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I am of the strong belief that this cookie that I took a bite of resembles a zombified version of Pac-Man, if he were in cookie form.

Feel free to disagree, but know that you're wrong if you do.

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It's not illegal if you're just cleaning up!

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Seen uptown on the way to the hospital today. I went ahead and removed his phone number, since it calls directly to his house.

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Sarah Orton:
Sarah's Birthday Party
[DGC/Interscope; 2009]
Rating: 3.5

Buy it from InSound
Download it from eMusic

Although highly regarded around the workplace, Sarah Orton throws simple parties for simple people. While her parties have come to be held as the standard by which all other work parties compare, since I haven't been invited to any other work parties, I have to assume that this is the best one, which I'll automatically then say I hate because that's how I roll.

Following poor turnout to her previous party, 'Come Watch Sarah Dance To French New Wave Hits', Sarah disappeared into the party planning stages again, coming back with 2004's seminal 'Everyone Bring Your Own Beer' party. Over the next four years Sarah would remain party-less, instead choosing to celebrate her birthdays by watching Golden Girls reruns and eating McFlurry shakes.

Unfortunately, the 2009 birthday party proves to be even more of a disastrous mish-mash of awkward anime statues, schizophrenic playlist choices and alcohol designed around the central theme of 'pink'. Pink, of course, is a theme Sarah has revisited over the years (somewhat painfully) before launching completely off the deep end of the color spectrum. Like a melancholy greyhound watching a nun reading 'Nausea', Orton has sat on the edge of color relevancy, frequently dabbling in the ever popular 'black' before immediately reverting to her day-glow comfort zone.

This is the paragraph in which I name-drop bands you haven't heard of and make you feel bad about your music taste. Four Star Mary. The Frames. Everyone on CD86 (if you know any of them, you don't really, you just think you do).

Judging from the party's opening few minutes, the birthday seemed to be a low-key affair, comprised mainly of Orton, back-up vocalist Tyler (whose solo track, 'Tyler Performs 15 Minutes of Monty Python' proves to be the highlight of the affair) and a couple of close friends. Unfortunately, several tracks into the party the vocals become muddled with the sounds of librarians, English majors and other Ivory Tower fashionistas. Several tracks hint at greatness (such as the display of naked pictures, alcohol brewed to taste like candy) before becoming a cat-encrused mess of people all wishing Orton a happy birthday.

To top it off, one cannot, at any point, be sure that it actually is Orton's birthday and not a cheap ruse to receive pies and erotic soaps from well-wishers. Never is a cake on display; instead, cooking bearing abrasive messages sit front and center for the rest of the band to look and and eat.

Ultimately, Sarah's Birthday's most ambitious maneuver is the invitation of a wide variety of party guests. While initially homogeneous, the party eventually added participants of all sexes, races and creeds under the banner of propping up the idealized version of Orton as the 'birthday girl'. Like the caricature of Orton as a 'young, with-it teenybopper' displayed so well, this party relies on a high quantity of short-lived thrills and relatively decent celebration to distract from the shortage of busty European bikini teams or C-list actors present at the party.

- Myspace: http://www.myspace.com/sarahortonstotallywickedbirthdayparty
- Video: Sarah Orton: Sarah Orton's Birthday Party

- Austin Hudson, February 20, 2009

Just kidding, Sarah, your party was pretty kickin'.

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So I'm now sorta depressed. I logged onto Hotmail and they've added a new feature -- see what everyone on your contact list is up to! Who does is throw out first?

Troy Hudson
Troy Hudson isn't active.

Jeez, if that's not depressing, what is.

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Now THIS is something I can get behind.

There's a point at which popular culture and nerd culture meets and creates something nerdy. This is one of those times.


Unshelved: Pimp My Bookcart

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My super awesome friend Sarah's having a birthday tomorrow!

Should I give cash? A gift card? Everyone does that.

I know, I'll bake her a pie! Her favorite kind of pie, raspberry!

