Smash The Market Place

In AP's last My Chemical Romance cover (AP # 221), there was a point of contention as to whether or not their fans were going to embrace the classic-rock signifiers prevalent on The Black Parade. Would the MCRmy wave their opened cell phones to such 12-bar blues rawkers like "Teenagers" or the Styx-meets-Jesus Christ Superstar pomp of the title track? Or did they want Three More Cheers For Sweet Revenge? Taking Back Sunday front-dude Adam Lazzara testified on behalf of his buds with a rhetorical question. "Should the scene dictate what bands are doing, or should bands be dictating what's going on in the scene? Because right now, everything's sounding the same." Obviously, we know how MCR fared. But when Mr. Lazzara read the writing on the wall, did it really say, "OMG, Metro Station?"

The advent of social networking sites and file-sharing portals make hearing about a new rock combo easier than ever. Every week, I get packages from guys in bands desperate to leave their jobs stocking the pet supplies section at Wal-Mart. Most of the time, the front of their CDs will carry a sticker that begins with "For Fans Of..." followed by a three-strong list of established units currently making bank. All I can say is thanks for the extra jewel boxes.

Seriously, why should I pay attention to some unknown dudes parading a sticker telling me their band "sounds like Underoath, Converge and Isis" when I've already got the latest rock power from those iconic teams on my hard drive? You want a fecking cookie for learning how to dress yourself while you're at it? Hear that voice? It just said "Clean up, aisle seven." Turn off the computer and grab a mop.

But let's be frank, even though that's not my name. Any musical movement that has gotten traction will always be filled with cultural carpetbaggers and folks who want to ride the zeitgeist. In the Seventies, labels were trying to sign the next bunch of bland-ass stadium-rockin' woodbeez. In the Eighties, America (and the ozone layer) was infested with pop-metal hair farmers with the same crappy production techniques and gear endorsement deals, looking for their piece o' pie, cherry or otherwise. When Nirvana came along and flushed all those turd burglars out of our consciousness, "Alternative Nation" soon morphed into Asshat Nation. It was a three-pronged attack mounted by a) shitty indie bands taking major-label cash thinking that somehow an audience was going to magically appear for them like Jack's Beanstalk (you know that story, right?); b) generic character-free nimrods who were able to flourish because some deaf pigs at commercial radio thought they could use the vernacular to cash in and c) poodle-metal dudes tuning to drop D and forgoing their Maybelline and creme rinse conditioner to prove how "real" they were. When that gen became tired of all the wuss rockers polluting a truly honest thing, the nu-metal opportunists came along. For every singular unit that was truly something glorious to behold, there were plenty of douchebags. When that particular merchant vessel began teeming with rats, forward motion in America's underground pop/punk/hybrid scenes rose to a fever pitch, because we wanted something that was real, and not some millionaire phucktard in a red ball-cap singing about breaking stuff while his supermodel whore girlfriend was backstage doing lines of Peruvian baby laxative off of the promoter's intern's six-pack.

Which brings us to the stack of mail I have right now. "For Fans Of Paramore and Crash Romeo." "Recommended If You Like Mayday Parade, Motion City Soundtrack, Rentals." "Rocks Like Underoath, the Devil Wears Prada and Norma Jean." Then I got to thinking about what would make me slam a new, unproven band's disc in my computer. "Rocks Like Your Mother On Your Best Friend's Leg After Several Whiskey Sours?" "Recommended If You Like Your Head Stuck Up A Dead Cow's Ass?" "For Fans Of Huffing, Cutting And Syrup Of Ipecac?" God Bless Mindless Self Indulgence: The sticker on their major-label debut read "Be The First Person On Your Block To Throw This Disc Away!" (MSI fans are a pedantic bunch, so if perchance that's not exactly what it said on the sticker, I beg your pardon. Frequently.)

Anyway, I've decided to start a band. I haven't written any songs or gotten my hair cut yet. But I did design 22 shirts and came up with the following sticker text:

Tear-Stained Hanky!
For Fans Of: We The Kings, Alesana and This Dude.

With the help of a personal trainer and an elite cadre of Photoshop artists, I will pwn all of you.

