6 shameful things of which my writing has gotten me accused

I’ve been writing professionally for essentially my entire adult life. I’d like to think I’ve left most of my readers happy, or at least indifferent. Every now and then, though, I’ve managed to inadvertently plant my foot on some sensitive toes. Here are a few of the most heinous crimes against literature, decency and humanity of which I’ve been accused.

Basic racism
While penning a brief review of The O’Jays’ set at the 2003 New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival for Where Y’at, I took specific note of the crowd’s infectious enthusiasm. Even though some would dismiss the O’Jays as a warmed over oldies act, I said, “this music obviously means the world to these people.”

A few days after the issue hit the streets, we received a letter from a local activism group cautioning us that “these people” could be interpreted as a dismissive slur against African-Americans. I was baffled at first, as the crowd in question was made up of folks of every color, creed, and stage of sobriety. On further reflection I got where they were coming from. It remains a useful reminder that no matter my innocent intention, it always pays to keep my potential audience's interpretation in mind.

Ignorance of railroad terminology
Not long after I started my first writing gig as intern reporter for my hometown newspaper, my editor called me into his office and told me he wanted to make me into “the Charles Kuralt of Monroe County, Wisconsin.” That entailed me taking a weekly trip to one of the tiny towns that dotted the county and writing a profile of the community’s history and culture, such as it was.

Some towns lent themselves to this format better than others. When I couldn’t come up with much to say about a place, I’d do my best to fill out my word count with trivia. When tasked with covering the generally charmless railroad town of Wyeville, for instance, I eked a few sentences out of the fact that the “wye” in the village’s name referred to a Y-shaped intersection of crisscrossing train tracks. Two days later my editor got an angry letter from the proprietor of the nearby Little Falls Railroad and Doll Museum. He explained in less-than-friendly terms that a wye was actually triangular, not Y-shaped, and that I should be sure I had my vocabulary straight before I included railroad terminology in any future articles. My editor wrote the guy off as a crank, but I had to admit the gentleman had a point. Then again, homeboy also ran a Railroad and Doll Museum.

Spreading anti-teacher propaganda
One of the toughest aspects of business copywriting is coming up with fresh spins on the same information week after week. During my stint as a copywriter for a women’s active wear retailer, I once wrote a lead-in for an early summer sale that went something like, “Once you’ve graduated, the end of the school year loses a lot of its excitement. (Unless you’re a teacher!)”

Later that week the company owner got an email from a woman who was outraged that we would perpetuate the stereotype of lazy schoolteachers spending their summer vacations slacking off on the taxpayers’ dime. That interpretation had never crossed my mind. For the record, I’m 100% pro-teacher. I just meant that they probably get a little bit excited to put another year’s worth of raucous students behind them. I mean, they do, right?

Oppressing Native Americans and/or Juggalos
When I started writing an article for MadeLoud about pop music’s shameful history of caricaturing and marginalizing Native Americans, I wanted to include a few positive counterexamples. I looked for Native American musicians who had found success on their own terms without being pigeonholed into roles predetermined by the white-dominated music industry. One of these artists was Anybody Killa, a Michigan-based rapper closely affiliated with Insane Clown Posse.

It didn’t take long for someone to misinterpret my intentions. A week later I got a message from a young Juggalo who wanted me to know that Anybody Killa was his own man and was going to be a force on the music scene for years to come. He was especially upset that I claimed that the most prevalent portrayals of Native Americans in recent music have come from non-Natives. I think he read “prevalent” as a qualitative rather than a quantitative term. He wrapped things up by telling me that it was a pointless article that probably shouldn’t have been written. I sent him a polite reply letting him know that we were really on the same page and assuring him that I wished Anybody Killa all the success in the world. I never heard back.

Exploiting a long-dead child-star
In 2009 my MadeLoud editor asked me to review Benjy Ferree’s new concept album Come Back to the Five and Dime Bobby Dee Bobby Dee, a tribute to the short, troubled life of ‘50s child star Bobby Driscoll. I liked the album so much that I immediately requested an audience with Ferree. The resulting interview is one of my favorites that I’ve done, a glimpse into the weird, wonderful mind of a talented singer-songwriter who’s really into old Disney movies.

I was taken aback a few weeks later when I got a message from a woman claiming to be Mr. Driscoll’s daughter. She accused me of exploiting her father’s memory by giving Benjy Ferree a forum and implied that I was an insensitive profiteer of other people’s pain. She also noted that Driscoll’s death was drug-related but not, as I’d stated, caused by an overdose. (I’d read “overdose” in several sources, but I changed the wording anyway.)

