3 Things About Vegas

Vegas. A city whose reputation precedes it and probably always will. As to how I ended up here, well, that's a longer story than we have time for here. It suffices to say, there are more than three reasons that I'm suddenly calling Sin City home - so we'll save that for another day, another blog, etc. But nevertheless, here I am in the desert. Not the L.A. desert (a/k/a "the Valley"), but the real desert. Where three digit temperatures are a three-month-long affair and you have to put a significant deposit down to start your utilities (regardless of your credit) here because air conditioning is more ubiquitous than running water. The good news is that my weekly commute from L.A. to Vegas and back is a thing of the past, and I can finally stop taking my suitcase to work. But this city is a whole different animal than the one I left. It's much, much smaller, though it seems stocked with just as large a variety of people - and it's going to take some getting used to. But, after only one week here, I do know a few things about Vegas... actually, three.

1. Two Sides To The Story. Vegas has two parts: The Strip, and not The Strip. The Strip is pretty much Hollywood, but with even more glitter and glam (and no creepy buskers poorly imitating celebrities/characters and charging for photos). It has the same sorts of people as Hollywood (the rich and famous, the wanna-be rich and famous, and the hapless "general public" on hand to feed each of the other two groups' compulsive need for attention) and is similarly overpriced, morally bereft and mostly underwhelming. The not The Strip part of town is actually delightfully suburban, nicely sprawled out and much like I imagine Bakersfield and Fresno to be. What's particularly interesting about this civic dichotomy is how the really bad parts of town are also pretty much a part of The Strip. Sure, they hide most of them behind the big, sparkly casinos or even a couple of blocks away. But if it's human blight you're looking for, you won't want to stray too far from the world's most famous boulevard. Turns out the defining characteristic of the rest of the city is the predominance of shopping centers and strip malls.

2. For The Love of Money. It's cheaper to live in Vegas (at least in the not The Strip part of town), and by cheaper I mean, a lot cheaper. To put it in terms my Los Angeleno readers can understand: I'm renting a four bedroom home, built in 2007, for literally half of what I was paying to rent my two-bedroom apartment in Burbank. Burbank! If you think that's a "choice" part of L.A. to live in, I've got some rims and bad facial hair ideas to sell you. Why did I rent a four bedroom home to live in alone? I guess I just felt a little too old to be paying less than $1,000 in rent. Besides, you all are planning to visit now, right? But it doesn't stop at real estate (though that is the best example); gas is cheaper, food is cheaper, and well, fun is cheaper. Once you've got a local ID, it's like having a Disney employee ID in Anaheim - there's a whole different price list for you. I would say that I'm expecting a 30-40% reduction in my monthly spending, just as a function of living here. That's the kind of money that can make 120 degrees in July not such a bad thing.

3. Pretty Different. There weren't many things I took for granted while living in the City of Angels. I knew precisely how good I had it with the weather, the local pro sports, and the abundance of nightlife. But what I did not truly appreciate is how attractive the people of Los Angeles are as a group. I'm not just talking about the Megan Fox set - I mean, on average, the inhabitants of southern California are a good-looking crowd. Which is to say that the proletariat here in L.V. is (much like it probably is elsewhere) a little rough around the edges. Don't get me wrong, there are some insanely attractive people here, too. It's just that "regular folk" are much more, er, "regular" than I'm used to. Let's just say there an abundance of people who seem to have an affinity for ill-advised and large tattoos and who appear to not have enjoyed the benefits of regular dental office visits for the majority of their lives. Similarly, there are a whole lot more trucks driving around these streets than you'll find on the L.A. freeways. It's just as well, really. It's refreshing to see a city that's built its livelihood on peddling the pretty to the pretty not get too caught up in it themselves (and a good reminder to find a local dentist ASAP).