Big Big Sky

Van Halen opening for Black Sabbath on their first extensive American tour. Yeah, it was sweet. (Ozzy opened his pants and flashed Tony Iommi and Bill Ward.) David Bowie on his first tour after releasing the totally awesome Low and 'Heroes' albums. Way cool and art-tastic. (Adrian Belew and Roger Powell in the band and Bowie played my third-fave song of his, "Stay.") Queen on the tour that fostered the Live Killers album? It was okay. Nirvana at Roseland? Pretty galvanizing. U2's first arena tour in support of The Unforgettable Fire? A rare exercise in making an 18K venue feel like a 1000-seat club. Ditto Radiohead's shed campaign in support of Amnesiac. The first leg of The Black Parade's tour? Ambitious, engaging and I felt the heat from the pyro from my second-tier seat.

Nine Inch Nails' appearance in Cleveland last Friday was the best arena-rock experience I have ever had in my tenure on Planet Earth. And, as you can tell, I've been to a few. NIN CEO Trent Reznor has been on something like nine covers of AP and I've seen him more times than I've visited my sister in the past three years. (Sorry 'bout that, Jill.) But his recent stand at Cleveland's Quicken Loans arena proved that he's surpassed his heroes, his cultural comrades (in both electronics-based rock and alt-rock in general) and whatever's coming down the 'pike in the future. Many bands in today's scene have cited him in one context or another, from bleeding-heart-on-sleeve confessional lyrics (What, you think Chris Carrabba invented that stuff?) to sonic intensity (ie, making computers, samplers and synthesizers have just as much intensity as a Stratocaster run through a wall of Marshalls). The fact that he's creating elaborate, complex shows out of his own pocket proves his dedication to his craft and his audience.

NIN's current Lights In The Sky Tour is a grandiose production that's artistically solid and devoid of any goofiness. (Am I the only guy who thought Judas Priest singer Rob Halford looked ridiculous driving a motorbike onstage?) I'd love to tell you all about the lighting, which ranged from moody ambiance, light grenades thrown by SWAT-team attack forces, CCTV surveillance and glimpses into digital underworlds. (Seriously, this is the only show where the further away your seats are, the better it gets.) I'd prefer you buy some tickets, or at the very least, go visit this fine montage.

But this elaborate presentation might as well be used as a Six Flags attraction if the music wasn't so compelling. This is arguably the best band Reznor has put together. Robin Finck is back in the fold, his isometric guitarwork making the material from NIN's latest, The Slip, seem even more jagged, twisted and resonant. Bassist Justin Meldal-Johnsen is equally adept at cervical-collar thrashing ("Gave Up," "Wish") or textured spatial relations (on tracks from Reznor's instrumental Ghosts disc). Alessandro Cortini's mastery of electronics is simply awe-inspiring in these days of plug-ins and easily recallable patches. Josh Freese is no stranger to anybody who reads AP, his incredibly muscular yet precise drumming is as driven as Michael Phelps in China. Then there's Reznor, who seems equally at home dumping a synth into the barricade pit, repeatedly conjugating the word "f**k" or playing such decidedly non-furious instruments as vibraphone and electric piano. I literally hurt my neck trying to see what everyone was doing onstage and enjoying the lights at the same time.

What makes NIN's aesthetic triumphs even more resonant is that, well, nobody thought he was going to be around this long. From the critics who dismissed Reznor as a "mope rocker," to the fickle tastes of Alternative Nation to the industrial/electro-rock scene Reznor came up in. But now that T. Rez has his cake (a cake certainly worth eating) the big question is who can top him? Who's going to be the first band from the contemporary punk/emo/etc scene to achieve this level of artistic and social relevance?

Let the bar-raising begin, friends. ASAP.

Big Brother Muscle

As two or three of you know, I have a column in the record review section called I Don't Know, Ask That Guy. The title is derived from something you might hear a young record store employee say when a potential customer asks him about a band who started 25 years before said clerk was born. It's the column where "that guy" (ie, me) briefly summarizes a band's career in 500 words or less, and said subject is usually some relic from the Seventies that you may have heard brought up for a nanosecond in a conversation or an article in Rolling Stone. And yeah, I usually hate said band.

