A Lopsided Gamble

As messed-up as things have been in South Carolina lately (see here: http://www.wistv.com/Global/story.asp?S=11398030), I’m going to avoid the easy target and meander to a discussion of importance in my home state of Ohio.

Tuesday is Election Day in Ohio. One of the big issues up for referendum this year is Issue 3, which would allow four gaming casinos in the four largest cities in the state: Cleveland, Columbus, Cincinnati, and Toledo. For sure, all of these cities have been economically hard-hit in the past several decades, with decreases in population (except for the ever-annexing Columbus), continuing decline of central cities, and an exodus of young, educated workers like Yours Truly. Issue 3 is proposed as a means of recapturing “lost” revenue to existing legal gaming operations in the neighboring states of Michigan, Indiana, Pennsylvania, and West Virginia. Let’s take a decidedly objective and rational look at this issue, and what it means for Ohio.

What Issue 3 will do: This issue made it onto the ballot thanks to two entities: Penn National Gaming, based in Wyomissing, Pennsylvania, and Dan Gilbert, chief bullgoose looney of Michigan-based Rock Financial and Quicken Loans and owner of the Cleveland Cavaliers. Mr. Gilbert resides in Michigan with his family. These two parties convinced the General Assembly to allow a casino question to be put to referendum. Penn National would own the casinos in Columbus and Toledo. Mr. Gilbert would own the casinos in Cleveland and Cincinnati.

Proponents of the issue argue that Ohioans gamble in other states anyway, and thus, neighboring states are getting money that should stay in Ohio, what with its faltering economy, high unemployment, and continued brain drain. They argue that there will be new jobs created, and because the casinos will be located in urban areas, there will be “spinoff” development, creating “entertainment districts” that will serve as economic engines. Casino revenues would be taxed by the State of Ohio and distributed to the 88 counties. Sounds pretty good, right?

Wrong. Completely fucking wrong. Allow me to reiterate, using unemotional numerical bullet points:

1. Proponents who argue that there should be a “free market” for gaming (i.e. legalized gaming in Ohio, in competition with other states) are misunderstood. This is NOT a free market proposition. This is a proposal intended to boost earnings for two pre-designated entities. A free market solution would have opened the owner selection process to competition, as Michigan did in the late 1990s.

2. Ohio would charge a $50 million licensing fee per casino. This is ridiculous. Illinois is subjecting a new casino to a fee of $400 million. Massachusetts is entertaining fees of $250 million for two new casinos. By comparison, Ohio’s seven horse-racing tracks will have to pay $65 million each to install slot machines, i.e. no table gaming.

3. Ohio would tax gross revenues of the casinos at 33%. This is less than casinos are taxed in Nevada, Atlantic City, Detroit, and Pennsylvania. The casino in Pittsburgh is taxed at 55%. The rest goes to the IRS, and into the pockets of Penn National and Dan Gilbert.

4. The money would NOT stay in Ohio. First, the four casinos would be located in the four largest cities, with metropolitan populations of (my estimate) 6 million+ people. The money would be distributed to all 88 counties. For example, Cuyahoga County, where Cleveland is located, is the state’s largest county by population. It would receive an estimated $29.5 million per year IF casino revenues meet projections. That’s a whopping 23 bucks for each resident of Cuyahoga County.

5. Which brings to question the revenue projections. Greektown Casino in Detroit is in bankruptcy. Gambling revenues are down all over the country. What makes anyone think that revenues will fall in line with the rosy forecasts? Any idiot knows that this is not an economically optimum time to start taxing people who are bad at math.

6. People have finite incomes. Every dollar they lose in a casino is one dollar less they are not spending at a locally-owned restaurant, theatre, club, museum, gallery, or store–ALL of which are already hurting thanks to the economy.

7. Casinos do NOT create spinoff development. Casinos are designed to be self-contained entertainment venues, where one does not need to leave the building. Ever wonder why casinos in Vegas have hotels, restaurants, clubs, theatres, and stores enclosed in the same building as the casino? They don’t want you to leave to spend your money elsewhere, for the same reason there are no clocks and no windows in casinos. Very little, if any, of the much-ballyhooed-and-hyped spinoff development has occurred in the ten years that Detroit has had legalized gaming.

8. The money would NOT stay in the State of Ohio, regardless. As I stated, Penn National is headquarted in Pennsylvania and Dan Gilbert resides in Michigan. These two entities pay income taxes to their home states. The money would go out of state, anyway. Besides, there is not one single company based in Ohio that is qualified to operate a casino. Harrah’s, Trump, Caesar’s, and the like are all headquartered out-of-state.