I’ll admit I felt sort of bad about this one, even though I firmly believe that I did nothing wrong. An arts writer’s job is to write about art, and Benjy Ferree’s album was one of the most compelling works of art I’d encountered in a while. Still, I can’t help but sympathize with a person who’s likely been contending with salacious, half-informed media accounts of her father’s sad decline for her whole life. I think Ferree’s celebration of Bobby Dee – and, transitively, my coverage of it – is respectful to the point of reverent, but that’s easy to say from this angle.

Golden Retriever ownership
After I moved from New Orleans to Chicago in late 2003, I started writing a monthly column for Where Y’at about the difficulties of readjusting to the Midwest after finally getting acclimated to the wonderful weirdness of the Crescent City. One of my early columns focused on the relative difficulty of entertaining visitors – Chicago offered plenty of activities, but it was a far cry from New Orleans, a city where nearly every corner hides something most folks have never seen before.

The Where Y’at message board soon received a lengthy diatribe from a young woman who’d recently made the reverse move, from Chicago to New Orleans. She accused me (with a certain amount of justification) of willfully resisting the charms of Chicago and over-romanticizing New Orleans. That was all well and good, but near the end of her missive, she characterized me as the type of guy who barreled around Lincoln Park in my shiny new SUV, trying to squeeze in a five-minute run for my Golden Retriever at the local dog park before heading back to my overpriced, lake-adjacent condo. I can handle criticism, but I really felt that crossed a line. Golden Retrievers are gross.

"How I use my useless degree" or "English major? What're you gonna do with THAT?"

The Occupy Wall Street protests have inspired a whole heap of emotions, arguments and odd conjectures in my little corner of the internet. I’m not here to add to the ruckus by offering yet another inconsequential opinion piece on Occupy – I’ll just say I’m for it and leave it at that – but I would like to address one recurring complaint that hits close to home for me.

I’ve seen a number of people dismiss the Occupy protestors as kids who chose their college majors poorly. Depending on who you listen to, young students of the Liberal Arts are anything from pitiable suckers who’ve been duped by a cash-hungry university system to whiny morons who should’ve known better than to think a History degree would get them anything but a very expensive wall-hanging. In between lies a huge range of criticisms and even a few cogent points (the notion that many colleges have become tuition-gobbling diploma mills has much credence), but the underlying message is the same: in terms of employability, a Liberal Arts degree is useless.



I am the holder of not only a B.A. in English from a Big 10 university, but also an M.F.A. in Fiction Writing from a big-city art school. Conventional wisdom suggests that my tuition fees were a poor investment, as getting “DO NOT HIRE ME” tattooed across my face would have gotten me the same results for a fraction of the cost. Back in my undergrad years I grew accustomed to witty wisecracks along the lines of, “English major, eh? Hope you like making lattes!” (I rather do, but that’s beside the point.) And yet here I sit in late 2011, a productive, tax-paying homeowner gainfully employed in an occupation directly related to my course of study. Either I’m some kind of paragon of hard work and overachievement or my education isn’t quite as worthless as you might think. (Hint: it isn’t the former.)

Contrary to popular belief, my liberal arts education has been instrumental in landing me jobs. My first genuine, cubicle-and-benefits job was writing copy for an apartment location service in Chicago. I’d been futilely sending out applications to all manner of companies for many months when a company I’d never even applied to contacted me out of the blue. The company’s human resources manager reached out to me because my CareerBuilder profile noted my creative writing background. During the interview she explained to me that they were specifically looking for someone with a creative flair, someone who could bring more to the table than the dry, lifeless copy one usually got from business majors.

That’s been a common theme throughout my career. Since leaving the apartment finders, my day jobs have included writing copy for a women’s activewear catalog and editing an online magazine for the mobile phone division of Best Buy. In each case, I started the job with no practical knowledge of, qualifications for or particular interest in the subject at hand. I was hired for all of those positions because the employers were looking for someone creative, talented and adaptable. Coincidentally, those were all skill sets I honed while pursuing my Liberal Arts degrees.



I can’t really blame folks for thinking artistic studies are impractical. Most of them are to some extent. (But what isn’t?) I certainly can’t claim that being able to write a 20-page essay on unconscious colonialist themes in Thoreau’s Walden has served me directly in the workplace. But I also think many people simply don’t know how wide the tentacles of the creative arts truly spread. When I tell people what I do for a living, I’m consistently amazed at how many of them give me a confused look and say, “So wait, you write for Best Buy? What is there to write? Like, the flyers they give out in the stores?” It has apparently never occurred to them that every word they have ever read, be it in a newspaper, on a billboard or down the side of a can of spray cheese, was written by an actual human being.

