My Final Thoughts On The Royal Wedding (And Weddings In General)

What is it with you women?

From the time you're old enough to walk, you immediately begin dreaming of one day walking down the aisle, planning every facet of your dream wedding - right down to the china pattern and napkin holders.

Now, that's not an entirely bad thing, but I've long believed - based on much of what I've seen with my own eyes - that women honestly believe their wedding day is all about them.

It's like the poor guy they've actually roped into marrying them doesn't even factor into the equation. A few years ago, a female co-worker I had the misfortune to be situated next to was spending an inordinate amount of time each day coordinating every aspect of her wedding. This was literally going on for months.

Figuring I'd have a little fun, I asked her what she'd be wearing on her wedding day. Of course, her eyes lit up and she went into what seemed like a ten-minute spiel about what she obviously perceived to be the wedding dress to end all wedding dresses, not missing a single detail along the way. I imagine if I'd asked an Army mechanic to describe the inner workings of an armored tank, it would have been no less detailed.

Then I asked her what the groom would be wearing. Her answer: "A tux."

Therein lies the rub.

For all of the coverage the Royal Wedding received, what was everybody talking about? Kate's dress, of course! But also the music that was playing when she walked in to, the hats the royal women (and Posh Spice) were wearing, and the fact that the brides maids wore the same color as the bride. GASP!

Women have been so busy planning their wedding day from birth that they've never stopped to realize that the wedding day they've dreamed of for so long actually involves someone other than them. Of course, that's because they've been dreaming of their wedding day for a heckuva lot longer than they've been dreaming of that poor sap they're about to marry.

In fact, I'm absolutely convinced that the reason the divorce rate in this country is so high is because women are so enamored with the idea of their wedding day that they can't stop at just one. I have a female friend (okay, former high school girlfriend) who has been married four times. I asked her why she'd been married four times and she jokingly responded, "I like weddings!"

In every joke, of course, is a hint of truth and, the more that I think about it, the more I wonder if it wasn't just me who had presumed she was joking when, in fact, she had been dead serious.

The question remains: If women are so hung up on their own wedding details that we men may as well fade into the background, one must wonder why we our attendance is even required.

The most obvious solution is for women to marry other women. They don't necessarily have to be lesbians and have sex with each other, but that would be totally hot. Think about it, that's twice the number of dresses per wedding! Holy shit, I bet every woman who just read that sentence had an orgasm at her desk.

Here's the best part: While the women are all off planning their weddings right down to the color of toilet tissue used in the bathrooms at the reception hall, we men will finally be able to do whatever the hell we want - like actually get some use out of that NFL Ticket satellite TV package for once in our lives.

I bet every man who just read that sentence just had an orgasm at his desk.

There, problem solved. :)

"Rain In My Eyes" Behind The Music!

Over the past few days, I have rediscovered at least a portion of my love for making music. My hunch is that as I continue the journey, I will discover more and more of that love. Yesterday, I posted the first two tracks I've recorded in years and figured I would explain how they came to be, if for no other reason than to entertain myself, and maybe a few others, in the process.

See, when I was a kid, I didn't just listen to music. I read all I could about it, whether it was who produced what records, who played on what record, or how some of my favorite records came to be. So, bare with me as I prepare to blab endlessly about my process. It may not be as exciting as hearing how Dave Grohl spent $700,000 turning his garage into an old-school analog recording studio for the new Foo Fighters album, but it's the only story I've got. I promise at least a couple good laughs along the way.

HOW I CAME TO RECORD NEW SONGS

Several months ago, a music supervisor got in touch, asking if he could use a few instrumental tracks I had been circulating last year. Truth be told, I sent a CD of mostly instrumental tunes around to a few MS's (insider lingo for "music supervisor") and got NO response. I'm not one to beat on doors. I just send the tunes, maybe fire off a "hey, did you get my tunes?" email a week or so later, and hope maybe someone bites. Well, nobody bit so I sold what equipment I had to put into my t-shirt business and left it at that. I mean, I'm not 24-year-old anymore. Maybe it was time to move on from music...so that's what I did.