Below is the pie I made the fantastic S-Ort. I hope she likes it! I'm going to take it to work for her tomorrow so she can have some for lunch if she didn't bring anything!

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CHAPTER 3:
BRAD

"Oh, gross," Marcy said, and she was right. The Squeliks were nothing if not repulsive, with their scaly red skin, tiny heads and complete lack of fashion sense. "Why are we on Venus again?"

"Don't be dumb, Brad said to meet him here," Sandi said. She raised her holovisor, allowing the artificially created oxygen of the planet's surface to rush into her space suit before placing her white gloss Versace diva sunglasses with three small pink jewels on the lenses over her eyes. The sunglasses matched almost identically to her white space suit with light pink trimming and 'HUMAN' written in cursive where her butt was. Inside her carbon-dioxide reprocessing Christian Dior purse Admiral Muffin barked, finally glad to be back on relatively solid ground. Sandi scowled, searching the crowd for Brad. Squinting through the sea of red scaled monsters she spotted him several meters up ahead.

"That bitch," Sandi said, pointing at Brad accusingly. Up ahead a Squelik turned and pointed at himself, shaking his head. "No, not you, you lump. Him!" Marcy turned. Outside of a glistening metallic structure stood Brad, six foot four and painfully handsome, laughing and smiling with an alien woman with five eyes. Each one was focused on a different part of Brad, a fact which was not lost on him and that he seemed to be enjoying. Sandi clutched harder on her Dior purse, Admiral Muffin whimpering in protest. She hadn't traveled millions of space miles to be a galactic booty-call.

"Oh you are so busted," Marcy shouted. Brad turned quickly and smiled, playing it cool. He gulped hard under his synthetic turtleneck and wished the alien could read his mind and would go away. Sandi stomped towards him angrily, already shouting.

"You jerk! How dare you invite me out here to cheat on me! If we hadn't known each other since Astro-Prep School, I'd dump your worth--"

Sandi stopped, looking around. The crowd had parted and had begun to circle around her, watching the spectacle unfold.

"What're you freaks looking at," she bellowed, gripping the purse harder and causing Admiral Muffin to break shift uncomfortably.

"Blergn blorgn blorn," the martian girl started, but Sandi was already upon her, clawing at her face. The alien mounted no defense, instead recoiling and shouting louder. "Blahn blarl bloop!"

"We're on Venus, bitch, learn to speak Earth," said Marcy who had now begun hitting Brad on the chest. His reinforced dual steelcore blast suit withstood the blows, and it was several seconds before he realized he was under attack. Meanwhile, the alien girl had disappeared, leaving behind Sandi, a clump of mossy green hair in her hand.

"Who's that slut," Sandi demanded. She could see Brad had no answer. "Answer me!"

"Baby, she's just some alien," soothed Brad, but he could see this answer would not satisfy. Sandi brought a knee up sharply into Brad's groin.

"You bitch, we're through," Sandi wailed, unable to hold back her tears. She kneed Brad over and over in the crotch, unaware that his space suit offered armored genital protection.

"Yeah, well," Brad said, pushing Sandi backward, "I don't care!" Sandi stumbled, tripping over Marcy and landing, HUMAN first, on the ground. "Welcome to Venus, Sandi." With this Brad turned his back and stalked off to find the alien girl he was chatting up before.

"Sandi, are you OK?" Marcy looked concerned, retrieving Sandi's dropped purse and helping her up off the ground.

"No, I'm not OK. I'm angry. And I need to find Brad, no matter where he goes on this stupid planet."

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CHAPTER 18:
THE FROHMENHEIMER DEFENSE

Chastity gripped at her modest, tight-fitting chartreuse blouse, unbuttoning the shirt a little and causing a rush of relief to flood over her. Behind her she could hear the restless chatter of the men of the jury, tired of legal posturing. The evidence presented by the prosecution had been damning; everything after their initial presentation seemed like a mere formality to Chastity, who could not wait to return home and take a long, hot bath. Drawing the curtains closed she would sip wine and review the New Jersey tax code in perfect silence. The tub was a long way away, however, and Chastity's concerns were instead about Doris. Doris Hicklebottom had begun to unravel after the third day of the trial, and her red, glossy locks had now dulled into the same traffic cone orange as the jumpsuit she was forced to wear throughout the trial. She barely resembled the woman who had called the police following that fateful skiing accident.