I’m looking out my dining room window right now at the Wendy’s parking lot two doors down. As an example, let’s look at the Wendy’s drive-thru order box. The name of every item on that menu was carefully chosen by a copywriter in the marketing department. Every word of text was diligently proofread by someone with editorial training. The incandescent portraits of burgers, shakes and salads were all snapped by a professional photographer. The font, the color scheme, the layout of items in a readable, customer-friendly tableau? These are all the domain of college-educated graphic designers. Hell, even the physical design of the order box itself is likely the work of a well-compensated liberal arts major. None of that crosses the mind of the average Wendy’s customer, but those arts students’ contributions have an undeniable daily impact on America’s lunch hours.



Even setting all that aside, I’ve never really understood what the alternative is supposed to be for us artsy types. It’s easy enough to say, “Study something useful and go get a real job,” but I can’t imagine that working out in practice. Sure, I could have relegated reading and writing to hobby status and pursued, say, an Engineering degree. The only trouble is that I would make an awful engineer. Not only would I find it dreadfully boring, I don’t believe I could ever be mentally capable of doing that kind of work. I often tell people that I’m good at exactly two things in life: writing and making coffee. It’s a joke, but one that’s not far from the truth. Certain people are good at certain things and it’s futile to pretend otherwise.

No one would toss a business executive on a stage and expect her to dance a palatable Swan Lake, but plenty of people would say a Dance major would be better off shoehorning herself into an unfulfilling office job. I don’t mean to suggest that every Dance major needs to stick it out and dance for a living or die trying. There are plenty of careers that incorporate physical grace and movement in much the same way that my office jobs employ my talent for creative writing. Sure, given the choice, I’d rather be writing short stories as my sole source of income, but that’s just not realistic. This is a way for me to both stay financially solvent and apply the invaluable career skills I learned while pursuing that Fiction Writing M.F.A. (Thanks again, Columbia College Chicago!)

Look, I’m not going to pretend that there aren’t a lot of pipe-dreamers in the liberal arts. Heck, when I was 18, it never even crossed my mind that I wasn’t going to be revered worldwide for my art by the time I was 23. I didn’t have a master plan or even a vague career path. I simply took for granted that the world would be gobsmacked by my creative genius and toss me right up the ladder of success. That’s just part of being a young kid with big dreams, and I don’t think I’d care to inhabit a world where it isn’t. For better or for worse, though, those dreams usually give way to a harsher reality. When that happens, those useless degrees may come in far more useful than a lot of folks would have you believe.

Hey, I kinda like the Lou Reed and Metallica album, because of course I do.

Let us now praise famous men who should probably know better but go ahead with their follies nonetheless. I speak, of course, of Lou Reed and Metallica, whose new collaboration Lulu has already attained legendary debacle status on its first official day of release. The AV Club’s Jason Heller gave Lulu one of its kinder reviews when he called it “not merely a failure, but one of the bravest, most fascinating failures in rock history.”

If you’re familiar with my well-documented Lou Reed fanboyism, you’re probably expecting me to declare Lulu a misunderstood masterpiece. I’m not going to do that. I actually do like the album a lot more than, well, everyone else in the world, apparently. But even I have to admit that it’s a maddening mess in constant danger of drowning in its own pretension. If I wasn’t so tuned into Lou Reed’s particular brand of artistic auto-eroticism, I might be just as scornful of this venture as everybody else is.

In the reviews I’ve read, Lou’s lyrics rank second only to his deadpan delivery as Lulu’s most derided aspect. I can absolutely see how verses like “To be dead / have no feeling / Be dry and spermless like a girl / I want so much to hurt you” could be off-putting to the uninitiated, and that doesn’t even get into the album’s astonishing amount of dog-sex imagery.

I think, however, that it helps to keep Lou’s inspirations and aspirations in mind. In recent years, Lou has seemed increasingly determined to be remembered as the musical equivalent of envelope-pushing fiction writers like William S. Burroughs and Hubert Selby. He goes so far as to compare himself directly to both men in his preamble to “Street Hassle” on 2004’s live Animal Serenade album. Viewed from that angle, the scatology and surreal sexuality of Lulu make a lot of sense. This may not be Lou’s Last Exit to Brooklyn, but it’s at least an ambitious attempt.

Of course, you could also say that of The Raven, Lou’s notorious, two-disc Edgar Allen Poe tribute album. I’ve been plenty vocal about my disdain for The Raven in the past. In the light of Lulu, though, I wonder if I haven’t judged it too harshly. Yes, a lot of the album consists of wildly overwrought melodrama and ill-conceived rewrites of Poe’s classic verses. But there are also plenty of strong, even excellent songs, all revolving around Lou Reed’s genuine adoration of an artist who shaped his world. It’s hard for me to hate too hard on that, even if I do find Lou collaborating with Fisher Stevens at least as off-putting as him teaming up with Metallica.