9. I have read economic studies that show that every dollar spent at a locally-owned business cycles through the local economy seven times. This is known as a multiplier effect. You go to a concert. The band takes its earnings and gets a bite to eat. The chef buys his produce from a local farmer. The farmer repays his loan to the local bank. The local bank extends a loan to an entrepreneur to start a business, and so on. Issue 3 takes your dollar, lops 33% off the top, redistributes that 33% to 87 other counties, and the rest gets shuttled off to Michigan of Pennsylvania. Multiplier: 1, which is far less than 7.

10. The jobs issue. The Ohio casinos are proposed to create 15,800 jobs, or about 0.2% of the state’s workforce. This is hardly an incredible change. Furthermore, three-quarters of these jobs would pay less than $28,000 per year. The average income for each job would be $26,500, or two-thirds of the state’s median income. This is progress? These jobs are supposed to replace jobs lost when Office Max and BP merged and relocated corporate headquarters to Chicago? Dealing blackjack is supposed to replace a good-paying job on the floor of a steel mill or factory, where actual goods of value are produced? These jobs would all be in large cities, to boot. This does nothing to create jobs in the perennially hard-hit Applachian part of the state.

I think I’ve made it clear that passage of Issue 3 would do a lot to enrich Dan Gilbert and Penn National, and not a whole lot for Ohioans. This is a bad deal, top-to-bottom. What Ohio really needs is a boost in its educational and income levels, something only attained by (first) retaining and (then) attracting young people with college degrees. And I don’t know about you, but a lot of these people can be found in places like New York, Boston, DC, Chicago, and San Francisco–none of which have casino gaming, yet have very educated, very well-paid populaces.

Maybe Ohio is in the position it’s in because they keep making bad decisions like this that, on the surface, might sound terrific, but require some easy brainwork to think through to the end. Of course, if there were any people with half a fucking brain left in Ohio, Issue 3 wouldn’t have made it onto the ballot in the first place. Laissez les bon temps roulez.

Back That Ass Up

It’s been about 4 months since I’ve blogged, and I have a couple reasons, er, excuses for my lack of activity. For one, I’ve been busy at work, trying to increase my productivity. Two, one of my tasks at work was to read a book called How to Become a Dangerous Expert Witness. This book freaked me out. Basically, it suggests you leave as little a paper trail as possible, and with the beauty of the Internets allowing all of one’s cobwebs and skeletons to exist in perpetuity, one has to be extremely cautious on the topics on which one expounds.

I’ve been giving this much thought, and as long as I don’t blog about work, I should be okay in a court of law. Most of the rest of what I write, I try to keep objective and thoughtful, and most of it is just me working ideas through my head. I don’t think a judge would disqualify me as an expert witness based on what I eat.

So, I’ll admit that the past few months, I’ve been a bit unsure of myself, and the direction in which I want to take my life. The first six months in South Carolina, I was fully committed to my job. Now that I’m improving at the job, I have a bit more free time, and I’ve struggled to find the motivation to embark on these things called “hobbies”. So, a lot of times, I’ve been sitting and vegging, and “trying” to do work at home. It hasn’t been 100% efficient. And as I noticed a few months ago, my pants started to fit tighter. I’m not happy about it. But I can sit and whine and continue with the way things are, or I can do something about it.

I decided I need to stop eating processed foodstuffs. I made the first step by no longer buying processed foods at the grocery store. The only thing I’ll buy in cans is San Marzano tomatoes (the fresh ones around here just don’t make nearly as tasty a red sauce). I don’t buy any frozen foods anymore, and even things like salad dressing, I make from scratch. It’s been rewarding, and I’m learning more and becoming a better cook. I even took a cooking class last week. The problem is, I still find I’m eating a lot of cheeseburgers and Crack-fil-A. Dammit. We’ll have to work on that.

Knowing that I could never eliminate my dear cheeseburgers from my diet entirely, I convinced myself that I need to get back into running. My long-held excuse was that the pair of running shoes I have just suck, and my legs start to hurt. Even the past few runs I’ve done here, my legs start to hurt after a couple miles. Part of that could be my long hiatus from running, but I think the other part is that the shoes just plain suck.