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I'm sure there will be a lot more than just three things to find out about this crazy new city. There will be new places, new people and, from what I've heard, even more maddening, outrageous and inexplicable behaviors that will demand a sharp tongued cynic, with an eye for just such absurdity, to shine the light of reason all over them. Fortunately for Vegas, I'm finally here. Fortunately for me, I've got a place where I can reflect on the social decay I continue to bear helpless witness to, to the bemusement of friends and family. And in as much as I've got a whole new city full of undiscovered material, and a place where I can rant about it to my heart's content, I suppose I'm the one thing that really does have some cache in this town: lucky.

3 Driving Me Crazies

Just to be clear, this is not an adjunct to the previously published "3 Things Not To Drive" - because after a little reflection and rereading, I realized that it's not just what people were driving that was maddening me, but rather how. As the home of the most regular drivers per capita in the United States, Los Angeles has, not suprisingly, provided me with some of the most profoundly foolish, inconsiderate and utterly inexplicable driving methods that I have ever seen, or even imagined. This is one of those times when I have to whittle my list down to get to three, rather than struggle to find a third, and I expect that my faithful readers will be able to provide many, many more examples. But for my piece, there are the 3 driving behaviors that make me wish slapping people was legal:

1. The Sound of Music. I'm the first person to say "if it's too loud, you're too old." I love my music loud - especially when I'm driving. It is the seminal American driving experience to be tooling down the road with your rock and roll up loud and singing along, with the wind blowing through your hair. That being said, it's also an intensely personal experience (or perhaps a group experience for the passengers in your vehicle). All of the speakers in a car are pointed inward so there is no rational explanation for why I should be able to hear the music being played in your car as clearly as though it's playing in mine. From a physics point of view, this means that even after the sound has been absorbed by all of the absorbent surfaces in your car (e.g. leather, cushions, carpet, people, etc.) it's still loud enough to be heard through my closed car windows - which means that if it hasn't caused permanent hearing damage yet - it's on its way to. This is aural equivalent of running an non-muffled chainsaw on an aircraft carrier deck during flight ops with a Metallica concert going on directly behind you. The chances that I want to hear what you're listening to (especially if you're an Armenian teenager) are incredibly slim. The chances I will think you are cool because of what you're listening to (even if it's something I like) are even slimmer. Hearing Bhangra House music blasted out of a white 6 series BMW with rims that cost more than my whole car being driven by a 120-lb teenager with ill-advised facial hair, an undershirt and a chain I can actually see from the sidewalk makes me want to point, laugh, and weep for the future. Do yourself (and the rest of us) a favor and turn it the hell down. If we want to know what you're listening to - we'll ask.

2. Get Slow, Get Slow, Get Slow. It's hard for me to imagine a life without hurrying. I can't even recall a time in my life when I wasn't hurrying. Whether it was being raised by a military father, spending ten years in the military myself, or simply my own personal and professional drive - getting where I need to go as fast as I can has always been a matter of the utmost importance to me. What's more, it seems as though the world in general is built to accommodate this pacing. Our cars are faster, our highways wider, and our everything is built to save us time between places. Unfortunately, there seems to be a substantial minority of people for whom every road is a scenic route and every lane is their own private driveway. This wouldn't necessarily be so maddening if traffic wasn't such a linear thing - and the rest of us wouldn't be completely at the mercy of these morons. Okay, so maybe you're not in a hurry - why not walk to where you're going then? Or even better, drive between 10 and 2 (when people with jobs aren't trying to get somewhere). And what's with the laser-like focus when you're driving at the posted speed limit in the left lane on the highway? It's obvious you're concentrating - because you obviously can't see the long line of cars behind you, or the constant stream of cars, trucks, and construction equipment passing you on the right. Maybe if driving at these speeds require that much attention - you should stick to surface streets.

