Let’s be honest, if you’re 16 and you stay up all night, it’s like a victory, you’ve beaten the night, but if you’re 30, then that sun is God’s flashlight.
The rich, shrewd, and intelligent have already gone home. They sleep well with clear conscience, and dream of who else they want to bang in the copy room.
My musing in this space will mostly be concerned with bands, and the various sub-cultural concerns and other peripheral crap that affects music and vice versa.
In his topsail-sized kimono, and fey, lisping voice, Brando’s Moreau comes off less like a reclusive madman than a gay sumo wrestler dabbling in Kabuki.
The Island of Dr. Moreau is a modernized version of an already twice-told tale of genetic manipulation. Marlon Brando tackles the role with a strange gusto.
Corn Syrup is in EVERYTHING! It knows no political boundaries. It discriminates against no man, woman, or child, regardless of race, creed, or social mores.
There’s a shitload of loners, losers, perverts, and weirdos who need to know which music will spice up the idiosyncratic flavors of their particular sex lives.