I suspected I’ve become a little heavier in the past year as well, so I invested in one a dem fancy bathroom scales that measures your body fat n such. Turns out, I weigh about 15 lbs more than I thought I did, which was already pretty heavy for me. So here I am, 31 years old, and I weigh the most I ever did. I don’t feel terrific, it’s tough to get motivated, and I just feel greasy and gross. I don’t like the way I look right now.

So I up and bought a new pair of running shoes that fit well. I’m gonna start slow to rebuild my base, but that’ll still burn calories in the meantime. Every 3500 calories I burn, I’ll lose a pound. That’s not quite 35 miles of running to lose one pound. I’ll need to watch what I eat, especially at first, but the running should help, even if I go for three short easy runs a week to start. I’m reminding myself that it’ll get easier as I go, and within six months, I should be in pretty decent running shape–good enough to do a spring marathon. It also helps that I’m not going to be running in bitter-ass freezing snowy cold anymore.

As of today, I’m fixin that I’m going to lose 45 lbs in the next year. I’m basing this on body fat percentage, what I can safely lose, and my historical body weight when I’ve been in good athletic shape. Those stupid, ridiculous BMI “measurements” are full of crap. If Evander Holyfield’s BMI says that he’s obese, it’s full of shit. Now, I recognize I’m not Evander Holyfield, but no bean counting bullshit quack is going to tell me that a bit of muscle is less healthy than a scrawny bag of bones. Those people can kiss my ass when they get old and degenerate because they never bothered to eat protein or hit the side of the gym beyond the Stairmasters.

If I can lose the weight sooner, I will. But one year from now, I want to be lean and mean, so that instead of John Belushi, my Halloween costume can be more Incredible Hulk.

Kiss my fat ass goodbye.

Mark Sanford Makes Me Feel Bad About Myself

The big news the past couple days has concerned the disappearance of our “responsible” Governor, Mark Sanford. I understand he had a tough legislative session, what with insisting that South Carolina remain steadfast to its principles of high unemployment and a shitty educational system when the other 49 states decided to accept federal money as part of the economic stimulus package. And never mind that the man who insisted the federal government not interfere in the affairs of his state sought resolution by suing the Legislature in federal court. But I digress. Who wouldn’t need a vacation after the kind of year Mark Sanford has had? I mean, especially with Fathers Day this past weekend, why not pack up the wife and kids, and head out to the beach house, or hike the Appalachian Trail for a week?

Well, it turns out, Sanford decided to head to Argentina to spend time with his mistress. Apparently, government stimulus isn’t good enough for South Carolina, but it’s sure as hell good enough for South America. Or rather, one particular woman in Buenos Aires.

Now, this isn’t a political rant. My beef is that with all this talk about Mark Sanford’s infidelity and disrespect for his wife and four boys, you can’t help but think about the guy getting laid. I mean, have you seen the guy? The fact that a vanilla middle-aged, rod-up-his-ass conservative has a lover, let alone one half a world away, just freaks my shit out. It up-ends everything that I know is right.

On top of that, it speaks very ill of the escorting industry here in Columbia. Hell, even Eliot Spitzer buying the occasional train ticket for his hooker doesn’t compare to this–at least Spitzer was wining and dining a professional slut from his own state. You’d think in this time of recession, 12.1% unemployment, and funding cuts to higher education, there would have to be at least one or two desperate USC co-eds interested in a mutually beneficial relationship. Hell, I could go on Craigslist now and find a dozen.

The most troubling aspect to me involves selfish motives. I mean, you have Mark Sanford, who has a wife, four kids, a job with (obviously) low expectations for performance, and all the money in the world, and he has to fly to Argentina on short notice to spend time with another woman. In the meantime, I haven’t had a date in a year and a half. How is this clown in the queue ahead of me? Go take care of your family, asshole.

Now I just feel bad about myself. Dammit.

I Need a Breathalyzer for My Home Computer

In the past, I’ve had sort of a problem with text-messaging after enjoying a few frosty beverages. To my surprise, this isn’t always appreciated by the recipient. I’ve had to learn to exercise some restraint. This doesn’t always go so well. After a couple beers this past Saturday night, I discovered a need for even further discretion. I need a breathalyzer for my computer. I should have to blow below 0.08% BAC before my computer allows me to start typing.

No, I didn’t e-mail any ex-girlfriends. I’m stupid, but not suicidal.

