Off Season Post 6: My Popsicle Hurts

Hello again, bored off season readers. They—whoever “they” are—say it’s wrong to lead off anything with an apology. However, “they” didn’t have significant computer trouble this week. Between my personal laptop going crazy and my work laptop crashing like Lindsay Lohan after an all night coke binge, I haven’t had access to the on line world until today. I’m sorry for that, but things just happen sometimes, I suppose.

Thanks to the IT Department, I’m up and running again and I’m in time for a Friday post. Thanks to those of you who sent emails or Facebook messages of encouragement and I’m even thankful for the “What the F*ck?” message I got from a not to be named reader. I’ll take your hostility as a sort of affectionate expression of your pent up frustration. It’s not me, it’s you. I get it. I hope your blood pressure subsides once you see I’ve posted.

We’re six full weeks into the Bachelor off season and, frankly, I’m wondering if anyone is reading anymore. Imagine the big blow to my ego knowing that my entire blog reading base is using me for my insight into a reality show rather than tuning in to vicariously experience my radiance and charm via my online posts. Sigh . . . .

At any rate, I’m glad you’re still reading. This week’s shout out goes to Christy in Charlotte, North Carolina who sent me a message after having a Brad Womack sighting at 9:30 a.m. on Tryon Street. She commented on his ultra tan skin, carefully coifed stubble, and ultra tight jeans. Gee, thanks for that, Christy. I’m happy to know you scoped out his package on your way to work. I wonder if that’s standard practice for you or if it just applies to Bachelor contestants. I’m sure his jeans are unreasonably tight because his ego is in there somewhere. I’ll get to Womack eventually. Thanks for stalking him for me.

I also want to thank those of you who took the time to comment for the advice, name suggestions, and overall encouragement you provided over the past week. I’ve had a lot going on and being able to count on some positive feedback at the touch of a button makes more of a difference in a crappy day than you might imagine. I know it’s hard to believe but Lone Star beer bottles don’t always contain the solace that a person seeks. Although they do contain clever puzzles on the underside of their bottle caps, which makes it more interesting to drink. They even have an iPhone app that solves them for you in the event that you’re too drunk to complete rudimentary word association games. I use it often. Hell, I spend so much time in bars that I had to put a neon sign above the bathroom in my house just so I could find it. With that in mind, let’s get to it.

As I drove aimlessly and awkwardly home from the airport headed North up the Missouri-Pacific Freeway (also known as Mo-Pac, or Loop 1) in Austin this weekend, I used the rare alone time that my drive afforded me to ponder possible blog posting subjects. My general rule is to await inspiration via a daily occurrence or an early morning dream. Considering the fact that I awoke abruptly after dreaming of being chased by a white elf with a giant hammer screaming “mayonnaise” as froth dripped from his mouth I was a little short on inspiration this week. I was forced to force myself to think about it.

About halfway toward my destination, I realized that I left my iPod in my man bag in the back seat. Sadly, I would now be forced to listen to the radio. Between the iPod and satellite radio, I rarely, if ever, listen to the radio, but I figured I’d see how the other half lives this week. I turned the radio on, hit the “scan” button and began to listen.

After enduring commercial after commercial for various local businesses and listening to the local sports hacks complain about the current state of college football, I took matters into my own hands and began to manually scan. It’s amazing how spoiled a person gets from his own iPod. Even though Algunos Hombre en Austin speaks Spanish, I found the preponderance of Spanish stations quite shocking. I moved on in search of popular music. I wondered what the iCarly crowd was listening to these days.

I stumbled upon what I assumed was the local pop station. I listened to a couple of songs I didn’t recognize. Although I had no idea what the songs were or who the “artist” was, I did recognize the familiar structure of the American pop song. It hasn’t changed in ages.

In a mid to up tempo 4/4 beat lasting no longer than 4 minutes, we get a 13-20 second Intro-verse-chorus-verse-chorus-Bridge-instrumental-chorus, chorus . . . .(or something very similar). The songs tell a relatable story and have a catchy hook that every person with a financial interest in the song prays will bounce around uncontrollably in the listener’s head for the majority of the day. It’s as formulaic as an episode of Happy Days (rest in peace, Mr. C.), but it’s worked forever.

