Rod Stewart Apologizes For 30 Years Of Crap Music

[Originally appeared on CAPNews.]

EPPING, ESSEX, UK (CAP) - Living the high life in his luxuriously appointed mansion in Epping, England, rock superstar Rod Stewart has everything a man could want: a spectacular home, a fleet of cars, a wife barely past the age of consent.

Everything, that is, except a clear conscience.

"You can only let the guilt eat away at you for so long before you have to acknowledge it and try to make amends," said Stewart, sipping mineral water on the deck of his 100-foot heated outdoor swimming pool. "So I'd just like to say - I'm sorry."

What Stewart is apologizing for, of course, is his entire recorded output since Do Ya Think I'm Sexy? in 1978. Many assumed the disco hit would just be a temporary departure for the architect of such legitimate rock classics as Maggie May and The First Cut Is The Deepest. Instead, it marked what rock critic Robert Christgau described as the start of "the most drastic plummet into mediocrity in the history of contemporary music. And that includes Elton John."

"Frankly, I couldn't even tell you a single song I've recorded since then, I've put so little thought into it," admitted a penitent Stewart as he was consoled by his wife of six months, Asl�g Gerth, 19, the Swedish lingerie model. "I know there was at least one about a train."

It is believed the song Stewart is referring to is 1990's Tom Waits cover, Downtown Train, just one in a long series of artistically inferior cover songs that sold literally millions more copies than the original versions they were based on.

"Have you heard what he did to my fookin' song?" asked reclusive Irish singer, songwriter, author, poet and multi-instrumentalist Van Morrison in a rare interview, referring to Stewart's 1993 hit cover of his Have I Told You Lately. "He fookin' murdered it!

"If I ever leave my house again I'm going to go over there and rip every fookin' bleached-blonde hair out of his scraggly old scalp!" added Morrison, before emitting a guttural grunt and slamming his phone down with enough force to shatter the reporter's eardrum.

In recent years, Stewart had completely dropped even the semblance of originality, recording entire albums of songs by other artists, many of them dead. It was while working on his latest planned release, Rod Stewart Sings Songs He Heard On The Way To The Studio, that Stewart realized it was time to make amends.

"I was about halfway through the 30-minute session we had allotted to record the album - we were on some song about love or dancing or something - and I said to myself, There's got to be something more," recalls Stewart. "Then I went home, had sex with my lingerie model wife, and set about making things right."

To start off, Stewart has started a support group for artists in similar circumstances who may be having trouble dealing with their feelings of guilt and shame. Membership is anonymous, but London's Sun newspaper has reported it includes artists as diverse as Bryan Adams, Kenny Loggins, Phil Collins, Eric Clapton and Aerosmith's Steven Tyler. The group meets once a month at London's Le Gavroche restaurant, where members hash out their feelings over fois gras and Mousseline de homard au Champagne.

Stewart has also launched a speaking tour aimed at younger artists who may be in danger of making the same mistakes he did, such as Green Day and The Killers. "If you're not careful, you might wind up just like me," Stewart warned from aboard his 150-foot yacht, the Maggie IV. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go have sex with my wife."

Also good for carrying your beer from room to room

What I love about At Large readers is that they're here to help. For instance, after reading my columns they often give me advice about where I should go about sticking my head, or what I should do to myself should I find myself with some extra time in my schedule.

But sometimes it's actually useful, such as the note I got today about last week's column from Jim Thrasher of Reach the Beach, Inc:

"I read and enjoyed your column of June 26 in the Medfield Press after noticing the cartoon above it. Thought you might be interested in seeing this product: www.wonderwheeler.com. Our company, Reach The Beach, Inc. invented and patented the Wonder Wheeler beach cart to solve the carrying problem. This year's new model has the super WIDE wheels!"

Which is all well and good (and judging from the picture, effective in carrying most of your belongings and perhaps several children), but I'm relatively sure it will still not keep the sand out of my shorts. For that I'd need a huge plastic bubble. Unfortunately that's on back order, and also there's always the chance I'd get caught in the undertow and sucked all the way to China.