Let’s put it this way: I checked my e-mail Monday morning to find the following message (edited for my privacy):

Hi [Grits and Gravy]!
Thank you for your recent order from The Melissa Cross Vocal Studio. Your order details are below:

Order ID: 9XXX
Order Date: 01:25:44 AM Sun., May 31, 2009
Name: [Grits and Gravy]
Email Address: gritsandgravy@wordpress.com
Phone: (XXX) 555-1234
Vocal Range: No Audio CD
Order Description:
1 – THE ZEN OF SCREAMING – $26.99 each

Order Total: $33.99 (Price includes shipping)

Shipping Information:
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Columbia, SC 29XXX
USA

Thank you so much for your order. You will receive an email from us when your order has processed. In the meantime, should you have any questions or concerns, please email info@melissacross.com.

So, this is what will be arriving in my mailbox later this week:

Now, this is all speculative post-event detective work, but the best I can figure out, the karaoke bug was striking me, and I was simultaneously anticipating the WH4 Camping Trip at the end of July, which has had karaoke the past few years.

More on this fine product that I’ve purchased:

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/9676713/

Dammit. Sometimes, I think having disposable income isn’t such a great idea.

Coming Soon to a Karaoke Bar Near You

South Carolina Drivers Examination

Maybe it’s because I haven’t driven on a daily basis for a good seven years. Maybe it’s because I learned how to drive in Ohio, and I don’t understand the idiosyncrasies of driving in the Palmetto State.

Let’s cut to the chase. Below is what I presume to be the written portion of the drivers’ examination in SC (State of Confusion):

For questions 1-10, please choose the best answer and chisel it into the pine board provided by the clerk.

1) When stopped at a red lighted signal, the light turns green. What is the minimum amount of time required to wait at the green signal prior to proceeding forward?

a. none; one can proceed immediately through the green light.
b. 5 seconds
c. 10 seconds
d. half an hour

2) On a thoroughfare, the posted Speed Limit is 35 mph. How fast are you legally allowed to drive on this roadway?

a. 35 mph
b. 40 mph
c. 45 mph
d. 15 mph

3) Pedestrians have the right-of-way:

a. when you are making a right turn at a red lighted signal.
b. when you are stopped at a STOP sign.
c. never
d. when the pedestrian decides to mosey into oncoming traffic

4) Which decals are necessary to affix to your vehicle to be legally allowed to drive on the highways of South Carolina:

a. Euro-style insignia from your favorite beach town
b. pair of flip-flops
c. palmetto / moon emblem
d. all of the above

5) Safety and emissions inspections are required:

a. Annually, to ensure all vehicles on South Carolina roadways are in safe operating condition
b. Biennially
c. When purchasing a vehicle
d. Never. Safety and emissions inspections are just another way for the government to tell me what to do with my car.

6) Which of the following vehicles is permissible when driving through the ghetto?

a. Cadillac Escalade on 22″ rims
b. Ford Crown Victoria on 22″ rims
c. Chevrolet Caprice Classic on 22″ rims
d. Any of the above.

7) What does a yellow lighted signal indicate?

a. Prepare to stop.
b. Clear the intersection; no additional traffic shall enter the intersection.
c. Gun the engine to make the light before it turns red
d. Slow down just enough to clear the light before it turns red and to ensure the vehicle behind you gets stuck at the red light

8.) What is the appropriate stopping distance when approaching a STOP sign or red lighted signal?

a. It depends on the speed at which the vehicle is travelling and the pressure applied to the brakes.
b. 10 feet
c. 500 feet
d. One country mile

9) Mobile phone use while driving is permitted:

a. Never
b. Only when you have something REALLY important to tell family members or friends at 8 AM
c. When you get bored while driving
d. Only while you’re changing the radio station, grooming, eating, and smoking at the same time.

10) The audible horn on your vehicle should be used:

a. to indicate your intent to pass another vehicle.
b. to signal State Police in time of emergency
c. to encourage the leisurely-moving person in front of you to move their ass
d. means absolutely nothing. Drivers have every right to remain parked at a green light. Horns are a tool of devil Yankees who are inconsiderate of others.

If you answered “d” to every question, congratulations! You are eligible to drive in South Carolina. Please take your pine board with your chiseled answers to the clerk, present proof of residency, and obtain your drivers license. We promise we won’t tell anyone that you drove to the DMV in order to obtain your license.

NOTE: A copy of a signed lease is not proof of residency in South Carolina, even though it is in the other 49 States and the District of Columbia. You’ll have to find someone to type a bullshit letter *swearing* that you live in South Carolina. Because, you know, a made-up written statement is far more meaningful than any sort of lawfully binding contract.

