Jason Thompson: August,
2001

Sex, Writing, and Rock and Roll

I’ve got nothing to say, but it’s OK. What a busy month it’s been. Writing for four sites can certainly make you question your sanity. Especially when part of that picture includes doing up-keep and content creation for your own site. All of ye who are just faithful fufkin readers should take pity on people such as myself, Fufkin, and Hernon who may very well be insane when it comes to bringing you our own takes on everything we think is important in this musical world. But at least we feel it important enough to share our thoughts and opinions about all that stuff that you may otherwise be missing.

Granted, there’s a lot of outright crap that gets released day after day that should have just been shelved indefinitely. But then the really great discs that come with the turf wouldn’t be as exciting if everything out there was worth hearing. There’s nothing quite like plowing through 12 ungodly albums that contain nothing but filler and then hitting that 13th one that makes you happy to be in this business. Ah, the life of the music critic. A respected and despised position all in one. I fear that in some of the other venues I pen my items for the bands are increasingly dreading me. “Oh no, the album went to Thompson. This may not be so good.” Of course, I also drool over that prospect as well.

If you’re good, then by God I will happily stand behind you and scream your songs from the top of any laundry chute in the city. But if you suck, then I’ll shout it just as well. Some bands don’t get this. They think that everything they do is worth hearing and no way in hell could they ever possibly record a shitty song. I understand this. I’ve been in a number of bands in my lifetime and you get that ego thing going that says you can do no wrong and everyone on the planet needs to hear “Narcolepsy Breakdown.” And how dare those bastards in the public and press when they just don’t find your brand of screaming tolerable!

I suppose what I enjoy most about this gig is getting to talk to all the artists or bands that I truly do love and forging some kind of relationship with them. That’s probably the best perk of the whole shebang. Writers do their job because they love it. The money is what it’s always been. Imaginary. Oh I jest, but we certainly aren’t living in any house on the hill unless we have that wonderful day job as a Martinizer or psychic phone operator. Actually, I’ve been thinking about doing that. I won’t use any tarot cards, though. Just ask the damn caller what it is they seek and lay it down honestly. Look buddy, you obviously have no volition of your own so you’re a goddamned sucker for pumping away $3.95 per minute for me to tell you what to do. So just stay on the line and gimme more money and we’ll both be happy while I tell you all about your wife who’s been cheating on you with the cocaine dealer down the hall.

Maybe I should add some games or porno to my web site. Have some of those pop-up ads that just bring about more pop-up ads when you attempt to close them. Sex sells, pal. “Sure it’s great to read about your favorite bands, J. but what about some skin? We love skin.” Yes, well I do, too. But I have my journalistic integrity. For the time being at least, I can’t find it in my heart to charge you guys upwards to twenty bucks a month to read about good tunes and see some naked women.

Oh, I got my official Fufkin T-shirt yesterday. I put it on and walked outside and my neighbor didn’t recognize a lot of the groups listed on it. Not that I was surprised. He blasts Jimmy Buffett all day. Bless his soul. Then there was the group of kids downstairs who asked who the Beatles were. The girls didn’t understand why ‘N Sync and Britney weren’t on there, while some of the punk-ass boys were scratching their heads over the missing Korn and Limp Bizkit. I just patted their heads and said, “In due time, my children, in due time. You will eventually see the light and be forgiven for your current maladies.”

So that’s all I have to say. Writing, writing, writing and not enough chili dogs to make it complete. Damn it all. Everything but the circus. I thank you for your time as always and even though we only meet monthly, I love you all the other days that we are not together. You’re in my heart. You had me from hello. I’m obviously losing it. Time for that rare bit of fresh air and sunshine that I let myself out for once in a blue moon. Take care until next month, kids.

(Editor's Note: The above jpeg was lifted from Playboy.com. Either Playboy offends you, you could care less or you needed an excuse to subscribe. Click on the photo if you want a subscription. Heh...if I am going to steal their art, they should at least get a link! And the animated gif is cool!)

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