3. Rev Me Up. I used to drive a motorcycle, and so I understand the need for cyclists to do everything they can to notify otherwise absent-minded motorists of their presence - because the majority of motorcycle accidents don't result from the cyclists error, but rather from a driver not seeing them. So when a motorcycle rider revs their engine, I know they're letting everyone know where they are. Which is strangely similar to the effect when someone in a car revs their engine - letting everyone know how big of a douchebag they are. Seriously, unless you're calibrating a tachometer or shop testing an engine, there simply isn't another explanation for why you'd be doing this. The last time revving your engine at a stoplight was cool, the Fonz was on in prime-time and school dances were actually called "Sock Hops". Here's the deal, if you've got a fast car, anyone who will care already knows because (a) they recognize your car, or (b) you're driving it really fast. I can only imagine two possible purposes for this unmitigated douchebaggery: (1) you are trying to intimidate other race-minded drivers; or (2) you're trying to impress girls. This is a failure out of the gate - anyone who wants to race isn't going to care whether you're revving your engine or not, and I've never met a woman who thinks this is hot, cool, or makes you in any way more attractive. If you truly can't suppress your desire to stomp on your gas pedal while your car is parked - do us all a favor, do it in your garage with the garage door closed and your windows down.

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I have no idea when driving became the easiest way to spot the least cognitively capable amongst us. I remember the good old days when the driving test was actually something that required more than a pulse and working limbs to pass. For as frequently as it was predicted, we've not yet seen the days of flying cars - and left with only two dimensions, the rest of us will remain hostage to the loud, the slow and the stupid until we come up with a better solution. I used to wonder why older people bought cars that were large, fast and almost completely soundproof. Now I know. The worst part of all is that all of the above-listed offenses are actually illegal, but finding a police officer willing to enforce them is like trying to listen to Justin Bieber singing without wanting to plunge an ice pick into each of your ears. For the time being, these special drivers remain a constant test of one's patience and tolerance, a good reason to start saving money (as the youngest generation is unlikely to be able to provide any retirement income), and a reminder of why you're moving to a smaller town.

3 Inexplicable Phenomena

For the most part, I consider myself difficult to truly baffle. It's not that I'm particularly more intelligent than anyone else, but my particular cognitive specialties and academic training (in math, logic, law, etc.) make it hard to get much by me. The downside of this is that I regularly ruin surprise endings (like shouting out "it's twins" in the middle of The Prestige), trash the dreams of well-meaning friends getting involved in multi-level marketing, and generally don't like having anything peddled to me. The upside is that when I do get truthfully taken, it's almost always a visceral experience (thank you Coen brothers, Steve Valentine, and the writers of LOST). Almost.

There are also a precious few phenomena that are disappointingly inexplicable; signs of social and intellectual decay so poignant that they defy the alarmingly small amount of faith in humanity that I have remaining. So here they are, 3 things I can't explain away, but really wish I could:

1. The Tipping Point. For the record, I'm a good tipper. I almost always default to giving 20% on any food or beverage service, leave money for the maid at hotels, and tip every valet, no matter how closely he parked my car. But, I have a limit. There are some people I simply cannot justify tipping, and I truly resent being presented with a receipt where I have the "option" of leaving a gratuity in a situation where it is obviously not deserved. I know this is an option that is easily disabled in the software employed by the cash register system, so don't tell me it's a default setting. The thing is, I don't like feeling like a cheap bastard, even if I've got no good reason to. Leaving a "tip line" blank makes me feel this way, and it sucks. The most egregious example of this is the people who ring up my snacks at the airport. Because I can't bring a drink with me to the airport, and I like my Diet Coke in a bottle, I have to go pay three bucks for one when I fly at the airport terminal. I also have to pay a buck fifty for a banana. So after being raped for nearly five dollars on my meager breakfast, I'm presented with a receipt with a tip line on it for the person who, I'm not making this up, rang up my purchase. And then, deal with their disdainful glance after I leave it blank. I have no idea why this is the way it is, or why these folks expect a gratuity, but it really needs to stop.