Chastity froze. Something in the deep recesses of her mind had triggered a thought; an idea; an inkling; a premonition; a suspicion; a pondering; the truth!

"Objection, your honor!" Chastity shouted above the din of the jury and the capricious monologuing of the prosecution.

"Ms. L'Flame, intelligent and beautiful as you are, you are not allowed to interrupt my court unless you have some sort of wild-eyed crazy accusation which would upset the balance of this trial," scolded the judge.

"Your honor, prosecution be damned, I'd like to call Dolly Hackleberry to the stand!"

The courtroom gasped collectively. Dolly Hackleberry stood in the back of the courtroom, allowing her red, curly locks to fall down on the matching orange jumpsuit she wore. Tearing off her glasses, she rushed towards the bench.

"It was me," Hackleberry shrieked, throwing herself at Chastity L'Flame with the reckless abandon of a murderess, "I killed Ronald Hicklebottom!"

Another audible gasp courted the courtroom.

"This is highly unusual," the judge frowned and motioned for the bailiff to remove Dolly from Chastity. "How on earth did you know, Ms. L'Flame, that Doris Hicklebottom was innocent?!"

"It was a matter of simple deduction, your honor." Chastity stood, shaking the madwoman from her, adjusting her hair and bra. "Doris's estranged twin sister, who has also been serving as court reporter, is the guilty party. She's the one who called the police to report the murder, and it was her shiny red hair that we saw on the security tapes."

"Well I'll be," said the prosecution quite one-dimensionally.

"Very good, Ms. L'Flame. Very good indeed." The judge stopped to clear his throat. "Unfortunately, you'll still be disbarred. MegaConglomerate has paid me quite well to ensure that you never report your findings on their illegal usage of human test subjects. Guards, take her away!"

It was then that things got sexy and unnecessary convoluted for Chastity L'Flame.

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"He's an interesting man. Thanks heaven there aren't more interesting men in the world."

- name withheld
(said at random)

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So I made a decision today that will dramatically affect the lives of any of my future offspring. They'll be receiving alliterative names at birth.

Now I know we've all heard horror stories. Gilbert Gottfried, for instance.

But for every clumsy sounding name, you get an awesome sounding one. Peter Parker (bet you weren't expecting that one), for instance. Alan Alda. Marty McFly.

In this great tradition of superhero names, actors who narrate science documentaries and plucky teenagers who travel through time, my children will all be H. Hudson.

Hyrum (Hy) Hudson is out of the running. It's my grandfather on my dad's side's name, and it's the name of a perpetually balding 50 year old man. Any kid named Hyrum nowadays is going to be assumed to be from A) a religious cult, B) a polygamist compound or C) a really cruel parent. So Hyrum's out.

I'm a fan of Hal. Hal Hudson. That's a dynamic name. If the kid's semi-dark and broody looking, he might be able to pull off Hugo Hudson. That's sorta super-villain-y, though. I mean, Hal's non-specific enough that it won't automatically make him a pasty, Mr. Darcy-type like Hugo might. Or we could go full barrel broody and name him Holden Hudson, in attempt to make him catch a little rye early in his life.

Girls are a little trickier. We could go semi-classic and call her Holly Hudson, which totally sounds like a plucky girl reporter from the 40's. Also possible is the ever present and popular H-name for girls, Hilary Hudson, or Harmony if she comes out blonde and ditsy.

Suggestions, as always, are welcome.

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Man, two hundred years ago today must have been a helluva day!



It's strange to see how much America has and hasn't changed in the two hundred years since Lincoln was born. This is especially poignant since this year we have our first African-American President in office.

Look what has culminated because of the work you and countless others have done towards the betterment of the country. Look how far we've come, and how far we've still got to go, and realize that you were an integral part of that.