Some Guy practices some entertainment law and I can tell you that there is a ridiculous, filthy, unfathomable amount of money in songwriting. I’m severely oversimplifying the formula, but a songwriter gets about nine cents—get this—every time any song he/she has written is played on any radio station anywhere in the world . . . forever. The songwriter also gets nine cents every time the song is downloaded or an album is sold. Toss in movie rights and a piece of the album sales and you get the picture. Those are referred to as “mechanical royalties” and they don’t include “performance royalties” that the person performing the song gets.

Let’s put that in perspective. Michael Jackson (rest his moon walking soul) wrote 4 of the 9 songs on Thriller. The album alone sold 110 million copies worldwide. Do the math. Now you know why any unknown rap star on MTV Cribs can afford to paint his $500,000 Bentley purple, put a chandelier inside of it, and replace the trunk space with a giant set of speakers and park it near his poolside grotto with a gold plated stripper pole in it. Trust me we’re all in the wrong business.

With this in mind, I decided to select the next three songs I heard on pop radio and make it a case study for myself. Notwithstanding the fact that Yoko Ono gets half of it, I was certain that the Lennon/McCartney song catalog was certainly worth the nine cents paid whenever a Beatles’ song is played. Elvis Costello, Bob Dylan, Paul Thorn (Google him and listen. He’s a friend of mine), Pete Yorn, and even contemporary artists like Jewel or Sarah McLaughlin have real songwriting talent and deserve the money from the effort they put into both the composition and performance of their songs. How bad could pop radio be?

Unfortunately, as I would soon be reminded, popularity and wealth are in no way related to talent, especially in today’s market. In today’s climate, the above mentioned group is now the exception rather than the rule. Allow me to explain.

My car is fancy enough to have that display thing that tells me the name of the song and artist. I simply used my iPhone to take a picture of the display for the next three songs I heard. The first was a song called “Take it Off” by some little brat named Ke$ha—no the money sign is not a typo. Please. Let’s examine Ke$ha’s poetry, shall we?

And now we lookin' like pimps
In my gold Trans Am.
Got a water bottle full of whiskey
In my handbag.
Got my drunk text on
I'll regret it in the mornin'
But tonight
I don't give a
I don't give a
I don't give a

I wondered why looking like the boss of a sex worker was a desirable quality. I pictured her and her friends in purple velvet leisure suits with matching hats, silk shirts, and big canes. A gold Trans Am? Is she kidding? I seriously doubt Ke$ha was alive when the gold Trans Am was fashionable. She was born in 1987 and Smokey and the Bandit came out ten years before that and, ironically, starred a brilliant songwriter named Jerry Reed. The only people to ever really buy those cars were middle-aged Burt Reynolds fans with a porn stash and a silk, chest-hair sporting shirt to match. Why does Ke$ha own one and why does she have to get her drunk text on in it? I found that odd, especially in the green friendly world of today. Shouldn’t she be getting her hybrid on or something?

A water bottle full of whiskey in her hand bag? Everyone worth his salt knows that Johnny Law would ferret that out in a heartbeat. A handbag usually has a license in it and can easily be matched to a women because it can be identified with the outfit it matches. Hiding whiskey in it precludes deniability. It’s a foolish choice. You hide your whiskey in the center console or under the passenger seat. That way if the Five-O pulls you out of the car you can always deny you knew it was there. It worked for Lindsay Lohan and a host of other celebrities. Paris Hilton just used the “that purse with all the cocaine in it didn’t match my outfit” defense to get out of a bust. There’s nothing like endorsing drunk driving in a sports car and simultaneously giving your audience poor arrest avoidance advice. Oh, and the song sucked too.

Guess what, though? I Googled it when I got home and it’s currently number 10 on the Billboard Top 40. Oh, and Ke$ha—rotten advice aside—wrote it. Know what that means? You guessed it. Nine cents every time it’s played or sold . . . forever. I went to the liquor store in my Trans Am and got a bottle of whiskey to fill up my water bottle before assuming the fetal position in the shower.

After thinking that Ke$ha’s masterpiece couldn’t be topped, I settled in to my drive home and opened my mind and my ears to experience the next offering. It was a song called “California Gurls” by Katy Perry, who, as I was thankful to find out shortly after my Ke$ha Google search, is actually from California. She’s a poor man’s Betty Page with less talent and softer features.

I suppose the fact that she’s a product of the California public school system would be apparent from her inability to spell “girls” correctly. That state has some serious education problems it needs to address. Besides, everyone knows that the Artist formerly known as Prince and then by some symbol and currently again known as Prince is the only person who can look cool with a bunch of misspellings in his songs. Prince rules, by the way. He’s unbelievably talented—and purple too—despite the fact that his real name is Roger Nelson.