2. Luke SlowWalkers. One might reasonably argue that the world is moving faster now than it ever has. Our time has become more and more precious, as the amount of things that can both steal and save our time has risen exponentially. As a result, the majority of us are usually in some sort of hurry. And by the majority of us, I mean, the urban/suburban set, so if you're on a farm in Mississippi and have a different opinion, you can save yourself an e-mail here, this doesn't apply to you. What's more, we have an ever increasing selection of services and service centers to assist in this maximization of time. Unfortunately, those civic systems in place to move us from place to place haven't enjoyed the same level of innovation. Sidewalks and side roads and highways persist, and we've still got to get around one another to get where we're going. What is not so obvious, in this high speed world, is why some people insist on meandering through high traffic environments as though they're on a nature walk in the middle of the forest. Sure, I'm all for stopping to smell the roses, but maybe not as much in airport terminals, shopping mall walkways, and urban sidewalks - where as it turns out, there aren't any roses! If you suddenly get the sense that everyone is walking past you shaking their head as they they've just witnessed something unbelievably stupid, either speed up, or get the hell out of the way.

3. The Politics of Hate. I have always understood American politics to be contentious. As a two-party system, there has always been a palpable tension between Republicans and Democrats, even as age and maturity begin to moderate our ideologies. There would be thinly veiled, though still intellectual, jabs thrown between candidates, incumbents & challengers, across the aisles and between the branches. Throughout it all, however, there was an air of civility, especially at the national level, which was emulated (albeit less successfully) at each level, from state to county to local governments. But seemingly overnight, this arena of intellectual dispute became a battlefield of raw vitriol; full of hate, contempt and disrespect. Decorum has been abandoned and replaced by hyperbole so grandiose that even the most mundane disputes draw comparisons to world wars, historical genocides, and unspeakable crimes. Ubiquitous access to the world's information has also become ubiquitous access to a world of misinformation, and most consumers are unable, or simply unwilling, to tell the difference. Mired in fear and mistrust, we are reduced to our most primitive instincts - deifying those who think like us, and vilifying those whose opinions differ in the slightest. I don't know when it happened, I don't know how it happened, and I surely don't know why it's happened. But I'm doing my part to put a stop to it, and saving all my own hate for a group that really deserves it. Can ya hear me Notre Dame?

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In the end, a little mystery is good for the soul. I don't imagine I'll ever tire of the enigmatic nature of women (though some simply call it insanity), the beauty of the twist ending, or an age-old question, that even through centuries of debate and study, still can't be answered. After all, what fun would the world be if we really could ever understand it all? But that being said, we ought to seek out and eliminate the ludicrous, the under-informed, and the downright stupid, and fix it. If the only plausible explanation for someone or something is that they don't know it's wrong - perhaps we ought to work on simple telling them - in a way that sounds less like argument and more like, well, sense. After all, the inexplicable is only really fun if doesn't make you want to slap someone.

3 Lie Detectors

I'm normally not a fan of network television programming. Because it's made for the masses, and the masses seem ever more predisposed to consuming mind-numbing, pandering, and senselessly over-glamorized fare, I'm often left feeling dumber after watching it, so I choose not to. Sometimes, however, an intelligent and well-written show sneaks through, and though they sometimes survive (e.g. LOST), many times, the vast quantities of minimum-wage stares they generate amongst the aforementioned proletariat leaves them not long for this earth, and they end up canceled, in lieu of yet another iteration of Survivor. This will likely be the case with Lie to Me. A FOX show based on the life and work of Dr. Paul Ekman, a real life human lie-detector, with a life so fascinating that fans of the show often don't believe me when I tell them it's all real.

I've read Dr. Ekman's books, and I'm a huge fan of him, the show, and Tim Roth. It's intelligent, interesting, well-written, and intellectually entertaining - which is why I expect it's only got a season left before we get to see another extension of Prison Break or reincarnation of Melrose Place. But it's gotten me thinking about other sure fire ways to tell if someone is lying - even if you haven't conducted decades of facial expression study, or even the wherewithal to read about it. So here they are: three lie detectors that anyone can use:

1. Get Smart. If anyone ever declares to you how smart they are, you know two things about them instantaneously: (a) they're lying - and will probably continue to do so, especially regarding their personal description; and (b) they're not smart. Here's the thing about smart people, they never tell you how smart they are. They don't have to. Because, you'll either figure it out, or it likely doesn't matter to them whether you think so or not. People who know they're stupid, on the other hand, have a vested interest in not letting this information get out. It's not the smartest thing to openly declare how smart one is, as a preemptive strike for whatever mindless nonsense will come stumbling out of their mouth subsequently - but remember these are dumb people we're talking about. What did you expect?