Column: Drawing his line in the sand

There comes a day every year, usually sometime in April, when my wife, Theresa, gets up, opens the kitchen window and looks longingly out over the lawn. There’s a vague outline along the driveway of where the snow banks had stood just weeks or sometimes even days before, and yet there’s something that has crept into the air that’s undeniably … summery.

“It’s time to go to the beach!” she’ll declare.

And with that, the cooler is packed, the folding chairs are tossed in the trunk and she’s off to the seaside. If I’m lucky, there will be a rainy day sometime in July so I can see her long enough to remember what she looks like.

Or at least that’s how it seemed for a time, a situation resulting from our decidedly mixed marriage: She, as you’ve probably surmised, is a beach person, and I tended to look upon the beach — and the accompanying sand in my shorts, eyes and food — as the leisure-time equivalent of being waterboarded.

I attribute this at least in part to the differences in our upbringing. Theresa’s a Massachusetts native for whom easy access to the ocean has always been a given, whereas where I grew up in New York, the closest ocean was about 75 miles away at Jones Beach. Which is fine, except that driving to and from Jones Beach during the summer is sort of like trying to evacuate a dense urban center during a nuclear emergency.

This is probably why when the temperature soars, my wife wants to immediately head to the beach, and I want to head to an air-conditioned movie theater showing a movie about the beach. (It could even have Matthew McConaughey in it — I’m not picky.) And given that early in our relationship I’d already rolled over and pretended to love hiking and animals — I was just that gaga — I felt a need to stand my ground on the beach issue.

But as with most things, when kids came along, that changed — turns out they’re impervious to cold water, don’t seem to taste sand when it gets mixed in with peanut butter and remain convinced that they will eventually build a wall of sand that can hold back the entire Atlantic Ocean. In short, I’m outnumbered, and my choice is to spend my summer weekends at the beach with my family or at home alone, riding the lawnmower around in circles as the cats stare at me out the window, wondering why I pretend to like them.

So I’ve learned to compromise: Each summer I gather up my baseball cap, sunglasses, sandals, sunscreen and waterproof radio and lobby that we head for a beach within walking distance of an actual restaurant. And watching Theresa and the kids have such a good time usually rubs off on me just enough to forget the sand in my shorts, the sunscreen in my eyes and the fact I have just walked half a mile with chairs and coolers strapped to my body like some sort of bizarre beach-accessory Transformer.

Besides, it’s not like they don’t humor me at all — we do go to the movies during the summer too. We’ve got to do something on those rainy days.

[This column appeared originally in GoodLife magazine. Visit GoodLife on the Web at townonline.com/goodlife.]

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We're going to Camp Rock!

Someday, decades down the road, when the Jonas Brothers are looking back on what I'm sure will be an illustrious career, I don't think "Camp Rock" will be a decision they'll remember as one of their shining moments. I'm just going out on a limb here.

The Disney Channel movie, the latest beneficiary of the relentless promotion machine making kids feel like they've already seen the entire film weeks before it airs, debuted Friday night, and even my 9-year-old daughter couldn't muster up a glowing recommendation -- "It was OK" was about the best she could do. My 6-year-old son, meanwhile, declared it "the baddest movie ever." And this is coming from someone who sat through "The Barney Movie." (I don't think he remembers it, but I know it's seared into my brain.)

But to me (and I'll admit to watching only bits and pieces of the movie -- for adults, watching one of these Disney productions is sort of like staring directly into the sun), the surprising thing about "Camp Rock" wasn't the shamelessly derivative story, the tuneless musical numbers or the fact that the Jonas Brothers can't, you know, act, since all of that was pretty much a given.