Speaking of those guys, I must admit that the duration of Lulu is as much time as I’ve ever spent in their company. I have nothing against Metallica specifically; it’s just that metal is one of the few genres that’s never really done anything for me. So it’s hard for me to join in the chorus of head-bangers who are either bemoaning the latest in a long string of Metallica disillusionments or complaining that the music on Lulu would be solid if not for that gibbering old man talking over it. From where I sit, the music sounds quite good, if a little overbearing at times. The hard rock grind makes a fine compliment to Lou’s ugly, pointed monologues and gives the whole proceeding the kind of dark edge that often hems his finest work. I probably prefer Lou’s usual late-period band – Fernando Saunders and Mike Rathke do well by him – but the only times I’m really turned off by the Metallica mash-up are when that dude (Lars, maybe? Is Lars the vocalist?) starts singing. He has a fine voice for metal, but his occasional verses change the vibe so much that I’m yanked right out of the moment.

Look, I’m not going to try convincing anyone to like or even tolerate Lulu. You’re well within your rights to dismiss this as the wrong-headed, overblown fiasco that it probably is. For my part, I’m choosing to embrace it. It’s like “Like a Possum” – another widely despised Lou Reed effort that I happen to adore – writ large and made even grosser. If that doesn’t sound like your cup of tea, it probably isn’t. Heck, after a decade of watching Lou dabble in photo galleries, overstuffed stage shows, iPhone apps, t'ai chi and dog concerts, I'm happy just to see the man making music again. And hey, if nothing else, I hope that we can all agree that this is at least a step up from Hudson River Wind Meditations.

Adventures in Liner Notes: Dino, Desi and Billy’s 'I’m a Fool'

I don’t relish bad music quite the way I do bad movies. A bad movie can be an exhilarating, uplifting experience for me. A bad album is usually just depressing. Every now and then, though, I manage to unearth a record that fascinates me for all the wrong reasons. Case in point: Dino, Desi and Billy’s I’m a Fool, probably the worst album I’ve ever listened to a dozen times in a week.

I’m a Fool is what happens when you hand a bunch of rich kids with famous dads (Dean Martin, Desi Arnaz and their realtor – OK, so Billy’s dad was only fame adjacent) a wad of cash and a recording contract. From the dorkescent cover photo to the name-dropping moniker to the soulless blanditude of the songs within, this is musical equivalent of a cut-rate, early ‘60s greaser flick. But don’t take my word for it –I’m a Fool’s gloriously purple liner notes speak for themselves.

Be Turned on By
DINO, DESI AND BILLY
Hollywood’s Hip Hit Teens Sing
I’M A FOOL
And Other Large Songs

That’s the indifferently capitalized headline topping the back cover. I’m intrigued by the wording of this little blurb. It’s clearly an attempt at teenspeak, but it doesn’t sound especially authentic to me. I wasn’t around in 1965. For all I know, kids of that era tossed around slang like “Hip Hit Teens” and “Large Songs” all the time. But I wouldn’t wager on it.

It’s easy to be born. It’s after that that it gets tougher. Giving birth, for instance, to a hit single… ‘taint simple.

I would suggest that being born is no picnic, but even beyond that this opener baffles me. The only possible excuse for employing this strained birthing metaphor is to remind us right up top that these kids are the scions of American royalty (and American royalty’s realtor). If that’s your hook, fine. Own your blatant nepotism. Just don’t go backpedaling in the very next sentence.

Dino, Desi and Billy were born into show business, but then, so were a lot of young people. A lot of illustrious Jrs. have tried to follow their forefathers’ star footsteps, and bombed out. Dino, Desi and Billy have removed themselves forever from the $600 deduction class. They’re now in a class by themselves.

That’s some pretty decent spinning designed to convince us that these kids are more than coattail-riders. I did have to look up that “$600 deduction class” business – apparently it’s a slangy way of saying the boys are no longer dependents in the strictest sense of the word. That seems like a bit much pressure to saddle a 14-year-old with, but whatever. When this album came out, it looked like it might be the truth.

“I’m a Fool” is the first step into this new class. “Not the Lovin’ Kind” is a second. And this album wraps them both up.

The two songs called out by name, “I’m a Fool” and “Not the Lovin’ Kind,” are indeed standouts. Each made a minor splash on the Billboard charts, peaking at #17 and #25 respectively. They’re both pretty generic ‘60s pop tunes, but they have decent hooks and inoffensive presences.

What the liner notes don’t mention is that more than half the songs on the album are covers, and poorly chosen covers at that. If you absolutely must hand off a few Bob Dylan tunes to the blandest bunch of privileged pubescents in town, I suppose “Mr. Tambourine Man” and “It Ain’t Me Babe” are reasonable picks. The boys’ rendition of “Like a Rolling Stone,” on the other hand, is worthwhile only as a illustration of what’s left of an icon when all that is iconic about it has been stripped away. At least the DDB version of “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” is good for a laugh, what with its references to driving, smoking, womanizing and other pursuits generally reserved for the above-14 crowd. (For what it’s worth, my personal favorite track on the album is the grungy “The Rebel Kind.” That one is actually pretty rocking, despite the laughable notion of anyone being threatened by the rebellious nature of Desi Arnaz, Jr.)