A Brief Personal History of Panhandling

Today I decided to go home for lunch. At the intersection of Gervais and Huger Streets, a group of four people were moseying through traffic with buckets, collecting money for some sort of Mission.

If you’re not familiar with Columbia, it’s not at all unusual to see people at this busy intersection hitting drivers up for money. If it’s not the firefighters collecting for MS (legit), it’s a homeless guy with a cardboard sign (not legit).

Something about this reeked. The buckets said “feed the children” on the side. Oh yes, let’s play the sympathy card. Something about it reeked of DC, when hoodrat kids would roam subway cars with a sheet of paper in a page protector (totally legit, right?), collecting donations for some sort of “boys club”. Of course! Your misspelled words and improper grammar appear completely up to snuff. Never mind the smeared ink. Sure, let me just cut a check. There’s no way you’d ever use my money to buy weed or anything.

The seeming illegitimacy of today’s operation didn’t sit well with me. I mean, if you’re a legitimate group trying to raise money, aren’t there better means of doing so, like targeted phone calls? It reminded me of the “bucket drives” that were so popular at Michigan. Niche student groups would skip classes and set up shop on the Diag in front of the Grad library and order you to throw money in the bucket. Usually, it was for some obscure cause, like freeing convicted cop-killer Mumia Abu-Jamal. How a group of militant college kids is going to up-end the legal process is beyond me, but apparently, my quarter is going to help the Cause. If you didn’t donate, you were called a racist. Oh yes, how did you know? Shit, there are over 600 student groups on campus, and my particular student group is having a party this weekend. If I throw a quarter in your bucket, do you think you could swing me ten bucks for beer? It’s for a good cause, you know. Namely, drunken procreation, er, “improved social relations”. Hell, wash cars or something.

I’ve been forced to collect people’s chump change as a fundraiser before. In little league, we wore our uniforms and went begging door-to-door through the community, and gave out decals for each donation. We did the same thing the year I was in marching band (mostly because if we didn’t, we weren’t allowed to go on the Cedar Point trip). We even had to do it for the athletic boosters, and wore our football jerseys. The idea was that if it we were going begging door-to-door, there needed to be the appearance of a large, coordinated undertaking, with all participants dressed in some semblance of uniform.

For all I know, “feed the children” meant “feed MY children”. I know times are tough, but damn, there just has to be a better way of going about this.

Will Work for Nothing

Subtitle: Who the Fuck’s Genes Do I Have, Anyway???

Happy weekend! I’m carrying a delicate balance of watching playoff hockey, foraging for food, and packing for this weekend’s canoeing/camping trip on the Edisto River. Hopefully, no one will be eaten by an alligator. I should probably check the zipper on my tent to make sure the snakes don’t visit in the middle of the night.

I’d love to be able to post something hysterical today, but alas, tis not meant to be.

I usually talk to my mom about once a week. We were talking last night, and she was giving me the regular update on my cousins. It seems that one of my cousins, we’ll call her “Anna”, is intent on buying a house with her boyfriend. This may seem innocuous to an outside observer, but my experience upon hearing this went from disbelief-to-confusion-to-tempered-outrage.

Let me explain the back story. Anna has a Bachelors degree in accounting, and I presume, a job that pays something above minimum wage. Anna is 23 years old and lives at home with her parents. I’m not sure if she pays rent, but knowing her parents, I highly doubt it.

Anna has been dating this guy “David” for about 2 years. He seems decent enough–I’ve met him when I’ve gone back home for Christmas. He’s about the same age as Anna and lives at home with his parents too.

Here’s what I don’t get: Why the fuck do you NEED to buy a house at age 23? You have the next SIXTY years or so to do shit-tastic yardwork and shovel snow every weekend for the rest of your life. Why now???

The more I thought about this, the more I realized that the post-Gen-X kids seem to have a huge entitlement mentality. The same instant-gratification mindset that permits Anna to NEED to buy a house at age 23 allows Anna’s brother, “Bobby” to tell everyone he’s going to get a six-figure salary right out of college. (How’s that coming along, anyway?) What the holy fuck is wrong with these kids?

Seriously. Anna’s never paid a God damned dime of rent in her life. This is the girl who transferred from a college a 4 hour drive away from home to one that was 30 minutes from her parents, because she “missed” them (and liked driving 30 minutes each way to do laundry for free–how’s that for an accounting major?). She’s never spent a day outside of the God damned womb. Suddenly she’s ready for the responsibilities of homeownership?