No, what surprised me was when the camp director comes out and, lo and behold, it's Julie Brown of MTV's early '90s video satire show "Just Say Julie"! I suppose she needs to pay the bills, what with "Just Say Julie" having been off the air since 1992, but still, it's disappointing, particularly since she also has a writing credit on "Camp Rock." Can this be the same Julie Brown who came up with this piece of satirical brilliance?

Column: Wait 'til my father gets home

The other day I actually used the phrase, “Do you kids think I’m made of money?” And I did it without even a hint of irony — I was genuinely wondering what could have given my children, ages 6 and 9, the idea that I had the expendable income to afford, say, a hot tub, or a wall-mounted HDTV, or gas.

Then I thought, “My God, I’ve become my father.”

Like so many other aspects of growing older, I figure this must have happened gradually — it’s sort of like becoming a regular Oldies station listener, or reaching the point where you should probably be shaving your ears. But I knew I’d made the transformation when I realized I’d somehow inherited my father’s incredulity at his children’s seemingly complete lack of knowledge about the cost of, well, anything.

He found it particularly galling when my siblings and I left lights on, which we never understood — after all, we might want to come back into that room at some point, and leaving the light on would keep us from having to expend the extra effort required to flip the switch again. But now, suddenly, I find myself brimming with indignation when I come upon a lit light bulb in an empty room.

“That’s electricity … that we’re paying for … that no one is using!” I declare to no one in particular, since my kids are of course not there anymore, having moved to the other side of the house to determine the best spot for the wall-mounted HDTV.

That isn’t the only clue that I’ve morphed into my father — there are the flecks (OK, swaths) of gray that have appeared in my hair, and I’ve also become the family member suffering through a small cup of sherbet while my kids are scarfing down ice creams the size of their heads. I always felt bad for Dad when we went out for ice cream, and now, sure enough, I feel bad for me.

Not that I’m an exact clone of my father. First of all, Dad was (and remains) blessed with a swarthy Sal Mineo mane, whereas mine is starting to look like I skipped turning into my father and went directly to turning into my grandfather. He also knew how to put his foot down, while I still find myself negotiating with my kids far too often — they’re so adept at it I think they might be sneaking out of bed at night and watching “Boston Legal.” My son’s even starting to sound like Shatner.

“But Dad,” their arguments always start, followed by a lengthy diatribe about how I, say, told them they could stay up until 9 p.m. but that it was currently 8:56. Their logic is unassailable, but somehow my father would have found a way to assail it, and us, right into bed. I also made an error my father never would have made, namely to declare that “My name is NOT ‘But Dad.’” This led my son to associate “Dad” with his favorite word, “Butt,” resulting in no end of hilarity. (“Dad-Butt-Dad-Butt-Dad-Stinky!-Butt,” etc.)

But the fact of the matter is, the older my kids get, the more I find myself engaging in the activities I most associate with my father: running alongside bicycles that have been recently sheared of their training wheels; throwing and catching baseballs while explaining the arcane rules of a sport that makes no apparent sense; poring over homework assignments that bear no resemblance to the ones I got as a kid. (What happened to carrying the one?)

And I don’t know about all the other fathers, but when he wasn’t complaining about the electric bill, mine was doing all of the above with no questions asked — in fact, it was understood that there wasn’t anything off limits when it came to leaning on Dad. And come to think of it, there still isn’t.

So as I sit here writing this on Father’s Day, I realize that maybe turning into your father is just part of being a father, period — and in my case, if I can embrace those fatherly activities with half the patience, love and aplomb that my father did, I’m probably in pretty good shape. In other words, if in the end I have to turn into somebody … there’s nobody I’d rather be.

And just to show I mean it, Dad, next time I visit — I’ll get the lights.

Peter Chianca is a CNC managing editor and the brains behind “The At Large Blog” (chianca-at-large.blogspot.com) and “The Shorelines Blog” (blogs.townonline.com/shorelines).

This would explain why I keep passing out in the shower

My life is full of disappointments. As if it weren't bad enough that the tomatoes have turned against us, now we come to find out that plastic shower curtains can kill you. Next thing you know they'll be telling us to give up cigarettes.