During their respective tenures at AP, Leslie Simon and Jonah Bayer would frequently wear classic-rock tees to work. If I recall properly, Leslie had a gray Chicago shirt, and Jonah used to rock a Phil Collins tour tee. This always pissed me off because not only were those "artists" the enemy of punk rock, in today's dumber world, the irony factor had blurred significantly. (I think Jonah had a thing for PhilCo's "Sussudio," but I don't think Lessimes used to sing "Saturday In The Park" at the top of her lungs in her office.) So for every Johnny Come Scenely who professes his love for Journey in a public forum, a little piece of me wishes God (or Dick Cheney) would turn the planet into a cold, black marble. See, I'm old enough to remember when bloated "classic rock" was considered "the current norm," and anything that deviated from said norm (ie, punk, new wave, alternative) was denigrated by people whose personal aesthetics could be successfully encapsulated in a Ford truck commercial.

But what really torques my lugnuts today is how all those classic-rock fossils got to operate in an atmosphere that waswaaaaay before the universal "community" of the internet. Could any of us really imagine Jimmy Page lurking on message boards hearing people bitch about his band's third album? Now once you get past that big ol motherin' absurdity, consider: What if Mr. Page actually took heed of what some 20-nothing from the early Seventies (a guy who, today, has logged approximately 7332 reviews on Amazon because, dammit, his voice WILL be heard) said, and thendecided to fashion his creative vision after that? How might Led Zep IV have turned out after a constant barrage of idiocy like "The intro to 'Black Dog' is annoying." "Why are the drums so loud?" "My boyfriend and I are pre-engaged and he's way more talented than Robert Planet [sic]." "Whatever, you suck. Grand Funk Railroad 4-ever."

I don't want to leave you with that depressing thought, so let me leave you with an upshot to that universe. I'm almost positive Zep manager Peter Grant would've had the funds to track down the anonymous posters' phone lines, and sent a bunch of people 'round for a visit to "sort things out."

But I hafta ask myself: Would I have had the willpower not to make fun of Steve Perry's hip replacement on a Journey thread?

Happy Home

Maybe we're not ready totally ready to forgive the airlines,but according to my exasperatingly hip friends (both of them), the vacation of the future is the "staycation," where you simply stay at home. I don't think you have to remain at your domicile, per se (although sleeping in until noon is pretty fecking awesome), but the principle is that there's plenty of stuff to discover within a reasonable driving distance from your couch.

It's a pretty obvious idea. As much as I loathe my hometown, there were always plenty of great things that awaited me a mere 48 minutes down the highway from it. Wanderlust is pretty cool on any level, even with gas at $3.66 a gallon. In Cleveland, there are plenty of things to experience, from hearing AP web administrator/design dude Rob Ortenzi spin tunes during a sweet mealto finding snacks for your MP3 player to simply rocking out.

"Whatever, dough-head," I hear you say, for I can smell your thoughts. "What's your point?" Well, I don't have one, other than telling you I'm on staycation away from the AP Skyscrapers for a week. I'll be back on the 18th, rested, tested and personally bested in something. (Naah, I don't know what that means, either.) So go get some more career advice and I'll see you in a bit.

I Want Up

This might be a stretch here, but I think I might be the only person on Earth who doesn't have a MySpace page. I don't know; there's something about a guy my age (I'll be 74 in mid-September, thanks) who ISN'T in a band participating in that community. Sure, there are some valid pluses in having a presence on the social-networking portal (making business contacts, finding disgruntled former employees of AP cover stars, discovering like-minded souls who share my predilection for obscure British bands of the past 25 years). But there are also plenty of downsides (friend requests from street teams competing for a free iPod, constant spam from Creed tribute bands and provocative messages that might as well have been sent by Chris Hansen's interns) that I simply don't have the time to wade through. I do have a Facebook account, but my wife does all the upkeep on that. So if you ever come across it, you won't see one of those statements that act as the daily emotional barometer. (You know, those sentences that say "Today, Jason has covered his naked body with guacamole and will soon run down the street shrieking passages from the Tibetan Book Of The Dead as a three-foot trail of firecrackers coming out of his butt start exploding." Oh, and don't forget the emoticon at the end. :<>)

Don't get me started on the culture initially promulgated by such maverick sites as LiveJournal and Friendster. I will never in a million years understand why everyone wants to share intimate details about their lives with complete strangers. I mean, I can understand telling the 66-year-old grandmother sitting next to me on a four-hour flight all the details of my younger brother screwing up his life, how our mother enables him and I can sure use some advice. And at that age, she'll be more than happy to give it to me, because we both know we'll never see each other again. There's a certain comfort in showing some vulnerability to a benign stranger who briefly enters your sphere without any judgement, in the hopes of ridding yourself of a forest-for-the-trees mindset about something both pressing and personal. But puttin' that shit online? It doesn't take a nation of Lori Drews to hold me back, friends: One's enough.