Dino, Desi and Billy had one of the best introductions to the entertainment world that any neophyte trio could hope for. Two of the three members come from highly successful show business backgrounds. Dino’s the son of Dean Martin. Desi’s the son of Desi Arnaz and Lucille Ball. Billy Hinsche’s father became rich selling real estate to the other two lads’ fathers.

I don’t mean to rip on Billy too badly. For all I know, Billy might be a cool guy and the most talented member of the band. But damn if that last line doesn’t smack of “Hey, what can we say about this other kid? His dad’s not even on TV!” You can’t help but feel a little bad for the boy.

The three boys, all in their earliest teens and students at Beverly Hills Catholic School, met on a Little League diamond. Dino was in the process of pitching a no-hitter against Desi’s team. The three ball players soon discovered mutual musical interest too. They formed a trio.

See? These aren’t just a bunch of spoiled rich kids who nepotised their way into a record deal. They’re all-American, baseball-loving Catholic schoolboys who just happen to rock. They could easily be the boys next door, provided your door is in one of the more exclusive corners of Beverly Hills. Also note that the author clearly reinforces the hierarchy established in the band’s name: Dino is the alpha male tossing the no-hitter, Desi is the beta on the losing end, and Billy is also present.

Frank Sinatra heard the three rehearsing in an upstairs bedroom during a visit to Dean Martin’s house, and brought them to the attention of Reprise.

I have my doubts that this ever happened.

Producer Lee Hazlewood took over from there, working with the trio and some of the best background musicians in Hollywood, including Al Casey, Billy Strange, James Burton, Jim Gordon, Jim Troxcel, Dr. Jim Simmons, Jimmy Grey, Donald L. Owens and others. The results: this album. And the results have added a new generation of music to Hollywood and to America.

Notice that those last couple of sentences are suspiciously lacking in qualitative assessments. The first sentence, though, speaks to the true strength of the album, such as it is. I’m a Fool isn’t a good record by any means, but it’s much more listenable than it ought to be. I’m going to give credit to the background genius of songwriter Lee Hazlewood and that cast of ringers he brought on board.

‘60s music buffs will recognize most of those names – along with the album's co-arranger Jack Nitzsche – as members of The Wrecking Crew, the uncredited session men who did the legwork on a staggering number of hits released by superstars from Nat King Cole to The Beach Boys to the Partridge Family. These guys were renowned in the industry for cranking out incredibly tight, indelible arrangements at the drop of a hat. Reading up on them can prove seriously disillusioning to fans of '60s pop (Seriously, check out that link above), but for a bright-eyed boy band they were just the ticket. They couldn’t quite work their magic for Dino, Desi and Billy, but they made a game go of crafting some genuinely Large Songs for this trio of Hip Hit Teens.

Postscript: I don’t want to come off too harsh on the actual Dino, Desi and Billy. From what I’ve seen online, they seem to be decent chaps with some genuine talent and a love for music. Heck, they even got the band back together in the ‘90s and toured as Ricci, Desi and Billy until a few years ago. (Dino, a Captain in the California Air National Guard, died in a jet crash in 1987. His younger brother Ricci joined the group in his place.) I have nothing but fond wishes for Dino, Desi and Billy as people. As a concept, though, I find the band deeply fascinating and highly amusing.

My four biggest beefs with Dr. Seuss

Sure, I dig Dr. Seuss. What good-hearted American doesn’t? The contributions the man made to children’s literature and American culture are unimpeachable. Heck, the thrill of reading Fox in Socks out loud would earn him a place on my eternal respect list by itself, and I rather adore his lesser-known early work. But as I’ve moved farther along in this fatherhood gig, I’ve had occasion to revisit a fair bit of Seussiana, and I have to admit I have a few beefs. Here are half a dozen bones I’d like to pick with the good doctor.

Lazy rhyming

There’s no question that Dr. Seuss was a master wordsmith. The bulk of his rhymes were inventive, original and memorable as hell. Nevertheless, I’ve been irked to realize how frequently he fell back on the borderline cheating of making up rhyming words from whole cloth and assigning the new “name” to some fantastical creature. There’s a Wocket in My Pocket is probably the worst offender here. It's as if a writer's blocked Seuss wandered around his house and swapped out the first letters of whatever household objects his glance settled on. I can maybe buy a “bofa on the sofa,” but the “nooth grush on my tooth brush” is just plain overreaching.