It's true -- the Alliance for a Healthy Tomorrow (which sounds vaguely fascist, but in a nice way) has announced that your average shower curtain gives off 108 -- 108! -- different volatile organic compounds, including several that are banned in toys in the U.S. and Europe. (Although notably not in China, where "Spritzy the Shower Curtain Clown" is selling like hotcakes.)

I just want to know how it's possible that the innocent shower curtain, with its jaunty prints of fish and flowers and fresh, plasticy-good smell, could possibly be harmful? It's depressing, but fortunately we have daring legislators like Brookline, Mass. state Rep. Frank Smizik, who went out on a limb last week to declare, "Toxic chemicals simply do not belong in everyday products like shower curtains." And who says they don't really teach you anything in legislator school?

Those mascots always did look a little shady

Senator, I know Slugger the Sea Dog ... I worked with Slugger the Sea Dog ... You, senator, are no Slugger the Sea Dog.

Yes, Sen. Arlen Specter is at it again:

Specter is apparently basing his concerns on a recent study showing that, out of more than 1,000 such races that Slugger has participated in since 1994, he has never won a single one, despite being clearly larger and more skilled at running than most of his young opponents.

"Listen, Slugger is a large, capable half-seal/half-dog with the stamina to lead a crowd of 7,000 through a boisterous version of the Village People's YMCA," noted Specter when contacted by CAP News. "You're telling me he can't beat a 7-year-old around a baseball diamond? Something stinks here."

See the exclusive report at CAP News.

Take my wife, please

Finally I realize why I never get any of the really good tickets. I'm always trying to hit the "refresh" button at Ticketmaster.com or barter with some guy on a street corner, when all along what I should have been doing is offering to sell my wife.

At least that's what Kyle Carter of Medford is banking on. Carter, like the rest of the free world, wants to see the Celtics play the Lakers in the NBA finals. Unlike everybody else, though, carter placed the following actual ad on Craigslist:

“Trade my hot wife for 2 celts tickets! - $2 - (medford).”

But it's not what you're thinking (and we know what you're thinking), says Carter. According to the Medford Transcript:

Contrary to what some are assuming, it is a very decent proposal Carter has in mind. He and his wife are only looking for a basic dinner date, no hanky-panky.

“At first she said, ‘Oh, no, there’d be too many crazy people calling us,’” Carter said of his wife. “But she said she’d be open to it. And some of the guys who responded seem pretty normal.”

That's right, perfectly normal guys willing to trade their Celtics tickets for dinner with somebody else's wife. Well, best of luck, Kyle, and let me know how it goes. If nothing else, Nicolas Cage may wind up buying the movie rights.

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the lord mywaahahhahahahghhh! (thud)

Regular readers of this blog know that I'm a big fan of science, what with all its discoveries and everything. I'm particularly fond of scientific studies, which utilize millions of dollars to find out exactly what is killing us (answer: everything).

The latest study to open our eyes to an earth-shattering conclusion we would have never reached on our own is one in the most recent journal Pediatrics, which concludes that bunk beds ... wait for it ... are more dangerous than regular beds. This apparently has something to do with placing a bed six feet in the air rather than on the ground, although it will probably take another million or so in grant money to confirm that.

But it isn't just the height that's the problem. For instance, some kids fail to take proper effort to land on their feet when they roll out of bed in the middle of the night. Then there are the kids in the bottom bunk, who sometimes get landed on. And then there's this problem:

... from ages 18 to 21, the researchers found, when many bunk bed users are living at schools, the injury rates were also high. Alcohol often seemed to play a role, the researchers said.

So college students, remember: If you're going to get drunk, make sure to climb into your bunk bed first.