2. The Sixth Sense. If you ask someone what they're looking for in a significant other, and one of the first things about of their mouths is "a sense of humor" - as above, you already know two things about them: (a) they're lying - and probably wouldn't know a good sense of humor if it walked up to them in clown shoes and slapped them; and (b) they're shallow bastards. Do you know any stand-up comics? I don't mean your friends that do the open mic from time to time, I mean the real thing. Well I do, and they are, nearly without exception, profoundly lonely people. The ones who achieve a celebrity level of success and financial stability can be found in relationships, but so can anyone who achieves a celebrity level of success and financial stability, funny or not. The reality is that "a sense of humor" has become the politically correct way of declaring that you're not simply looking for someone to satisfy your hedonism, but someone with some substance. Unfortunately, if you can't find any other way to say this, it's a fairly reliable indicator that you don't mean it.

3. The Goods. If someone is asked to describe someone and the first thing they come up with is "he/she is a really good guy/girl" - just like the two "detectors" before this, you already know two things: (a) the person you're asking doesn't know the person they're describing very well, and (b) that person probably isn't "good" at all. Somewhere amidst the myriad fables, fairy tales and behavioral axioms that we were bombarded with as children, we learned that if we don't have much to say about someone that we know, we default to saying something nice. As adults, this becomes "he's a really good guy." This is offered up as an alternative to a single memorable attribute or anecdote that we might be able to come up with - or even worse - as an alternative to how much of an untrustworthy ass they know them to be. The latter usually comes up as a matter of gender solidarity, but not exclusively. It's the descriptive version of "what's up" as a greeting. We don't really care to hear what's up, it's just how we say hello without sound like we just wandered out of the 1950's. No matter which way you slice it, this is an unmitigated lie and usually a reliable red flag.

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According to Dr. Ekman, "Every person tells 3 lies every ten minutes." It's staggering when you think about it, really. We lie to ourselves, we lie to each other, we lie ubiquitously. We lie to be selfish and we lie to be unselfish. No matter what you believe, to whom or how your pray, or where you are from - none of us are truthful creatures, and the stigma attached to untruths in the abstract is undeserved. Looking for salvation in truth or lies is just as foolish as searching for it amongst rocks and rivers. The best thing you can really do is listen, and regardless of the veracity, factualness or rectitude of what's being said, you will learn something. And if you can tell the difference between what's real and what's not, you'll learn a whole lot more.

3 Good Riddance

So, for those who don’t know it, I’m just a few weeks away from ending my five-year Los Angeles project and my eight-year California project - which has been, for the most part, a success. The trip that brought me here - from Florida to the west coast - was a journey across more than just miles; it was trip to a new degree, a new career, a new image, a new life, new friends, new loves, new losses, new perspectives and a new and completely unexpected chapter in my life. My time in California was nothing like I imagined it to be, and I was disappointed and pleasantly surprised in equal part.

I once wrote:

In the end, much like the balance of California, which enjoyed its initial national prominence as a result of the promise of gold for anyone with a shovel and some fortitude, L.A. is a city of promise unfulfilled - built on the golden hopes of those who would never strike it. It is also a place, however, whose endless springs of opportunity yield many, among us, who have found their way, despite it not being the one they initially set out on.

And so it’s gone with my own way, right out of world’s most famous state, and into the waiting arms of Nevada - off to a great new job, with a great new company, and an opportunity so rich and exciting that I can hardly believe I’m a part of it. There are a great many things I will miss about California. Most assuredly more than three (and I imagine there’s some more writing to be done on that matter), but there are a select few things that I will definitely not miss - and as luck would have it, there are three in particular:

