Obligatory Michael Jackson conspiracy theory

Michael Jackson is dead. Or is he? You can believe the mainstream media if you want, or you can believe that he faked his own death in order to escape a) bill collectors, b) the pressure from his planned “reemergence,”  c) the supreme daily pain-in-the-assness of being a ultramegasuperduberstar, and/or d) any or all of the above, plus e) any other rationales, realistic or feverish, that might be attributed to a man of Michael Jackson’s demeanour, for wanting to pretend to be dead when he is not, in fact, dead. 

Anyway. Something nobody can quite fathom at any point before they become a Ridiculously Huge Star is that Ridiculously Huge Stars can’t just up and retire like you and I can retire. Considerably more drastic measures are required. Surely you’ve heard of the secret, seven-story deep bunker that Elvis Presley had built underneath Graceland, prior to faking his own death? MJ lives there now with Elvis and certain other ‘dead’ celebrities.* You don’t have to be sad for him anymore.

It’s just, the thing of it is…

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Michael Jackson vs Farrah Fawcett (vs Ed McMahon)

Yeah yeah, I know he sold a lot of records and invented the moonwalk and was just so…Michael Jackson. I won’t dispute much of what you would say about his influence on music, on popular culture, on celebrity freakshowdom. I couldn’t possibly.

But, speaking as a man who was once a puberty-stricken boy, I LOVED Farrah Fawcett

And oh yeah, Ed McMahon.

Old Ugly is the new pretty

Listen here. I’m walking around my work neighbourhood at lunchtime, and I see a poster pasted to an electrical box. It’s for the city’s newest label or something. What should I care about a new label? I’m so adult, new labels aren’t any of my damn business. I decide I don’t even care how adult I am, I’m curious about this label with a horse for a logo, and I’m going to look ’em up. So I do.

Ready, Set, All hail the Old Ugly Recording Co. It’s hip hop, friend, and mighty high quality, too. There’s not a lot of stuff on the website there, but there’s enough to get you started, like free downloads for instance. I will pay The Joe the best compliment I can: I will find out where he lives and then ride my bike past his house and possibly see him shoveling snow or mowing his lawn or something, after which I will tell the world. That’ll be good publicity for him.

That’s Edmonton For YOU and YOU and YOU

Remember last week, when we were planning on having Trevor Anderson by the radio show for a little That’s Edmonton for You listening party? Remember? Yeah, good times.

Remember how I ‘couldn’t say’ how I felt about the music at the time? Yeah, total dodge. I believe the City of Edmonton should immediately adopt all 7 tracks as situation-specific city anthems: Amy van Keeken’s for hockey games, Colleen Brown’s for when we give Heart the key to the city, everyone could stand and sing Nik Kozub’s before gigs get underway, and Cadence Weapon’s before settling in for a night/day/afternoon/week/month/year spent on the couch in front of the TV/computer/videogame system. Ted Wright’s song should be this summer’s go-to song for driving around, playing your stereo too loud.

Click here to sign an online petition to make it all happen.

What if, in order to save your child’s life, you had to properly mic this instrument?

Feeling lucky, punk?

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Don’t Say We Didn’t Warn You II

Rats. Missed the anniversary of Uncle Bobby’s passing

Um. Pardon me? You didn’t really just say you don’t know Uncle Bobby, did you? Tsk. Here you go.

As you might imagine, Bimbo the Birthday Clown had a profound effect on everyone he touched (this show is one of my earliest TV memories; that song has haunted me worse than anything Neil Sedaka ever wrote), but it was Uncle Bobby who made the show. Here’s the thing: watch the clip. The show was on every day, and every day they did the Bimbo the Birthday Clown segment. Every day they rolled out the clown with a pre-stuffed pouch full of viewer mail and went through the whole same ritual, albeit with a different special guest each day, some civilian who couldn’t possibly be expected to know what they were doing. Uncle Bobby would guide them to their marks, present, adjust and prompt them as required, all while mumbling random bonhomie-ish phrases to keep everyone at ease.

We missed Uncle Bobby’s anniversary. That’s too bad. But this is your notice for this Thursday, baby. It’s Maxim Gorky!

I, Curmudgeon

If I can offer some advice, go down and press ‘play’ right now, and then you can read while the song deals with its rising action.

I see them every day around this time of year, as I head home through the Legislature grounds. That’s a nice place for getting your photograph taken, eh? You bet it is, and that fact is not lost on high school grads, either. They actually sort of make me smile as I navigate my way through what seems like kilometers of taffeta and stretch Hummer limousines. Probably a little bit drunk already, and maybe they’re in for some serious puking later, but that’s later. For the moment, they’re well-scrubbed and full of life. Gotta love ’em.

High school grads, if I may address you directly for a moment – Congratulations, and if you had any brains at all in those lovely heads of yours, this would be your grad theme song. It’s not, I know. That’s okay.

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