Column: How I learned to stop worrying and love the high gas prices

As you may have noticed over the last few weeks, people have different ways of reacting the first time they see gas on sale for more than $4 a gallon. For instance, some stop in the middle of the road and bang their head against the steering wheel; others sit in their cars and sob uncontrollably; and still others take a nine iron to the hood of their Chevy Suburban, like Jack Nicholson might do to a car that cuts him off on Hollywood Boulevard.

But me, I just smiled. That’s because I see the silver lining in devastatingly high gas prices, and with a little positive thinking, you can too. So when you feel yourself start to hyperventilate at the pump, just keep the following 10 things in mind:

1) You have the perfect excuse for not mowing your lawn, now that you’ve worked your way through all your other excuses (it just rained, it looks like it’s going to rain, it will just grow back, etc.). Of course, there are people who will remind you that if you’re concerned about gas prices, you can still use a manual push reel mower. I hate those people.

2) No more of those pesky summer family vacations featuring long, boring drives to faraway places. Now you can get on each other’s nerves and yell at each other in the comfort of your own home, just like the rest of the year.

3) You don’t have to spend your nights worrying that the Saudi royal family will be unable to handle the skyrocketing cost of hummus.

4) You can avoid that vague but undeniable taste of petroleum in your hamburgers by shutting off the gas grill and cooking meat the way our forebears did: on top of a pile of charcoal briquettes that have been soaked in so much lighter fluid that when you toss the match in, they generate a fireball like the ones that unfurl behind Bruce Willis in the “Die Hard” movies.

5) More people will be inspired to walk places. In fact, I predict it won’t be long before hundreds of SUV owners are walking to work down Route 128, dodging Priuses and deer.

6) Having to shell out 50 bucks to fill your tank will keep you from wasting that money on expensive frivolities, like milk.

7) You can console yourself with the widely reported fact that gas is still much cheaper than Starbucks coffee, which actually comes out to $70.88 per gallon. No word on how this is expected to affect the sales of the new 2009 Toyota Macchiato, not to mention the job prospects of a whole generation of snooty and condescending “fuelistas.”

8) If you happen to live next door to an executive from Exxon-Mobil, you might be able to sneak into his yard and use his Olympic-sized outdoor heated pool and Jacuzzi spa while he’s wintering in the Maldives.

9) When people notice how much you smell like french fries, you can tell them it’s because you drive an environmentally friendly car powered by cooking oil from fast-food restaurants. You’ll still have to come up with your own reason as to why you smell like bourbon.

10) We’ll finally be motivated to give up on our oversized vehicles and come up with reasonably priced, environmentally sound alternative energy sources that reduce our dependence on foreign oil.

Ha ha ha! Just kidding about that last one — a little devastatingly high gas prices humor. Now if you need me I’ll be outside soaking my briquettes.

Peter Chianca is a CNC managing editor and the brains behind “The At Large Blog” (chianca-at-large.blogspot.com) and “The Shorelines Blog” (blogs.townonline.com/shorelines).

And at the end of the day all of our faces will melt off, like the Nazis at the end of 'Raiders'

In what I'm fairly sure is not a joke, climate-change debunker Grassfire.org is launching the first-ever "Carbon Belch Day" on June 12. This is the day they'd like every American to emit so much carbon that you will actually be able to see it rising over the landscape like a giant carbon mushroom cloud. They didn't say that exactly, but I'm betting there would be high-fives all around over at Grassfire headquarters if it happened.

According to Grassfire.org President Steve Elliott, the Carbon Belch "will be symbolic of our release from the absurdity of green extremism." Elliott says that "you can increase your carbon belch simply by hosting a barbecue, going for a drive, watching television, leaving a few lights on, or even smoking a few cigars." As long as you do it in Al Gore's general direction.

Anyway, you can calculate the best way for you to unleash your maximum carbon potential using their Carbon Belch Calculator. (And no blaming it on the dog, because we know it was you.) As for me, I'm going to expel my carbon the old-fashioned way: by burning 2.5 billion tons of coal.