1. The Flakes. During my first six months of living in Los Angeles I was stood up on seven dates. Seven. In the preceding 30 years of my life, I had only been stood up twice (and I thought that was a lot). It was a harbinger of things to come. I began to attend gatherings with 100 invites, 50 affirmative RSVPs and 10 actual attendees. I would call new friends to meet up, and find out on my way there that they wouldn’t be able to make it. And ever so gradually, I began to accept the “flake” culture. In Los Angeles, it is your inalienable right not to show up, especially if you’ve promised to do so. This forces people to overbook their evenings out like the last Southwest Airlines flight out of Vegas on a Sunday night - and then begin to broker which of the opportunities that actually do pan out will actually provide them the greatest social value. This search for the BBD (bigger, better, deal) has turned the previously enjoyable time spent socializing and “going out” into a complex science of social and actual economics, and rendered the majority of the social interactions a very well-heeled, tastefully decorated, and woefully overpriced networking event. In short, the only true way to relax in LA is just to stay home - which is why most people, no matter what they’ve planned or promised, just choose to do so.

2. The Traffic. How could I not mention this? Honestly, the Los Angeles highways have all the functionality of a Bangladeshi street market. The second largest city in the nation has a less effective mass transit system than Portland, Oregon (the 29th largest and less than 1/7th the size). Greed, ignorance, and dysfunctional local politics have rendered even the most modest road trips impassible parking lots - and if you expect to get from the north part of town to Orange County (about a 35 mile trip) on a weekday evening, you’d better leave yourself most of three hours to do it. And that’s on the 4 lane highway headed that direction. LA’s traffic compared to other cities‘ is like their winters compared to ours. Listening to people gripe about a five minute delay on their 20 mile work commute in other states and cities makes me want to slap them with a rake. There is nothing as maddening as bumper-to-bumper traffic caused only by poor civic planning, driver incompetence and just too many damned people; I’ll be much happier to move somewhere where traffic jams are caused by accidents, road construction, or actual severe weather (and not the light rain that brings the LA streets to a crawl).

3. The Price. The cost of living isn’t just high in Los Angeles, it’s downright insane. It’s a place where a six-figure income renders you lower-middle-class (and for dating purposes, the equivalent of a pizza-delivery guy in any other city). Buying a home that’s within fifty miles of the city that wasn’t built before 1920 is a million-dollar proposition. And by that I mean, you’ll need to have an actual million dollars to do so. And keep in mind, that’s not for a nice house. Gas prices are nuts, taxes are inexplicably high (for a state government that can’t seem to balance a budget), and a decent night out (i.e. dinner and a movie) is going to set you back a couple hundred bucks. It is estimated that the total cost of living in LA is 40-50% higher than many major midwest cities. That’s right, your money goes twice as far if you’re willing to tolerate an Ohio winter. That’s the kind of money what warms a lot more than your heart. The idea of owning a modest single-family home before age 40 shouldn’t be a fantasy.

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Listen, I know I’ve left some things out, hell I couldn’t even begin to list the horrors of trying to date in the City of Angels, and Hollywood alone produces more easily identifiable absurdity than any similarly sized municipality in the world. And I’m only beginning to process the things and people that I will miss dearly as I plant myself just a scant 270 miles to the northwest, in a little township called Las Vegas. And don’t worry, that essay is coming - more than likely as the return of Tru Love. But, for now, I’m taking a few parting shots - call it a good laugh to save from crying. And so for anyone who was considering a move here, and wanted to me sum up the appeal of this crazy city in just one sentence, I’d probably tell them: “Los Angeles - Hey, it sucks, but it’s sunny.”

3 Sour Notes

I've always been a music guy. Not a musical guy, mind you - my personal playing aspirations died in the 6th grade band when I hung up my coronet. No, I was into the listening, the playing, and the experience of music. In a strict household, there were few unadulterated freedoms, but the visceral escape offered by music was amongst the few and the most treasured. I remember my parents' LPs and 8 tracks, the 45's and cassette tapes that I saved my allowances for, and dubbing songs off of the radio. I became a DJ at an early age - not loving the art of the mix nearly as much as I simply loved having all of the music at my fingertips; being able to create any mood at any moment - with the touch of a button. But, I was never a music snob - I've loved my one-hit-wonders as dearly as I've loved my classics - cherished my Mmmbop like I do my Freebird. But there have always been a precious few musical genres, artists and songs for which I can't even muster the slightest bit of appreciation; collections of sounds and words so devoid of any value that I can hardly stand to listen to a moment of them.