If that's not an awesome birthday present, I don't know what is.

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Happy 200th Birthday, old man!



If only you could have been around today to see all the fervor caused by a scientific breakthrough you discovered while on vacation. We've had lawsuits, protests and all sorts of nasty violence as a result of you making some observations while hanging out on the beach.

Jolly good work, old chap!

Thanks for proposing the theory of evolution, which is a helluva lot better than anything else currently going. A lot of our current science is based on your work, which means that you're directly responsible for some of our most awesome breakthroughs! You the man, Chuck D!

[Edit: For some reason, I just noticed Blogspot isn't posting my Lincoln birthday post as well. For some reason it says it's 'scheduled', despite that it should have gone out a couple of hours ago... interesting.]

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So, this is now going on the fourth day in a row that I've been sick. Let's watch how my symptoms have progressed:

The Captain's (Illness) Log
Day 1: Sore throat
Day 2: Sore throat, muscle aches
Day 3: Sore throat, muscle aches, productive cough
Day 4: Sore throat, muscle aches, productive cough, heaviness in chest

I'm obviously coming down with something. So this morning I did what any red-blooded American male would do. Instead of seeing a doctor, I consulted WebMD!

For those of you who are smart enough to see actual medical professionals, let me tell you about WebMD.

WedMD is a hypochondriac's wet dream. Imagine a website that hears all of your assorted ailments (achy joints, a sign that you're getting older) and assigns you the worst diagnoses possible (Parkinson's, for instance). Every cut and scrape is a major medical emergency worthy of a 911 call and a Lifetime television movie.

So in the interest of forward thinking medicine, I've decided to tell WebMD my problems and find out what's wrong with me. Their Symptom Checker is very thorough, and should do a good job of giving me the once over.

First, you have to tell it your age and gender. This is so it doesn't suggest menstrual cramps among my list of options. This also adds such awesome possibilities as testicular torsion to my list, which I would be remiss to ignore in my current state.

Next you're greeted with a 3D version of you (assuming you're asexual, made of Silly Putty and suffer from immaculately chiseled abs).

So I choose my symptoms in this order:

- Nasal congestion; leading illness candidate: ricin poisoning. Woah, wait, ricin poisoning?! That stuff that killed all those KGB defectors, and that thing that's pretty much guaranteed lethal? That's your first guess, WebMD?!

- Difficulty swallowing; at this point, WebMD puts up a big flashing sign that says I should go to the hospital if I'm having a hard time swallowing. I think it just might be related to my next symptom...

- Sore throat; leading illness candidate: scarlet fever. Another big boy of horrible illnesses. Get me a handful of Black Death and we'll be getting somewhere!

- Coughing; leading illness candidate: tuberculosis. You know TB, the thing that killed all those prostitutes back in the day? Yeah, WebMD thinks I may have it. I should really have reconsidered my life path before I decided on becoming a Victorian prostitute.

- Loss of voice; leading illness candidate: Sjogren's syndrome. Hey, wait, I'm a boy! Sjogren's patients are 90% women! Either I clicked the wrong box, or I should go to Vegas and play my odds. Considering that I can select my testicles as a 'trouble area', I'm going to assume I'm just super lucky. Or not.

- Tightness in chest; leading illness candidate: the common cold?

Wait, the common cold? Yeah, apparently after running me through the complicated gamut of things that would kill me incredibly easily, it's WebMD's opinion that I could have a cold, strep throat, be poisoned by ricin, consumed by tuberculosis or be dying of the Scarlet Fever.

Truly, the internet is capable of great things. But diagnosing illnesses isn't one of them.

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So it only seems to work on a small percentage of patients, and it's still in early stages, but it looks like SCIENCE! might have tackled one of it's most challenging problems yet:

Figuring out how to cure HIV and AIDs.

We're still a long ways away, obviously, but this is a very, very good sign.

CNN: Man appears free of HIV after stem cell transplant

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What's sad is that I could see this being completely true, and also amazing. Solid call, America, on electing a gigantic nerd.

