, but that's not digging deep enough. Barellis is smarter than all of us because she's still not giving us the typical romantic serenade about "girls across the nation who'll eat this up" and "you're shit out of your luck" but we all think she's talking about "love, love, love."

5) "A-Punk" -- by Vampire Weekend. Another hipster band that hipsters can be all hip about? Not so much. This song actually took a creative bend and combined mainstream rockband chords with hipster lyrics and mentality. It goes down delicious, even if the words to the song really don't make a hell of a lot sense (but then again, what song really makes sense?).

The Worst

1) "Dangerous" -- by Kardinall Offishall feat. Akon. How many times did it played? Way too many than it deserved. Probably the saddest thing about the last ten years of rap music is how overused some artists were for hooks (this being Akon, Lil' John, Lil' Wayne, and every other scratchy voiced singer who was featured on hip hop songs). The beat was uninspired, the lyrics and rhymes even more so. Example: "I can't help but notice you/noticin' me/noticin' you/noticin' me..." Now, just have that replay in your head for an entire four months and you'll know why this song is number one for the worst radio single this summer.

2) "A Milli" -- by Lil' Wayne. Speaking of Lil' Wayne...God, how could anyone have come up with this song? The track behind tha Carter's voice is some guy repeating "Amilliamilliamilli..." for a whole 3 minutes. Perhaps he's proving that he could say anything and the world would lap it up, but honestly, who doesn't know that audiences will eat what they are told. Perhaps Advil paid him a chunk of change to produce the song in order to boost sales of headache medication. That seems more likely.

3) "I Kissed A Girl" -- by Katy Perry...and I sorta liked this song when it came out. Yeah, it was raunchy, hardcore girl-on-girl action. That was June, this is October, when the song was milked for all it was worth and I was witness to numerous drunk girls pretending to lock tongues in clubs just to prove that they could kiss each other and pretend to like it. For a better version, check out SNL's version of "I Pet a Cat and I Liked It".

4) "Love Song" -- by Sara Barellis. We all know by now that she's not going to write us a love song. That it was based on the fact that record producers wanted her to write a love song. That this is what we got instead. Novelty officially worn off.

5) "Keep Bleeding" -- by Leona Lewis. It came close to calling "American Boy" by Estelle Feat. Kanye West the last on the list, but really, that song is just overplayed. This one is over produced, over the top melodramatic, and annoyingly clingy while putting the listener to sleep. Ever seen the music video? Leona Lewis looks bored during her own personal drama. Zzzzzz....

Seeing how this is the week of Yom Kippur, I apologize to all artists in advance for saying my harsh words. I have no problem with pop music. In fact, I love pop music. I have so much pop music you wouldn't believe. But there is a standard that radio music should live up to, if not for the intergrity of the artists or their work, then the Sarah Palin mentioned Joe Sixpacks such as me, who are stuck in the cars all day and looking for a little bit of entertainment. For the future, kissing a girl might feel like a milli, but it's very dangerous to write such a love song that will make our wrists keep bleeding.