Lately, this occurs far more often than it used to. The music industry, desperate to adjust to the demands of the digital consumer, has decided to crank up its output volume rather than its associated quality. Decent acts are rushed into rapid production of full albums with one hit, and follow up albums with none, and more often than not, poor acts are rushed into production with even the smallest bit of commercial appeal - peddled to us with the fervor of fight promotions and used car sales, and ultimately leaving us even emptier than had we simply settled for the silence. So, from this music lover, whose eclectic taste spans from metal to mash-ups, here are 3 things they'll never get me to listen to:

1. Justin Bieber. I have no idea where this kid even came from. I don't know what he sings and I'm not certain I'd recognize him if he walked right by me. But I do spend my days in front of a computer, so I am unable to avoid the phenomenon that surrounds him. What I do know is that he was discovered, like all great talents, on YouTube, is from Canada (which makes me like him a little less, given all the post-hockey-gold-medal gloating I've seen), and looks a lot like a 13 year old girl with a bad haircut. In fairness, I can count the number of 16 year old boys that I can stand on one hand and have five fingers left over. The fact that he performed for the President at the White House Christmas special was even more disappointing than watching Obama shake hands with Khloe Kardashian (during the Lakers' visit). I'd like to be able to say I've never heard him sing, but due to the worst decision about an introduction since Gerardo's "Rico Suave", I heard this lovely little lady inexplicably lead off the otherwise great remake of "We Are The World".

2. Taylor Swift. If the music industry was trying to force this artist on me with any more frequency or force, I'd consider filing a rape complaint. I can't turn on my radio, listen to Pandora, or even watch CSI without having this country Britney Spears up in my face like an drunk Irish guy in a Boston pub. I even like country music and can't stand another moment of this girl. I haven't heard an act with more similar sounding fare since Lil Jon and the East Side Boyz released the same song under three different titles. Country hasn't had a female vocalist this easily hate-able since Shania Twain, and it's not as the the genre can afford it. Country music is to the music industry what the NHL is to sports - it's there, but you have to look to find it, and it's one disaster away from disappearing altogether. Seriously, this forgettable waif with her forgettable voice and forgettable songs very nearly deserved to be upstaged by Kanye, and her winning country music's biggest honor (Entertainer of the Year) is the biggest award show disappointment since Marissa Tomei got an Oscar for My Cousin Vinny.

3. Miley Cyrus. There are so many things to dislike about Miley Cyrus that I hardly know where to begin. You can certainly make a case for the apple not falling far from the tree - "Achey-Breaky Heart" is the most embarrassing American fad this side of "Ice Ice Baby" and "I'm Too Sexy", so what could you expect from a kid growing up in a house with that gold record on the wall? Well, the combination of the Disney tween hype machine, the Polanski-esque oversexing of a pre-pubescent girl, and some of the worst song writing since the New Kids on the Block have produced the least tolerable artist in recent memory. I'd rather sit through back-to-back N'Sync concerts in a crowd full of 13 year old girls than watch Miley Cyrus perform a single number. Listening to her croon about her "struggles" in life, make it ever-so-obvious that she's no more writing her own songs than she is actually singing them in concert. When questioned about which Jay-Z song she was referring to in her latest inexplicably popular record, she was quick to note that she couldn't even name a single one, because she hadn't written it. Wow.

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Okay, so it's no accident that these are all current pop artists whose target audience is young enough to qualify as possible children I've fathered (for the record, that's a joke people). I expected that as I grew older, I'd get more and more out of touch with the younger generations' music, and start to act like my parents listening to Elvis and Barry Manilow while I longed for Motley Crue and AC/DC. But, to be honest, there's plenty of great new stuff that I do enjoy listening to, even some of the pop. However, it feels like the entire music industry is designed to make me appreciate the few great artists I have discovered by producing mountains and mountains of crap to compare it to. And maybe that's it after all. I used to wonder why on earth I'd pay nearly twenty bucks for an album, when I could just download the singles I wanted - but if that purchase included the opportunity to burn one album of each of the artists above (with the consequent subtraction from their sales numbers), I think I just might do it.