But let me get to the point of today's entry. When I was young and sexy and could actually see my shoes, I, too, was obsessed with what all my favorite bands were doing. Were they on tour? Were they in the studio? Did they collect records as much as I did? Did they hang out with members of my other faves, like some sort of uber-cool Justice League? What was the next single going to be, and would it have a non-lp b-side (two of them if they were doing a 12-inch single)? Nobody has to worry about that stuff now, because today's culture demands that bands share every little nuance of what they do. There's no mystery anymore.

And that's kinda sad. Because we are jonesing all the time for an insatiable info fix, everyone is burning out. We grow weary of bands because they're constantly in our face. In turn, they grow weary of us, because while they are trying to pony up $177 to fill the van to get to the first date of their tour, some posh d-bag living in his parents' McMansion is calling them out for something totally false on his blog. I will admit I almost (I said almost) cried on my computer keyboard when the Blood Brothers announced their breakup. But in hindsight, I appreciated the idea that they purposely stalled on making the announcement public until many months after the fact. These days, withholding information is the only respite a band has left.

I want up from under all this information. Don't you? And if you later comment, "Shut up, you elderly skidmark! Nobody cares about your pathetic life story, your favorite bands or your old-fashioned ruminations on How Things Used To Be. Do us a favor and throw yourself into a woodchipper," I won't mind at all.

Talking Doll

What follows is a piece of hate mail sent to the AP Skyscrapers. We get a couple of these kinds of emails every month, usually from people who think we suck because we a) make fun of Nickelback, b) refuse to cover the Red Hot Chili Peppers or c) refuse to put some obscure local hardcore band on the cover because nobody outside of said band's zip code has heard of them. All of the bolded text is left the way we received it, because I didn't feel like polishing some ranter's turds. I only diluted the f-bombs to avoid those internet safety filters.

Dear [NAME WITHHELD]:
Hope you are well. I've just been forwarded your letter about the latest issue of ALTERNATIVE PRESS. In an effort to build a sincere dialog with understanding and tolerance toward people, I have responded to various points of your letter.

Dear Alternative Press,
I've been less than satisfied with my AP subscription as of late, and flipping through a library of back issues, I can't help but wonder how you went from featuring bands with musical integrity like Nine Inch Nails and Smashing Pumpkins to becoming a tabloid for MySpace fad artists.

You have an interesting name. It sounds like your parents were hip liberal college professors whose area of expertise was anthropology or some kind of ethnic study. Perhaps they run casinos out west, or maybe just clean the hotel rooms there. Offended? Well, some of your generalizations are offensive, as well. I only bring this up because I remember when bands like NIN and the Pumpkins were tarred with the same "fad band" epithet. Why didn't you mention, say, Kitchens of Distinction or My Bloody Valentine, bands we slapped on the cover that conjured similar hate mail to yours, along the lines of "Way to go with the EuroTrash, AP. You suck." Other fads we've covered include bogus swing, bogus industrial rock, and the plain bogus. Hindsight has taught us the passage of time is crucial to determining an item's worth.

You're massaging the egos of everyone that wants their fifteen minutes of fame, and all with a "we're bringing YOU the EXCLUSIVE!" attitude. Remember your cover on Underoath a year or so ago? You portrayed a band in shambles, torn over a mysterious "occurrence" that left them all "so-so" about their precious musical future. And what about your story on From First to Last in mid 2006, when you couldn't resist giving an ex-bassist a side column to dish about how terrible and dramatic his departure was? What about the Cute is What we Aim For feature a month or so ago where the band was going ape shit over conflicting lyrics? If I wanted a play by play of gossip I'd look not further than their MySpace pages -- but when I open a magazine supposedly dedicated to the alternative music scene, I'm looking for something a little dare I say "deeper" than the who's-f##king-with-who bull shit you're so keen on printing lately.