I chalk it up to the sheltering that kids receive anymore. They’re never forced to suffer any sort of hardship, or to have to work for anything, so they think they’re “owed” some kind of magnificent lifestyle just for being born. These are the kids who get baseball trophies whether their team wins the championship or comes in DFL. Get in line, fuckers. No one owes you a six-figure salary just for showing up, or a house just because you graduated from college. Whoopdeedoo–you’re among the 25% of American adults who have a degree. Now get to work and do something productive.

I have another cousin, “Kristen”, who is 19 and in college. She’s smart as a whip and majoring in math, but is a bit socially awkward. She’s already been engaged and disengaged, and now spends every free moment with her “new” boyfriend. She has admitted as much to me that she doesn’t make any social plans unless her boyfriend “Mike” makes them for her.

What the hell is going on in my family???

I mean, these are not my decisions to make. But you’d think someone in the dawn of their adult life would want to explore the world around them, and maybe learn a little bit beyond their tiny little isolated corner of Ohio. The world is theirs for the taking, and they’re going to sit on their giant collective ass. Terrific. Remind me not to ever hire you.

I don’t mean to propose that my committed bachelor lifestyle is appropriate for everyone. I just see bright kids with limitless futures–the exact kind of people we need to push the world into the future–and they’re perfectly happy to wait for life to come to them on a platter. They’ll settle for lesser if it means they don’t have to endure a bit of hard work. It troubles me even more that these kids are family. I love them dearly, but they’re sabotaging their own life experiences.

Are we raising children or dogs?

When I’m on my deathbed, I want to be able to sit up and have a shot-and-a-beer with my kids and grandkids, and tell ‘em that I might not have been the smartest, or the wealthiest, or the best-looking. But that I did it the only way I know how–by challenging myself every day of my life to learn something about this rotating rock, to form a better partnership with God and the universe, and that I busted my ass, loved, lost, and enjoyed the entire ride, in all its ups-and-downs, more than any other motherfucker could dream. I think I’m gonna have to use that statement verbatim. –ed.

What kind of satisfaction and self-actualization can you possibly achieve when someone hands you a house, a new car, and a six-figure salary at the outset of your life? If you start life with everything you could ever want, just end it right then and there. You don’t have anything for which to live. And guaranteed, I will run circles so fast around you, you won’t be able to keep up with the dizziness.

So I say, enjoy the house. While you’re cutting grass and trying to find a reputable plumber, I’ll be backpacking through the mountains, jumping out of an airplane, or trying to avoid being eaten by a 12-foot alligator.

I Love “Good Christians”

This morning, I was sitting outside, taking in some of the fresh air and wonderful spring weather that has plagued us for the past couple weeks. Sunday mornings are usually quiet around here, as it seems most people are in church. I see one guy riding up the street on his bicycle, wearing this hat:

Our conversation-in-passing transpired something like this:

Jesus-hat-wearing-man: “What the FUCK you looking at, FAGGOT?”

Incredulous Me: “What???”

Jesus-hat-wearing-man: “You heard what I said.”

I know that me and the Church haven’t been getting along so well lately, but I think I missed the parable where Jesus said,

“Y’all do unto others, as y’all would have others do unto y’all. Except for the faggots, Mexi-cans, Ay-rabs, Jews, Blacks, Yankees, y’alls democratically-elected government, and pretty much anyone ya think might be the least bit different from y’all.”

I’m Going to Detonate my Radio

Half of my job entails driving to various sites which, theoretically, can be located anywhere in any of several southeastern states. Many days, I can spend up to six hours just driving by myself, so I like to pass the time by listening to the radio. Maybe I’m getting old, but the past few years, calling rock radio “barely tolerable” would be a generous compliment. Folks, when the “rock” radio station plays three songs in a row by Fall Out Boy, we have a problem. Let me expound why I detest Fall Out Boy and their ilk so much.

First, an aside:

There used to be a time when, to succeed in the music business, one had to slog it out and pay his dues. Berry Gordy recruited many Motown superstars, like Aretha Franklin, from church choirs in Detroit. The hair metal scene of the early 1980s constituted a bunch of broke-ass kids playing for beer money on the Sunset Strip. Countless others spent their lives playing for bars, with only the occasional Jim Croce able to make a career of it.