Confusing politics

I think popular opinion holds Dr. Seuss as a raging liberal, owing mainly to the overt environmentalism of The Lorax and, to a lesser extent, the Cold War tut-tutting of The Butter Battle Book. Dig a little deeper, though, and you’ll find that Thidwick the Big-Hearted Moose is a none-too-subtle takedown of socialism suited for any Tea Party reading room. And then of course there are the infamous anti-Japanese propaganda cartoons, typical products of their era but quite upsetting regardless.

My biggest issue, though, is with the possibly the biggest sacred cow in the Seuss catalog. Green Eggs and Ham is generally accepted as a lighthearted lesson in not being afraid to try new things. That’s part of the picture, certainly, but when you look at the story from Sam I Am’s angle, it’s also a testament to the power of harassment. Badger someone incessantly and inflexibly enough, Seuss suggests, and eventually they’ll bend to your will. Sam I Am traffics in the same style of non-violent bullying favored by generations of door-to-door salesmen and hard-line politicians. That he’s the ostensible hero of the story – by the end his victim is even thanking him for his brutal mind games – chills me to the core.

The Cat in the Hat

The Cat in the Hat is creepy. Anarchic fun aside, there is no way on earth I would ever have guessed that grotesque, disturbing man-beast was a cat in a hat if Seuss hadn’t spelled it out in the title. Needless to say I’m not too keen on the Cat’s original incarnation, but that revulsion is mild compared to what I feel toward more recent takes on the character.

Being a grown adult possessed of decent taste and free will, I have never seen the 2003 adaptation of The Cat in the Hat. I have, however, seen its ads. If there’s a Hell below, I firmly believe the walls are plastered with posters of Mike Myers smirking soullessly behind unholy layers of cat-man makeup.

As the father of a toddler, I have seen a fair bit of the PBS cartoon The Cat in the Hat Knows a Lot About That. One might think that relegating Martin Short to a voice-only role would temper the horror somewhat, but one would be grossly underestimating Mr. Short’s capacity for horror. I once caught an episode of Law & Order: SVU where Short played a phony psychic with a penchant for sexual assault. That wasn’t half as creepy as his work on The Cat in the Hat. In his hands, the Cat is a giggling, spastic tornado of directionless energy. In cartoon terms, he falls somewhere between early Daffy Duck and the Batman: The Animated Series edition of The Joker. Even if he didn’t sing constantly, Short’s skin-crawling intonation of “Your mother will not mind at all if we do!” (delivered at least once an episode) would almost be enough to make me forget all the fine work he did in his younger days.

I suppose this is outside the realm of Dr. Seuss’ command, what with him being conveniently dead and all. Still, I’m going to argue that he could have had the foresight to forbid his estate from licensing his work to any endeavor fronted by any aging, manic Canadian sketch comedy legend.

Furries

This one isn’t really Dr. Seuss’ fault either, but I have no one else to blame so he’ll have to do. Ever since I learned of the existence of a fetish group that gets sexual gratification from dressing up as furry, costumed characters, Seuss’ fuzzy animal-human hybrids have made me vaguely uneasy. To each his or her own, but the idea that someone out there finds whatever manner of being Sam I Am or the hopped-on Pop are meant to be primally arousing squicks me out to no end.

[Yeah, there are videos out there to illustrate this, but I’m not going to subject you to them. Instead, here are some youthful Canadian sketch comedy legends.]

"Perception of The Doors" or "Light My Fire Under a Bushel"

I’ve never been a big fan of The Doors. That’s hardly a controversial statement within my circle of music nerds. The hipster line on The Doors for years has been, “Pretty cool musically, and obviously important historically, but way overburdened by Jim Morrison’s ego, vocal dramatics and insanely bad songwriting.” I’ve never been an outright Doors hater either – I own a few of their albums and listen to them on occasion – but I’ll admit my gut reaction when I spot someone in a "Jim Morrison: American Poet" t-shirt is to avoid discussing music with him or her if at all possible.

No, as ‘60s music goes, I’m into more obscure stuff. I love poking around the weird little side alleys of hip record stores in search of long-forgotten psychedelic acts. Show me a band that pressed two or three LPs for some fly-by-night California-based label in 1966-71 then disbanded and faded into the ether and I’ll be slapping my Visa card on the counter before I’m finished reading the liner notes. The albums don’t even have to be uniformly good, so long as they’re reasonably interesting and have a standout track or two. I’ve unearthed a lot of good stuff over the years, but true lost classics are hard to come by. My dream find is an album that’s deeply trippy, slightly hooky and as dark as ‘60s rock standards allowed. Sort of like, oh, I don’t know… The Doors?