WASHINGTON — President Barack Obama expressed frustration Wednesday after members of his cabinet failed to recognize his allusion to the 24th issue of the comic series Savage Sword Of Conan during their first major meeting together.



The Onion: Obama Disappointed Cabinet Failed To Understand His Reference To 'Savage Sword Of Conan' #24

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Occasionally news stories come along that are just too strange sounding to pass up on. This is one of them.

Long story short, some cannibals invited a farmer back to their village to hang out. The farmer went and never came back. His family went to the village, discovered him eaten and called the police. The Amazonian jungle cannibals were arrested, made a daring escape into the jungle and are now wanted for dining and dashing without leaving a tip... or an arm... or a leg...

OK, morbid, I know, but how often do you get news stories about cannibalism and police escapes? Also, you learn interesting little facts, like that they're an isolated jungle tribe whose men and women speak different languages? Hey, maybe that's why they ate that farmer... they couldn't ask for dinner, so they got take-out.

Again, so very morbid. I apologize. Maybe I'm just amused by the fact that the old 'Hey, why don't you come hang out at our place, what, no, just ignore the body parts everywhere' routine actually worked. I mean, if you want to pull that gag here, you need a van and a really gross mustache.

CNN: Amazon Indians accused of cannibalizing farmer

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BOWLING GREEN, KY—Stumbling around his study with a large metal bucket lodged firmly over his head, area accountant and father of three Michael Dewley once again found himself in a situation traditionally reserved for film stars of the early 20th century.



The Onion: Man Gets Into Mess Usually Reserved For Stars Of Silent Film Era

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So, guess who has the best grandma in the world?

Not you.

It's me.

Does your grandma bring you chicken kabobs, rice and curry potatoes at work on a Friday in order to brighten your day?

Thought not.

My grandma rules.

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I rarely get too serious on here, but this is one of those times I'm going to.

Currently, the Courage Campaign is in full swing in California. What it essentially seeks to do is reverse the disastrous California Proposition 8 decision and stop special interest groups from taking away even more civil rights from GLBT persons.

I have a few homosexual friends from Westminster, and to stand by without spreading the word is akin to ignoring a cry for help from them.

Please, click here, watch, and sign.

Please.

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As dictated by the company's new C.E.O., Mr. Leonard Nuttlebutt, here is the new company mascot, Nutty the Nut.

Nut nut nut.

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So it turns out Tony Hawk's Proving Grounds for Xbox 360 is awesome. And here's me in it. I gave me a cool eye scar, because eye scars are awesome.

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Truly an awful pun, I know, but it's for an excellent news story.

So a guy was caught smuggling pigeons. Out of Australia. With the birds stuffed down his pants.

CNN: Border cops claim bird-brain stuffed live pigeons in tights

I don't know what the best part of this story is. Is it the live birds down his pants? His Bat-belt filled with birdseed? The 'undeclared eggplant'?

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So for some reason, the E-Center is pretty dang sure that I saw Avenged Sevenfold there on the 28th of last month. Forget that I don't know any of their songs outside of 'The Beast and the Harlot'. Apparently I was there, and I enjoyed it. A lot

For whatever reason, the E-Center sent me an initial e-mail thanking me for going to the concert.

Ohhkay, I think to myself, they must have my e-maiil address all jumbled up in their system. I've been to shows at the E-Center before, so that's probably where they got it.

Then I got an e-mail advertising additional concerts I might like since I went to Avenged Sevenfold. Again, strange, but they could have me mixed up in the system.

Now I just got an e-mail indicating that I expressed interest in following the Avenged Sevenfold tour.

Uhhh, no thanks?

I've unsubscribed from their mailing list, but I have a sneaking feeling this is going to lead to some sort of wacky mix-up involving me and the entire band of Avenged Sevenfold stranded on a desert island with the general manager of the E-Center.

Call it a hunch.

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So this is probably my new favorite news story of the year (even more so than the one I posted earlier today). I can't believe I didn't blog this yesterday when it broke, but here it is.