Thanks to the proliferation of the Internet, file-sharing services and social networking sites, people have the power to call up music immediately. The need for a critical gatekeeper is seen as completely unnecessary. So now that you've already heard the new Nine Inch Nails disc, it's redundant to sell the world on that fabulous Ondes Martenot solo on track six. "I already know that," readers respond. "Tell me some shit I don't know." You tell me: Why did every story I read about Trent Reznor's "comeback" focus on his dalliances with chemical dependency? If these young people want to tell their story in front of an operating tape recorder, that's their choice. You act like AP single-handedly created the "Dear Diary" stand at the MySpace service plaza on the information superhighway. Wise up, sucker.

If I hear one more mullet bearing nineteen year old tell me he and his "band" have "credibility" I'm going to flip out! I'm having a hard time differentiating between the artists you chose to spotlight anymore! What happened to covers adorned with Shirley Manson, The Cure, Marilyn Manson, Ministry, Korn, Tori Amos, Rancid... do you see the diversity there? Now your most diverse cover is f##king Cobra Starship! I don't think you even REVIEWED the latest discs from the artists I've mentioned! What gives?! Are you so concerned with appeal that you're going to leave your lifetime readers in the dust?

I would say our most diverse cover this year was our anniversary issue with Fugazi and Bikini Kill front and center. The above paragraph is tragic because it says more about your inability to use a calendar than it does AP's current focus. If you would've namechecked Jesu, These New Puritans, Coh, Ceremony, KTL and/or Duchess Says, you would have demonstrated a genuine knowledge of new outfits doing interesting things and displayed high-level aesthetic superiority over us that might actually make you fun to hang with. Instead you watch Lifetime TV. Have a pint of Ben & Jerry's and don't forget to wring out your pillowcase.

But lets move on, shall we? How about your blatant promotion of stimulants? That's right. I'm talking about page 72 of the September 08 issue, baby. You promote "Focuset" as a must-have back to school "necessity." Um... can you say expulsion? I'm guessing your target audience is about fifteen... will they even sell that shit to minors? The fact that you would even ALLUDE to "curing" a wandering brain with self-prescription (oh, I'm sorry, I meant "dietary supplement") is so f##king ludicrous I had to do a triple take. Do you know roughly how many people a year become addicted to "big kid" stimulants like Adderal, just a hair away from this Focuset. How about how many people are left dependent on medication even after they finish school? So how dare you, a magazine that may be influential to young readers, suggest that students tinker with their fragile brain chemistry?!

Dr. Timothy Leary, Ken Kesey, Kurt Cobain, Krissy Taylor, Rush Limbaugh and Marion Jones were all unavailable for comment.

And on the subject of drugs, lets flip on over to page 32... you're beyond ridiculous "Poll." I don't really care what your own opinions are, but look at the ridiculous ones you chose to print! "You'd have to smoke your body weight in pot to do any real damage," says Alyssa Bach. Right, Alyssa, which is why people die every year from drug related accidents or overdoses! Smart girl!!! How about Elissa Dewey, who argues that "It hasn't killed anyone directly." Um... need I elaborate? "You never hear about pot-related accidents like you do with alcohol," Allison Evans protests. Anyone see the news two years ago when Nicole Richie paired pot and painkillers and ended up driving on the wrong side of the road? And that's just a HIGH PROFILE example! Anyways, another bull shit article. High five.

The AP Poll is a compilation of responses to a question we post online. Apparently it's not "bull shit," if people on both sides of the argument respond to it, including you, Fallopia. I would like to remind you that there is not one sentence on that page that reads ALTERNATIVE PRESS WANTS ALL OF THEIR READERS TO TOKE UP AS SOON AND AS OFTEN AS POSSIBLE. SMOKE 'EM IF YOU GOT 'EM, BITCHES. These readers' attitudes toward drugs are shaped by forces much greater than a midwest music magazine. I do appreciate your endorsement though, no matter how erratic.

This last comment has nothing really to do with you. I actually don't blame you for this one at all. Wil Francis. However the f##k he spells it. I think the only thing he's ever actually said is "I don't care what people think." Ok, Wil, tell us more! "This records really DARRRKK and all about all the DRUGS I DID and all the FAMOUS PEOPLE I WANNA F##KIN MURDERRR and EVERYONES GONNA HATE IT but I don't give a SHIITT because we're not like AFI at all we just wear the same make up..." I laugh every time I see his pathetic wanna-be goth pout. But that's just a side note.

Well, thanks for sharing. Unlike your need to inform me about your pressing issues as culture policeman, I'll spare you my assessment of everything from venture capitalists who deal in oil futures to the quality of beefsteak tomatoes in Ohio.

KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK AP!!! CAN'T WAIT FOR MY F##KING SUBSCRIPTION TO END!! MAYBE I'LL SELL IT TO A SCENE GIRL AT A CHIODOS SHOW ALONG WITH MY SISTERS ADDERAL SCRIPT!!!!

Or you could cancel and take the cash difference to buy more pills for your sister. Which, by the virtue of being a blood relative to you, she obviously needs.

Death may be your Santa Claus,
Jason Pettigrew
ALTERNATIVE PRESS


XOXO
LOVE
[NAME WITHHELD]
P.S. Did "Kelsey and the Chaos" make you pee your pants too? I can't believe you LET them print that ad! D-E-S-P-E-R-A-T-E!

We made sure the word "ADVERTISEMENT" was placed at the bottom of the ad. Bitching in an email is free; writers, photographers and printers need paid.

P.S.S. I missed a Lifetime movie to write you this shit. Muah. <3

PPS. Seems like you missed a lifetime, period. At least you saved me from creating a whole new blog entry, so thank you for that.

55: The Law

In order to combat our dependence on foreign oil (and lessen the rape of our wallets by venture capitalists trafficking in oil futures), Sen. John Warner (R-Va.) wants to pass legislation to make the national speed limit on America's highways a mere 55 mph. Now I don't know about you, but if I'm rockin' the Locust, Blood Brothers, Anaal Nathrakh or Dillinger Escape Plan on the car stereo, I'm looking to create new personal bests in both land speed records and police evasion. I wonder exactly how many articles or reviews I've written that described someone's music as "the soundtrack for your next speeding ticket." I drive fast because I patently hate doing it. This is why I was never in a band: After two hours on the road, I turn into a beast that's one-part caged animal, one-part fidgety three-year-old.

Yesterday, I had to step out of work early to travel to Pennsylvania to attend a funeral for a friend's father. When I got in the car to make the trip (Time: Two hours, 39 minutes), I wasn't focused too much on the impending torture of driving. Maybe it was the mood of the occasion. Perhaps it was having to drop $48.02 to fill the tank up. For some reason, I just wasn't up to playing Carmageddon. I got stuck in traffic and didn't bitch. When the passing lane got clogged by some chain-smoking, haggard blonde in an SUV, I did not pray for God to give me five middle fingers on my left hand. I simply stayed in the slow lane, behind a trailer truck.

On the stereo was the latest Spiritualized disc, Songs In A&E, a pretty depressing affair since all of the songs are about death. (Causing it, experiencing it or perceiving it as a metaphor for the tragic end of something.) I found myself remarkably calm and actually enjoying the experience. At the end of the disc, I jumped to "Kylie From Connecticut," the somber, bittersweet closer on Ben Folds' impending release. I think I hit "repeat" on that one half a dozen times. So while I'm in driving stance, I looked down at the speedometer: 54 mph.

I looked at the clock on the dashboard and figured I'd better step this game a little. I threw in the latest power-violence sampler from Relapse and punched it, but the whole mood of it seemed forced and empty, so I popped it out and stuck in a collection of solos by punk-jazz pianistMark Springer. As I got closer to my hometown, the seething disgust I usually have gave way to sadness. I usually drag around a sack of emotional disdain for my hometown similar to what Santa travels with on Dec. 24. But this time I was genuinely bummed because the wide open spaces were filled with Home Depot, Dick's Sporting Goods and more below-average restaurant chains. The straight-shot was now perforated with traffic lights. Most telling was the faces of the drivers around me which looked equally saddened; I'd go as far as using the word "trapped."

I finally got to the funeral home and acknowledged my friend and his family. Talk soon turned to how much the town had changed, and not for the good. Memories of being able to walk two miles to a certain point were soon interrupted by warnings of bad neighborhoods, defunct businesses and empty storefronts where we used to go as teens and 20-nothings. As usual, the conversation led to memories of shopping for records in the basement of the town's big department stores. (My name is Jason, and I once owned every record by Emerson, Lake & Palmer.)

Although I drove back into Cleveland this morning with a migraine, I brought back a newfound appreciation for long drives at slow speeds. My wife thinks I was abducted by aliens and replaced with a similarly hideous android. Maybe Sen. Warner knows something I don't know. God, I hate when that happens.