I was recently listening to a Nico album, and that got me thinking about her cover of “The End,” and that got me thinking about the original Doors version of “The End,” and before I knew it I was listening to L.A. Woman beginning to end. About halfway through “L’America,” it struck me: if The Doors weren’t THE DOORS and instead some forgotten psych rockers I’d discovered in the Oldies section of Rolling Stones Records, this would almost certainly be one of my favorite albums. Everything about it fits my template. It’s grim and grotesque and grimy as hell. It seethes with the kind of menacing organ riffs I adore. Sure, the lyrics are rather cringeworthy, but you could say the same for a whole lot of albums I love (Bullshit philosophizing was just a natural byproduct of the 1960s).



And yet here I sit, still not a huge fan of The Doors. This has made me question a lot of things about my taste in art, my public persona and the very core of my existence. If I read myself correctly, I’m guilty of the worst kind of hipsterism. The Doors’ mainstream success and rabid fan base has led me to hold them accountable for musical offenses that I’d ignore if they were committed by, say, The West Coast Pop Art Experimental Band. If L.A. Woman was an unknown commodity, I would take immense personal pride in having “discovered” it, just like I do with Trader Horne and Joe Byrd and The Field Hippies. I’d be sending my buddy Zachary links to barely read internet articles on the band’s history, just like I did after I first heard Yahowa 13.



That last paragraph gets to the heart of my problem. I didn’t need to name-check all of those artists to make my point, but I did it anyway, because I want you to click on those links and hear those bands. That’s partially because they’re all wonderful artists who deserve a wider audience, but it’s just as much because I want you to check out these bands specifically on my recommendation. I want to bask in their reflected glory and revel in the narcissistic pleasures of my own obscure, impeccable taste.

Are The Doors a better or a worse band than any of those groups? That’s a matter of opinion, obviously. What’s a matter of fact is that Oliver Stone never felt compelled to make an awful movie about Joe Byrd and The Field Hippies. See, quality is only one factor among many in my complex recipe for musical adulation. The truth is that part of the reason I’ve never cultivated a real passion for The Doors is that they’re already well-traveled territory. There’s nothing exceptional about being into The Doors, and I don’t find the band itself exceptional enough to make much of a deal about them. I’m a big fan of plenty of near-universally adored artists – The Beatles, Bob Dylan, David Bowie – but I think all of those performers are remarkable enough to supersede their mainstream acceptance.



On another hand is a band like The Grateful Dead, a group deeply beloved by a huge swath of music fans and intensely hated by just as many. I’ve started digging the Dead more in recent years. It’s because of that very hatred that I feel OK about stating that publicly. A chance to play the contrarian trumps most things for me. In the case of The Doors, though, the contempt isn’t quite feverish enough and the natural talent isn’t quite mind-blowing enough for me to get past their popularity with Budweiser-swilling undergrads.

So I guess it boils down to this: I like The Doors, but not as much as I would if they were more obscure, more talented or more hated. Of those three, only the talent requirement makes any logical sense, and it’s probably the least important to my public embracing of a band. I realize that this is a ridiculous, possibly contemptible attitude. It’s self-absorbed hipster elitism in the first degree, and it does a disservice both to blameless musicians and to me as a music lover. Still, I can’t see myself fully turning away from it anytime soon. My musical neuroses are too closely tied to my fragile self-image and the theoretical scorn of an imaginary peer group.

At least I recognize the problem. Give me time and I might even reach the point where I feel comfortable including a Doors track on my annual summer party mix. I’m thinking maybe “Hyacinth House.” Sure, “L.A. Woman” or “Love Her Madly” would probably be better party-rockers, but that shit’s way too mainstream, man.

The seven most embarrassing artists I've seen perform live

Attending a concert is always a crapshoot. Even if you’re seeing an artist whose work you love deeply and who you’ve seen kill on stage a dozen times, there’s still a chance you’re going to catch a rare off-night. There are some performers, however, who can sully your reputation by their very proximity. I’ve been to a lot of shows in my day. These few stand out as the ones I least like admitting to. In my defense, there were extenuating circumstances involved in most (but not all) of these experiences. Please don’t think less of me for having shared their airspace.


Better Than Ezra
This would be mildly embarrassing if I’d seen them in the mid-1990s, when their hit single “Good” was riding the top of the pop charts. But no, I saw them in 2002, when most of the nation had long since moved on. In my defense, I only went as a friend’s guest. Also, I saw them in New Orleans, the band’s hometown and the one spot in the nation that never stopped carrying the BTE torch. Seriously, Better Than Ezra was still huge in New Orleans in 2002, maybe because they’re still pretty much the only local alt-rock band ever to break through on the national stage.



They played under a gigantic tent in a parking lot near Lee Circle. The music was tolerable, but an obnoxious, fratty crowd that screamed along with every lyric more than compensated. There are people out there who can recite the entire Better Than Ezra songbook. Think about that.