There was an authenticity to the music. Robert Johnson played the blues so well because dammit, he had the blues. John Lennon’s songs were so inspired because, well, he was actually inspired to change the world. Black Sabbath broke big because their music resonated their dark and dreary lives in Birmingham, England.

Modern MTV, complicit with Disney, have changed all that. Music used to be about LIFE. Now, it’s about whatever some ignorant 14 year old kid will be willing to download from iTunes and scream about uncontrollably on “TRL”. We get force-fed the same crap over and over because that’s what makes the record labels money. The rest of us, with half-a-brain and a couple years of life experience, get the scraps.

There have always been certain “image” concerns in popular music. The idea was that if people were going to identify with (and buy) the music, a certain image needed to be presented. For example, Buddy Holly and the Beach Boys were clean-cut. Eddie Cochran worked a certain James Dean appeal. Elvis utilized sexual suggestiveness to drive the girls insane. But the music remained the primary focus and purpose for having a career. No one was going to watch Elvis shake his pelvis for an hour and a half if the songs were terrible.

Disney has been retreaded its Mickey Mouse Club alumni in an “image first, music second” consciousness. ProTools and lip-synching only make it easier to hide a distinct lack of talent. Hence, we get minimally-talented big fake-boobed floozies like Jessica Simpson. Remind me why she’s famous? And going against the hype machine, I just don’t “get” Justin Timberlake. As far as I’m concerned, he’s Doogie Howser with an electronic drum machine. Did anyone really believe that Britney Spears was a virgin and didn’t smoke or drink? And since when is it more glamorous to be a “producer” like Kanye West, than to be an “artist”?

I’m not going to say that image isn’t important in performing arts. It’s just that the image has become the ONLY thing, as far back as Vanilla Ice claimed to be “from the streets of Miami”. Sure. If “Miami” was the name of the upper-middle-class subdivision in Texas where he grew up.

Here’s the deal. The Doors were known as transcendental because they were transcendental. Jefferson Airplane produced trippy acid music because they were constantly tripping on acid. Motley Crue had an image of being sleazy and trashing hotel rooms because (wait for it) they were sleazy and trashed hotel rooms. Metallica came across as a bunch of dirty, scuzzy drunks because they were dirty, scuzzy drunks. That’s just how they were, and how they lived their lives. Black Sabbath got their sound in no small part because Tony Iommi lost the tips of two fingers on his fret hand working in a sheet metal factory. Nowadays, a record label would intentionally perform an amputation on a kid in order to “try to sound like the next Black Sabbath”.

If this makes sense so far, make another jump with me.

Paul Stanley of KISS, one of the most image-oriented rock bands of all time has said in interviews, “When you go see a show, make sure you get your money’s worth. No one wants to pay hard-earned money to see their buddies from down the street.” While KISS aren’t the most technically proficient musicians of all time, they sure can write hellified hooks, and the kabuki makeup and costumes, blowing shit up, shooting rockets, and spitting blood sure make for a helluva live show. At the end of the day, the fans leave entertained and satisfied (five times that I can remember, and one that I cannot). For New Years Eve 1998, I took my brother to see KISS at the Palace of Auburn Hills. I paid $200 plus Ticketbastard charges for second-row-center floor seats. Would I pay the same amount of money to see Miley Cyrus? Kiss my ass.

Which brings me to my main target, and inspiration for this post: Fall Out Boy. WTF? Are you kidding me? Let’s get something straight here. Rock music is the bastard stepchild of blues, country, and gospel music. Hence, the basis for rock is stories of struggle, self-doubt, and overcoming obstacles. Certain genres of rock, like punk in the 70s, and heavy metal, have cornered the market on people who are down on their luck. It’s no surprise that Cleveland has a HUGE local metal scene, or that Detroit has spawned numerous incredible and legendary rock acts.

Let’s clear this up right now. Fall Out Boy is NOT punk. “Punk” is the Sex Pistols, New York Dolls, Ramones, Dead Kennedys, Black Flag, Bad Brains, Fugazi, Minor Threat, D.O.A., Circle Jerks, Agnostic Front, and the Misfits. These bands started because they were pissed about the politics of their time, or like the Ramones, were from Queens (enough said there). For good measure, let’s throw in later derivatives like Blondie and the Go-Gos, as well as more current acts like Green Day, the Offspring, and Bad Religion.

Fall Out Boy is some made-up homogenized shit. How do I know this? They’re from Wilmette, Illinois.