3 Ladies Magazine Lies

A few weeks ago, I took on the bevy of men's magazines that seem to offer up the same needless and ill-considered advice month after month - and while I had previously believed that we were the only gender so easily duped by glossy pages, catchy prose and the promise of the company of the uber-attractive, it turns out I was wrong. Women's magazines seem to have been in abundant supply for much, much longer than their male counterparts. Vogue, Cosmopolitan, Glamour, Elle, Marie Claire and more seem to have been on the newsstands as long as there have been newsstands. But, as it turns out, the smarter, more mature and better looking gender is also being fed a steady diet of mistruths, misconcpetions, and misinformation by these storied publications - just like their more contemporary male counterparts.

And so in the interests of equal time, gender equity, and an excuse to peek in Cosmo, here the 3 biggest lies told by women's magazines:

1. Leave the Tip. I don't think I've walked by a womens magazine in the last decade that hasn't offered, with varying degrees of ambiguity, tips for women in the bedroom. I really cannot imagine how this helps to sell magazines. First of all, the male orgasm is easier to achieve than a hit in Tee-Ball. It's akin to the "instructions" on a shampoo bottle (i.e. Find the hard spot; Stroke; Repeat). If this is the type of knowledge you think of as a "trick", I'd advise you to get a magic show with all due speed, you're really going to have your mind blown. Second, the vast majority of these "tips" are things so awkward and deviant that they're likely to (a) attract the sort of neck-tattooed circus freaks that you're better off avoiding, and/or (b) scare off the "normal" guy you're sleeping with faster than talk about ovulation. If you need tips in the bedroom, you don't need a magazine, you need a new man.

2. Shape No-wear. The only thing that would be more disappointing to find under a woman's clothing than Spanx, control-tops, torsettes or any of the widely-proffered "shapewear" peddled endlessly in these magazines would be a penis. Seriously, I cannot imagine the level of self-loathing that it takes to squeeze one's self into full-body elastic rather than simply buy clothing that actually fits you, but I know it's the sort of thing that should be being treated by a professional. I'm all for flattering lines, cuts, etc. (and for the record, I still don't know why thin girls wear anything with an "A-line"), but this sort of lying nearly rises to the level of conspiratorial. If anyone suggests that you put yourself into something like this, it's a fairly safe bet that they don't like you. If a magazine does it, it's a fairly safe bet that they think you're stupid. Take it from someone with three and a half decades of bachelorhood - the sexiest thing you can wear under your clothes is confidence.

3. Fashionably Hate. Letting a magazine which is largely sponsored by the fashion industry tell you what you should be wearing is like letting a used car salesman tell you what you should be driving. The fashion business appears to have become a monolithic and unstoppable amplifier and enabler for the warped and drug-fueled visions of a few crazy Frenchmen. Inexplicable trends become global phenomena, with price tags to match. This insanity has caused us to suffer through the rebirth of the poncho, the horror of couture sweatsuits, and the footwear failings of the gladiator sandal. What impossibly thin, six-foot-tall French girls or impossibly rich celebrity actresses are wearing is no more a reliable guide to looking good than matching Warren Buffet's stock buys will make you rich. There is something inherent in the female brain that knows what looks good and what doesn't. Use this instinct, and leave the couture obscure.

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Ladies, it's no secret that we men have to rely on you to be the leveler-headed gender. We spend the vast majority of our lives as slaves those very same hormones that make us both capable of moving furniture, opening jars and changing flat tires, while still being unable to form coherent thoughts when a sufficiently attractive woman walks by. We have to count on you to not fall victim to charlatans, false prophets and snake oil salesmen. So the next time you're paging through one of these women's publications, remember, be careful how much of them you take to heart - because there's no one to save you from any bad advice you might receive. Sure, we secretly pick them up when you're not around, but just like our own magazines, mostly just look at the pictures.