Fatale Abstraction

In between cleaning jags, I flipped the idiot box on a couple times Saturday, and it was hard to get away from the "We are the Gored" stravaganza musicales. By that I mean it was on quite a few channels. Funny thing is how many (I'm guessing) invited rock acts were very vocal about their opposition to such an event, pointedly declining to appear onstage.

Anyway, when I flipped on the telly, Sundance channel was broadcasting the show, and there was some rap-critter running around on stage singing about a Gold-digga, and meanwhile, the half-full front seats of the place were populated by pasty middle-aged looking white guys, trying to look hip and clap along, like they'd ever heard that shit in their life, let alone WANTED to hear it then.

When I was in Jr. High band, our evil, sadistic director, Rico Belotti, would make us sell candy, the proceeds of which would in some way benefit the kids in high school, and not us. Anyway, the high school kids advised us to fluff the bag before we knocked on a door, and make it look like more candy. Well, I think concert organizers fluffed the bag and made folks spread out. Or maybe it was like when you're taking the red-eye from New York to London and you luck out and the 747 is not full *SCORE!* so you get to stretch out on a long row which you have to yourself. Or something like that.

Basically, it was the anti-Glastonbury/anti-Coachella. All the cool kids aren't doing it. I'll tell you what would have packed out those stadia, though - if they said they were auditioning for American/Canadian/Brazilian/Latvian/Botswanan Idol - they woulda been beating them back with sticks. And then some.