Indiana Jones and the Unlikely Awesome Sequel

At first I want to throttle critics who can't bring themselves to like a movie like "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull," which just provided me with the most fun I've had in a movie theater since ... well, maybe since the last Indiana Jones movie. Let's face it, what film has come out in the last 19 years that has been any fun at all? I've basically stopped going to the movies out of fear somebody will be forced to cut off his own arm with a hacksaw. And that's just in the audience.

But I found the latest Indy adventure to be fun, funny and exciting -- maybe it's because my expectations were lowered by George Lucas' last attempt at revisiting a beloved old franchise, but I actually found it more enjoyable than the last two. Part of that could be the fun of watching my son Tim enjoy the movie so much, just like I loved "Raiders" 27 years ago. But it could also be that if we ever needed Indy cracking that whip again, it's right now. Without him all we've got for heroes are those kids from Superbad and Robert Downey in a metal suit. Robert Downey!

So you fuddy-duddy critics looking for a plot that made sense and an age-appropriate Indy who would crumple the first time a bad guy hit him in the jaw can go take a flying leap off three successive giant waterfalls. I'll go with critics like the Flick Filosopher, who summed it up this way:

All I know is this: I sat through two hours of Crystal Skull and when it was over, my jaw was aching, because I hadn’t stopped grinning like a little kid the whole time. I love this movie. I love it.

Or the great Roger Ebert, who noted: "I can say that if you liked the other Indiana Jones movies, you will like this one, and that if you did not, there is no talking to you."

You will believe a penis can fly

So have you seen the video of Russian chess champion Garry Kasparov being attacked by a remote-controlled flying penis? You haven't? Man, are you lucky to have me around.


I particularly like the part where Kasparov's burly bodyguard jumps up in the air and swats wildly at the flying penis, not unlike King Kong on the top of the Empire State Building, if King Kong had been being attacked by penises.

Not to be confused with the spunky waitress on 'Alice'

For some reason I'm not sure how to feel about the fact that National Grid has created a virtual polar bear character named "Floe" who can "help National Grid customers analyze and measure the environmental effects of their routine daily activities." Such as, for instance, powering up your computer in order to play with a virtual polar bear.

The best (or most horrifying) part is that as you enter your bad energy-consumption habits, the already precarious ice floe that Floe is standing on melts further away. I can only assume that if you waste enough energy, Floe will eventually fall into the water and drown -- I'm sure the Grand Theft Auto crowd will keep at it until they can figure that out. (Meanwhile, if you admit that you have, say, a digital photo electric picture frame that you keep plugged in all day, Floe will come to your house and maul you to death.)

In a related story, make sure to check out this exclusive report from CAPNews, on how the president has figured out a way to give the polar bear the protection environmentalists say it so direly needs:

"The experts say the polar bears need protection," continued Bush, "and nobody gives protection like these Secret Service guys, lemme tell ya. For one thing, they always make sure to take your keys away if you're tanked."

What do you want for $100 million?

Speaking of Speed Racer (as I was the other day), they really ask for way too much from these Hollywood directors. Do you think it's easy to make a half decent movie for only $100 million? No, it isn't -- just ask the Wachowski brothers, who seem to have spent exactly that amount on what is essentially the world's longest and most expensive Mentos commercial.

But it's not their fault, as you'll read in this exclusive report at CAPNews:

"First of all, nowhere in our contract does it say the movie had to not suck," said Larry Wachowski. "If anybody had mentioned that they didn't want the movie to suck, we would have definitely made that a priority, or at least talked about it."

"Larry's right," said Andy Wachowski. "We had this whole checklist of things to do with this movie, and if they had told us they didn't want it to suck we would have put that right near the top."

Maybe they'll have their next time, when they helm their $150 million version of Battle of the Planets.

And she's, well, Janet, dammit!