Goo Goo Dolls and Dishwalla
I know that Goo Goo Dolls had a big hit song. I know that it was called “Iris.” I know that it’s a song I would recognize. But if you played “Iris” for me right now, I would not be able to identify it as a Goo Goo Dolls song. They’re a band that has simply never held my attention long enough for me to form any kind of lasting impression. I am quite certain that I sat through their opening set while waiting for Violent Femmes at the 1997 Milwaukee Summerfest, but the only thing I remember clearly from that performance was the portly man in front of me, who spent the whole show gyrating suggestively in ludicrously short jean shorts. Oh, and Dishwalla was there too. Everything I said about Goo Goo Dolls goes double for them.

Michael W. Smith
When I tell people I used to be a regular on the Christian rock festival circuit, the first thing they ask is usually, “Did you ever see Amy Grant?” (No.) The second thing they ask is usually, “Did you ever see Michael W. Smith?” (Yes. Twice.) I make no apologies for my youthful experimentation with Contemporary Christian music. It was what was available to me, and some of it was actually pretty decent stuff. I take no shame in having seeing acts like Randy Stonehill, Bride or SFC do their thing on stage. But Michael W. Smith is in a different league. For much of the ‘80s and ‘90s, he was the male face of cheesy, overproduced Christian pop, one of the only God Rock performers identifiable even to secular audiences.



His live shows were pretty much exactly what you’d think: bland and affable and laden with synthesizers and saxophones. I first saw him play at the Agape Festival in Greenville, IL (actually a very important formative experience for me as a young music fan), but the real standout was a Target Center gig in 1993. I recall a lot of glittery outfits, at least one keytar solo (though that might have been part of Petra’s opening set) and a moving walkway extending off the front of the stage. MWS used the latter as an ingenious prop, strenuously walking against the grain as an illustration of his struggle to keep within reach of Jesus. Or something like that. I was never too clear on the metaphor.

No Doubt
I saw maybe two minutes of No Doubt while wandering the grounds at the 2002 New Orleans Voodoo Music Experience. That was long enough for me to hear Gwen Stefani shrilling about how “fucking awesome” it was to be in “New fucking Orleans,” or something to that effect. Her ostentatious street-smart pose was so obviously forced and artificial that I immediately moved on to another stage to catch a few minutes of the only slightly less embarrassing Macy Gray. Or maybe it was Counting Crows. Damn, that was a lame Voodoo Fest lineup.

Sum 41 or maybe Good Charlotte
In 2002, The Late Late Show with Craig Kilborn taped a week of programs in New Orleans. I got tickets for the Wednesday episode, which turned out to be the weakest of the run. Not only was Craig’s guest played-out prankster Tom Green, the musical guest was one of the abovementioned weenie punk acts. I honestly can’t remember which one. I suppose I could find out pretty easily online, but hell, why bother?

Carman
If you’ve never heard of Carman, and I have no reason to assume you have, imagine a Christian version of Neil Diamond, except about 75% tackier and more theatrical. He specializes in elaborate story songs like “The Champion,” a hammy, histrionic, eight-minute account of a boxing match between Jesus and Satan.



It’s baffling to me to think that I – or anyone else, really – was ever capable of appreciating Carman unironically, but at 13, I was a hardcore, fist-pumping fan shouting along from the upper decks of the La Crosse Center.

Vanilla Ice
By the time I saw Vanilla Ice in 1999, he was already a walking punchline. This was during the grotesque period when he was trying to reinvent himself as a Limp Bizkit-style thrash rapper. I purchased my $10 ticket ironically, as did virtually every other smirking scenester who filled the Hollywood Theater in La Crosse, WI (he was originally scheduled to play the smaller, hipper Warehouse, but the demand proved too great). That show went a long way toward convincing me not to spend money ironically anymore. Simply put, it was an embarrassing experience for me, for Vanilla Ice and for pretty much everyone involved.



Vanilla spent much of the set stomping around the stage declaring himself free from the mental slavery of celebrity and music labels. “No more puppet!” was the refrain of the evening. The crowd was openly hostile throughout. Several onstage security guards were kept busy fending off an endless stream of aspiring bum-rushers. When Vanilla Ice’s hype man (yep, that was an existent career in 1999) was foolhardy enough to try crowd-surfing, he was instantly dragged down and enveloped. The security guards had to physically pull him back on stage to spare him a beating from the drunken front-row hooligans.

The band played “Too Cold,” their hard rock revamp of “Ice Ice Baby,” halfway through the set, after which at least 3/4 of the crowd immediately filed out. By this point I was feeling pretty sorry for poor Vanilla, so I stuck it out. I’m glad I did. The folks that left missed out on a live performance of “Havin’ a Roni,” and that’s just not something you see every day.