I'd feel tragic
Like I was Marlon Brando
When I'd look at my China Girl
Our cable t.v. service provides 20+ channels of digital, commercial-free music. There is an amazing array of music available, which we have been enjoying, now that the speakers are mounted. We have heard some great tunes tonight, including Kings of Leon, the Strokes, White Stripes, Johnny Cash, Radiohead, and Clapton.
And we also heard Coldplay. Three times.
While I was down in the Tetons,
I had my dad drop me off at a trailhead so I could do a more strenuous hike, and he left with the car to do some exploring.
When I came down, I had to hitch a series of three rides to get back to our rendezvous point. (By the by, four cars with Wisconsin plates blew past without picking me up... What's up with that?)
My rides were: (1) a female park ranger from Jackson who picked up not only me, but three other hitchers; (2) a young couple, both ER docs, from LA; and, (3) a couple from Kentucky.
In a Twilight Zone-like coincidence, all three of my rides were playing a Coldplay CD. The last two were even playing the same song. I had to ask if it was the radio, disbelieving that the couple from LA and the couple from Kentucky would be playing the same song on the same disc. It wasn't even a radio hit.
Which brings me to my typically long-winded point:
Coldplay is a bland bucket of lukewarm milk.
It is so unremarkably bland that I cannot even muster enough give-a-shit to say I hate it. It is the C+ of music. Fettucine alfredo. From the Olive Garden. Starchy, kind of sticky, and you wonder just why you ate it. Two hours later, you cannot even remember what you had. That's Coldplay- the Fettucine Alfredo of Popular Music.
And if you really love Coldplay, well, I'm sorry. I know, I know. You don't only listen to Coldplay. It's not like they are your favorite band. I understand. Your wife likes it. She left it in the minivan. When you're alone, perhaps getting takeout from Applebee's, you crank up the Three Doors Down, and rawk out.
--
--
On a separate note, today is The Doodlebug's 8th birthday.
Happy Birthday, Doodlebug.
And we also heard Coldplay. Three times.
While I was down in the Tetons,
I had my dad drop me off at a trailhead so I could do a more strenuous hike, and he left with the car to do some exploring.
When I came down, I had to hitch a series of three rides to get back to our rendezvous point. (By the by, four cars with Wisconsin plates blew past without picking me up... What's up with that?)
My rides were: (1) a female park ranger from Jackson who picked up not only me, but three other hitchers; (2) a young couple, both ER docs, from LA; and, (3) a couple from Kentucky.
In a Twilight Zone-like coincidence, all three of my rides were playing a Coldplay CD. The last two were even playing the same song. I had to ask if it was the radio, disbelieving that the couple from LA and the couple from Kentucky would be playing the same song on the same disc. It wasn't even a radio hit.
Which brings me to my typically long-winded point:
Coldplay is a bland bucket of lukewarm milk.
It is so unremarkably bland that I cannot even muster enough give-a-shit to say I hate it. It is the C+ of music. Fettucine alfredo. From the Olive Garden. Starchy, kind of sticky, and you wonder just why you ate it. Two hours later, you cannot even remember what you had. That's Coldplay- the Fettucine Alfredo of Popular Music.
And if you really love Coldplay, well, I'm sorry. I know, I know. You don't only listen to Coldplay. It's not like they are your favorite band. I understand. Your wife likes it. She left it in the minivan. When you're alone, perhaps getting takeout from Applebee's, you crank up the Three Doors Down, and rawk out.
--
--
On a separate note, today is The Doodlebug's 8th birthday.
Happy Birthday, Doodlebug.
posted by Joe at
9:46 PM
6 Comments