I haven't seen "Speed Racer" (just like pretty much everyone else, apparently), but I can pretty much tell you right off the bat what the most unrealistic part of it is. No, not the crazy colors or the monkey or the cars that seem to defy gravity. It's that John Goodman could wind up landing Susan Sarandon.
He looks like a cross between Fatty Arbuckle and the guy from the W.B. Mason ads, for crying out loud.

Help the monks help cyclone survivors

At Large fans are a generous sort — I can tell by how often people click on that little "Make a Donation" button on the right of the screen. Oh wait, no one ever does that.

But I do know that even if you don't want to send me your hard-earned cash, you’d want to help out in Burma, where more than 100,000 are feared dead in the wake of the recent cyclone. But how to get the aid to that country when it’s common knowledge that the government there is brutal, corrupt and not particularly interested in helping its own people? I have one word for you: monks.

So says the independent global campaigning organization Avaaz.org:

Humanitarian relief is urgently needed, but Burma’s government could easily delay, divert or misuse any aid. Today the International Burmese Monks Organization, including many leaders of the democracy protests last fall, launched a new effort to provide relief through Burma’s powerful grass roots network of monasteries—the most trusted institutions in the country and currently the only source of housing and support in many devastated communities. Click below to help the Burmese people with a donation and see a video appeal to Avaaz from a leader of the monks:

https://secure.avaaz.org/en/burma_cyclone/77.php

Giving to the monks is a smart, fast way to get aid directly to Burma’s people. Governments and international aid organizations are important, but face challenges—they may not be allowed into Burma, or they may be forced to provide aid according to the junta’s rules. And most will have to spend large amounts of money just setting up operations in the country. The monks are already on the front lines of the aid effort—housing, feeding, and supporting the victims of the cyclone since the day it struck. The International Burmese Monks Organization will send money directly to each monastery through their own networks, bypassing regime controls.

We now return to your regularly scheduled humor blog, already in progress.

They promise it will be strictly softcore

Believe it or not, I hadn't been looking especially forward to "High School Musical 3." This could have something to do with having watched "High School Musical 2," which was what I imagine it might feel like if Satan came up from the fiery pits of hell and threw balls of flaming sulfur in your eyes.

Still, if this report by the reputable news organization CAP News is any indication, volume 3 may actually be kind of interesting:

Disney CEO Bob Iger pointed out that those scenes may not make the final film, and besides, with High School Musical 3 headed for the big screen rather than Disney Channel, Disney felt a need to make it "edgier," he said. This would explain rumored plot turns such as Troy and Gabriella's steamy tryst in Troy's secret garden hideaway at East High, Sharpay's embarrassment after a nose job gone horribly wrong and Corbin Bleu's character, Chad, coming out as gay. "Like that wasn't completely obvious," said Iger.

"It's more sophisticated, but let's face it, the audience has gotten older," Iger added. "Some of them are 8 now."

I'm an idiot

Yes, that's right. At first I thought Elvis Costello was so clever, putting out an album on vinyl only, but including a code to download the whole album as well. That way you get the retro thrill of placing the needle on the record to hear that first song, but still be able to take it in your iPod when you're out jogging or riding the train. I don't do either of those things, but I like the idea of being able to if the opportunity arose.

And I'll admit I did get a kick out of sliding the album out of its sleeve and putting on the turntable -- until I realized that instead of the first song on side 1, it was playing the first song on side 2. That's right, the album was pressed wrong -- side 1 was missing and I had two side 2's. But at least I would have the download, right? Wrong -- the code didn't work.

So now I have half an album and no downloads. (Not that the downloads would have helped -- turns out the format isn't iTunes compatible anyway.) And that part about not releasing it on CD? Elvis was just kidding -- that's coming out next week.

This is the last time I get caught up in nostalgia. If anyone catches me waxing wistfully about my old Betamax, just hold me down until the feeling passes.

Not the luncheon meat -- that's 71. You know, like McCain.

Spam is 30!

Time certainly flies ... It seems like just yesterday I got my first notice about how I could enhance my manhood and bring my partner more pleasure to keep her from laughing at me behind my back.