If you haven’t been to Chicago’s North Shore suburbs as much as I have, know this about Wilmette: It’s 90% white. The median household income is $120,000. Their high school is consistently rated one of the top three in the entire country.

Yes, I can see where it sucks so bad to be from Wilmette. I can only imagine the trials and tribulations these guys had to endure. Did your dad only get his second-choice tee time at the country club? Look out–he’s going to be slightly upset, and he might even verbalize it! Oh, you only got the BMW 3-series for your 16th birthday? How awful. The folks wouldn’t let you go to Amsterdam for spring break again, so you had to settle for Aruba? I wouldn’t know how much of an atrocity that is.

If you haven’t figured it out, Fall Out Boy doesn’t meet the prerequisites to call themselves “punk” or even “musicians”. If you learn how to play three chords because your folks throw piles of cash at the finest guitar instructors in town, and buy you a $2000 guitar “to learn on”, that isn’t talent, that’s pretentiousness. Sorry Pete Wentz, but you are no Chrissy Hynde, and your “punk” image reeks of plastic. I used to wear the kinds of clothes you do, not because I was trying to manufacture an image, but because I had to–the difference was that we didn’t buy our shit at Hot Topic at the mall.

I don’t even want to get into your trite lyrics right now, because my brain is liable to explode. We’ll save it for another time, when it’s not so late, and I can find my Bone Thugz-N-Harmony CD to keep me company.

Another Reason to Love South Carolina…

…or, the Meat-and-Three Reprise.

Today, I had to make a site visit outside of Hartsville in the Pee Dee region, about 25 miles south of the North Carolina state line. The City of Hartsville itself is one of many tiny little towns that dot the Palmetto State, with a downtown consisting of about 3-4 blocks. I thought Hartsville had a dot on the map, but it turns out, that was just a coffee stain.

The area used to be a big-time tobacco-growing region, back when every office in America resembled an episode of Mad Men. They still grow tobacco in these parts, but cotton, soybeans, and hay have increased in importance. They grow the occasional trailer park as well (real-life ironic trailer park name: Plantation Park. Nice touch with the magnolia trees, by the way–you’re not fooling anyone!). It was cool to drive down the highway and see the beautiful old plantation homes. It was downright creepy to imagine dozens of slaves toiling in the fields alongside the same highway–you don’t quite get that imagery when driving through rural Ohio.

The site I had to visit was located in a rural area a few miles north of town. The property owner was an elderly woman (she said she was 89), who was incredibly nice and was happy to share neighborhood gossip. I swear she talked more than my grandmother. Nothing personal, ma’am, it’s just that my client doesn’t pay me to sit and swap stories with you. The kind old lady did make a recommendation for lunch, though: a local hole-in-the-wall called Miriam’s Kitchen. She said not to worry about being a bit dirty–farmers eat there all the time. I think she meant “me” being dirty. At least I hoped.

I found Miriam’s Kitchen alongside a two-lane country road. The building was a tired little two-story concrete-block structure, with two gas pumps in front, an awning half-falling off, and a confused but friendly man behind the cash register. To the right of the building was a small grocery, with the restaurant occupying the remainder.

The ladies in the kitchen were tremendously friendly. I think they spotted that I wasn’t a local because 1) they didn’t know me by name and 2) I was wearing a Banana Republic polo shirt. When I told them I had been sent on a recommendation, they were extremely grateful, and thanked me for coming in. People up North joke about Southern hospitality, but I have never felt more welcome in an austere concrete-block building in my life. You certainly don’t get that kind of treatment in DC–they’d just as soon have you leave, so they can continue texting their friends or painting their nails without bothering to stop to serve you.

Lunch was served cafeteria-style, and consisted of cube steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, creamed corn, broccoli casserole, and biscuits somehow all piled onto the same plate. First, let me tell ya how much I LOVE homemade mashed potatoes. Second, I suddenly resented all the canned creamed corn I ate as a kid. Nothing against Mom, considering how hard she worked, but let’s just say Northerners tend to be be more, um, reliant on canned and frozen vegetables, which is ironic, considering how much damned corn they grow in Ohio. The biscuits were flattened, almost like a biscotti, and had a nice crunch to ‘em. For 8 bucks, including tax and sweet tea (of course), how could you go wrong? I was elated, as long as I didn’t pass out while driving home.

I passed on dessert. My fat ass doesn’t need it right now.

Now, if I can just spot a roadside stand with some fresh peaches, I’ll be in business.