Annnnnyyyyyhoooo . . .

Katy’s masterpiece offers the following wisdom:

California girls
We're unforgettable
Daisy Dukes
Bikinis on top
Sun-kissed skin
So hot
We'll melt your Popsicle
Oooooh oh oooooh

Sex on the beach
We don't mind sand in our Stilettos
We freak
In my Jeep
Snoop Doggy Dogg on the stereo (Oh oh)

Notwithstanding the fact that songs about California girls are a hackneyed premise, I find the song confusing. Why is it necessary to put a bikini on top of a pair of Daisy Dukes? Shouldn’t it be the other way around? Also, wouldn’t sun-kissed skin so hot actually freeze my popsicle? I mean if she’s going go to for a sexually charged metaphor she might as well make it accurate. Is that too much to ask? I can’t have my popsicle melting at the sight of sun-kissed twenty-somethings. That would be embarrassing.

At least she had the wherewithal to hyphenate “sun-kissed.” Oh, and if I’m going to freak in someone’s Jeep, I’m opting for some Bon Jovi. Snoop Dogg is hardly romantic. Then again, if I’m freaking in my Jeep with stiletto wearing hussies with sand in their pants, perhaps Snoop would be more appropriate.

Like Ke$ha, I Googled Ms. Perry—now Ms. Russell Brand, by the way—when I got home. Guess what? It’s currently number two on the Billboard Top 40. Guess what else I found out? She wrote that song along with four other people, including Calvin Broadus—also known as Snoop Dogg. Know what that means? You guessed it. She gets about two cents every time it’s played. After drinking half of my water bottle full of whiskey, I really wanted to go freak myself in a Jeep.

The final song in my pop music experiment was a song by Beyonce called “Check on It.” I’ll be the first to say that I love Beyonce. Call me what you want, I dig her. I was a Destiny’s Child fan before they broke up and I actually own the gospel album that Michelle Williams recorded after they disbanded. They wrote their own stuff, danced their tails off, and worked hard to get where they went. I respect that. Incidentally, I respect Katy and Ke$ha for that as well, but think Beyonce is far more talented. More about that later.

Check On It is a song about checking on it. It goes like this.

If you got flaunt it, boy I know you want it
While I turn around you watch me check up on it
Ooo you watchin' me shake it, I see it in ya face
Ya can't take it, it's blazin', you rock me and amaze me

You can look at it, as long as you don't grab it
If you don't go braggin', I'ma let you have it
You think that I'm teasin', but I ain't got no reason
I'm sure that I can please ya, but first I gotta read you


I’m thankful that I can look at it as long as I don’t grab it. It’s nice to have options. Normally, I’m not inclined to grab it after looking at it after period of time, but I was happy to know my limits. I was also relieved to know that if I didn’t boast about looking at it that Beyonce was inclined to let me have it. At first, I wondered if she was teasing, but took comfort in the fact that she had no reason to do so. Truth be told, I like that song. It—as is intended—is mindless, fun, and catchy. Oh, and Beyonce is quickly approaching the 100 million sold mark and she owns her own music. That’s a hell of a lot of nine cents. No wonder she wants me to check up on it before I grab it.

At the end of my experiment I found myself shaking my head in disbelief. Keep in mind that these three songs have reached the top of the charts in dozens of countries all over the world. They are played literally thousands of times per day and will be for years to come. Talent or no talent, it’s a good thing to get a song on the radio—and it pays the bills as well.

Look, I’m a free market guy and if someone offered me that kind of money do whatever it is that I do, I’d take it in a heartbeat. I suppose it was a combination of dumb luck and hard work that put all of those songs on the airwaves and I’m glad we live in a place that allows a song about freaking in a Jeep to make millions of dollars for the people who put it out there. That still doesn’t stop me from crying about it.

Well, there it is. Thank you all again for weathering my computer storm and I’m sorry it took me so long to post this week. Next week’s post might be a day or so late because of work obligations but you can figure that out on my Facebook page. Please, especially in the off season, keep the comments and emails coming. That’s what keeps me afloat. Take care of yourselves and enjoy the change in the seasons. In the meantime, if you need me, I’ll be putting some back and some neck upon it while you stand there in the background and check up on it. DP