SCIENCE! has once again upped itself and demonstrated why science fiction dictates science fact. We've cloned an extinct animal.

In this case, it's kinda a lame animal. It's an ibex, which is a lot like a goat. As far as exciting animals to clone go, it's pretty low on the list. Matter of fact, when I brought up the news over dinner last night, everyone was disappointed it wasn't a wooly mammoth. But it was extinct, and we made it not extinct. And that's awesome.

Telegraph: Extinct ibex is resurrected by cloning

To me, this has two exciting possibilities.

First, we can theoretically start to clone anything we have a DNA breakdown of. In this case, we had DNA from an extinct animal. Substitute ibex for raptor and we have the science behind Jurassic Park, which leads me to my point.

There are some awesome animals that paleontologists and other scientists need to get working on discovering DNA for. Check the mosquitoes in amber, guys, 'cause I've got a list in the back of my head. First and foremost should probably be the dodo (which was an awesome bird to begin with), followed by the sabretooth tiger. The world needs more vicious hunting carnivores. The only problem is that so far the cloned animals don't live too long due to a lung defect which makes breathing difficult. We've mapped the human genome, however, so the idea that we're going to let a little defect like failing lungs stop us is ridiculous.

Second, we're getting ridiculously close to awesome stuff like organ regeneration. 'The Island'. Or 'The Sixth Day'. Let's not create new people, though, because we've already got a ton of those. Unless we're cloning awesome people, such as Lincoln, Welles or Mr. Rogers, let's keep the overpopulation down.

Actually, I take it back. Scientists, get started cloning Fred Rogers. I'm sure there are still some strands of hair on his cardigan in the Smithsonian that you can use for the DNA profile. We'll raise the miniature Fred on videos of the real Fred (which I've dubbed Rogers Prime) and make him as wonderful as the original. Then we do that about 9,999 more times and create a miniature army of loving, caring next door neighbors.

Come on, scientists, this is a formal challenge. Let's get down with the get down.

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This has already been an awesome year for news. We already cloned an extinct animal, which I can't believe I haven't blogged about yet. We had octuplets.

But we hadn't had a story of pure ultimate bad-assery yet. And now we do.

"Daniel Pharr says he was in the middle of his first-ever skydive, thousands of feet over South Carolina, when the instructor strapped to his back stopped talking to him Saturday. Army Pvt. Daniel Pharr says he "went into survival mode" when his instructor stopped talking during their skydive.

Army Pvt. Daniel Pharr says he "went into survival mode" when his instructor stopped talking during their skydive.

The instructor, George "Chip" Steele of Skydive Carolina, was later pronounced dead. But as they were falling, Pharr -- an Army soldier taking a private skydiving lesson -- knew only that Steele wasn't responding."

CNN: Skydiver lands with dead instructor on back

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I don't know if any of you are big music nerds like I am, but I'm wearing black today for a reason -- it's the 50th anniversary of 'The Day The Music Died', i.e. the day Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and The Big Bopper died in an airplane crash.

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OK, I know this is pretty inflammatory. Anyone who has read this blog for a long period of time knows that I'm a music lover. I love everything about music, especially listening to and talking about music.

So today I'm going to lay out my argument for why I don't like the #1 band on VH1's 100 Greatest Artists of Hard Rock.

I guess the best way to lay out my argument is this. Imagine that I call you tomorrow on the phone and tell you that I've just eaten an incredible ham sandwich at a very fancy restaurant. You're initially skeptical, but I soon win you over with my lavish description of the subtle intricacies of the grain in the bread, the pleasant texture of the ham and the surprisingly nutty taste of the cheese. Soon you're super jazzed to eat that ham sandwich. You decide to go to the restaurant, and it turns out I'm right, it's a really good sandwich.

The sandwich is pretty awesome, but the next time you go, you wonder if the rest of the food on the menu is equally good. So you try the pot roast, the quiche and the steak. Surprisingly, they're all really good and, as a matter of fact, you sorta prefer those items to the ham sandwich.

You call me to tell me of this amazing discovery, but I'm not pleased... I'm just upset. The ham sandwich is the best item there and you're violently wrong if you disagree.

But the ham sandwich is really good, you say, but I think there are better foods at the restaurant.

Well, you're wrong and you don't know anything about music, I say, before bottling my own farts for future sniffing.

Point being, Led Zeppelin is the ham sandwich of the restaurant. It's certainly deserving of praise; it's really good, and definitely worth it now and then. But hype has already killed it. No matter how much you try it in the future, you'll always have a nagging suspicion in the back of your mind that you're doing it wrong. You must not be appreciating the music enough, or your tastes must not be varied enough.

You're too dumb for Zepp.

Well, little mister, let me tell you what. Led Zeppelin sucks. They're definitely technically proficient, and have created some pretty good music, but they're definitely not worth the praise. Solid rock? Yes. The musical messiah? No.

If we're talking about the combining of music genres into something new, they were already beaten by early jazz musicians and some of the first rock bands. If we're talking solid song-writing, Rush is just as (if not more) poetic. If we're talking about songs to get people directly into a rocking mood, The Who have an arguably better overall catalogue.

Factor this in with the off-stage antics of the band (such as their fickle and uneven licensing policies, or their unwillingness to reunite even temporarily without exploding spectacularly) and you've got a truly talented band that's been over-praised, over-hyped and blown out of proportion.

And I'm OK with that. I've worked past that nagging feeling that I'm not 'getting it'.

Music critique ruined Led Zeppelin for me. Led Zeppelin ruined Led Zeppelin for me.

And it's OK; there's other main courses in the restaurant.

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Obnoxious name, serious blog.

As many of you readers know, there was a glorious period in which Richard and I made awful lip-sync videos to songs that we enjoyed (or didn't) on YouTube. Well, over the weekend, I got an e-mail from YouTube.

Apparently 'Missing You', the 1984 single from Bad English's John Waite, is hot intellectual property. So hot, in fact, that my black and white video of me lip-syncing it to a 1984 one hit wonder in a condescending and ironic matter was simply too much and the audio was removed.

Now, this isn't without precedent. My astronaut doodle video set to Spiritualized's 'Ladies and Gentlemen, We're Floating In Space' was taken down a few months ago for having about 45 seconds of the beginning of the song. In true irony, those 45 seconds had about three seconds of actual music from Spiritualized and 41 seconds of Pachelbel's Cannon in D with walkie talkie noises over it.

At any rate, this now means that one of my favorite internet chestnuts to show people was forcefully taken down. In true style, YouTube said I could replace the audio with one of their 'free soundtrack' songs, which is basically about 50 really awful generic sounding stock music clips. So I replaced the audio with the most inappropriate Seinfeld-y music possible.

Regardless, this has caused me to nerd-rage a little bit, because here's the thing -- YouTube is stupid. The non-stop 'removal of copyrighted material' from YouTube is the most idiotic thing imaginable, mainly because it does nothing but punish the people who like the music.

Yes, I understand the argument that clever people can convert the audio from a YouTube video into an mp3 and essentially score themselves a free song. I also understand this process is sorta complicated. 95% of people are going to have no idea how to do it, and of the 5% of people who do, the sound quality on YouTube is crappy enough that it's honestly not even worth it.

So why take down the music? To defend the right for people to not listen to it? Or to make them call a radio station and wait to hear it if they don't want to plunk down $.99?

To be honest, I'm doing them a favor by drawing attention to a song that would normally be overlooked or forgotten. Heck, I know a couple people who've even bought the track off iTunes because my video reminded them of the song. So why am I being punished for liking a song and helping to sell them?

Culture, especially on the internet, plays off of the existing to create new. To say that the existing is above usage is to deny availability to a part of popular culture. It definitely doesn't help the artist, or the label, and it definitely doesn't help music fans.

So awesome work, record companies. Yet again you've demonstrated you have your finger on the pulse of Americana.

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