So, anyway, totally out of the blue, an MS drops me an email, says he loves the tunes, and wants to use a few of them in a new project. Of course, he wants me to tweak them a little, which I can either not do...and kiss that money goodbye...or I can buy some new gear and make the necessary tweaks, make some cash, and sell the gear when I'm done. I'm not like most people, in that I hold on to everything I've ever bought. When I'm done with something, I sell it so I can indulge whatever new thing I'm into. If I needed to, I could literally fit everything I care about into my Rav 4 and take off for parts unknown.

After hitting Craigslist, I managed to put together a reasonably state-of-the-art recording studio and spent two weeks performing the necessary tweaks. I handed in the tunes, the MS asked for a few more changes, I procrastinated and then turned in the exact same mixes at the last minute. Instead of emailing me to say, "Hey, these are the same exact mixes", he sent me a check, which I cashed IMMEDIATELY! Mission accomplished.

For the first time in forever, I felt like a "working musician", but then reality set it...now what?

I put a couple pieces of gear up on Craigslist, but priced them so that only a nut-job would buy them (perhaps I wasn't quite ready to let them go). Then a filmmaker I know asked me to write a song for his latest project. I said "sure thing" and then proceeded to procrastinate for two months, until it was impossible to ignore his emails, which were now in ALL CAPS, with subject lines like "WHERE THE FUCK IS THE SONG YOU PROMISED ME?!" and "ARE YOU IGNORING ME, SHIT BAG?!"

So I wandered down into the basement, powered up the equipment and finally set about recording the song I'd written weeks ago. While I couldn't be bothered to record it during that time, I had been religiously fine-tuning the song on this shitty little Dean Playmate guitar that I keep next to my computer. In between bouts of surfing and working on PC-based projects, I'd grab the guitar and run through the song over and over and over again. So, while I hadn't been responding to any of my friend's emails, I had technically been working on the song.

While I willingly admit to procrastinating, I honestly believe it to be an important part of the creative process. Have you ever listened to an album that you know the artist rushed through? It sounds like shit, doesn't it? That's why I've always embraced procrastination. It is my mind telling the rest of me that shit just ain't ready yet.

Admittedly, when I powered up the recording gear, my gut was still telling me that the shit wasn't ready, but I powered my way through and ended up recording "Rain In My Eyes" in its entirety. Then, of course, I set about mixing it, which was a huge pain in the ass because mixing is the one thing I absolutely dread the most about making music. I mean, if you put ten mix engineers in a room and play them a bunch of songs, I can guarantee you they will find something wrong with each and every track. By the same token, if you let each of them take a stab at mixing the same song, you will end up with ten radically different-sounding mixes.

The whole thing, to me, just seems so arbitrary that I dread it with every fiber of my being. Of course, most of that stems from the fact that I no nothing about mixing. My EQ skills are rudimentary at best and, as a result, I am literally amazed that I can come up with anything even remotely listenable. In the end, I aspire to come up with a finished mix that is at least as loud as the Jimmy Eat World song ("Coffee And Cigarettes" off their new album) that I am using for A-B comparison purposes.

Thankfully, I can always remind myself that at least one of my fave records feature some insanely shitty mixes...Psychocandy, anyone? Plus, I own more than a few records that I bought as a kid where the final mix made me think something was wrong with my stereo. Did I mention that Butch Vig's name is on more than one of them?

So, long story short, I finally finished mixing an knew I had a real stink bomb on my hands. I literally began hunting for my camera so I could take photos and put every last bit of music gear up on Craigslist while, at the same time, trying to figure out how to break it to my friend that my attempt to record the song I had promised him was a huge failure.

Instead, I sent an email to another friend...one whose ears I value more than gold...with the subject line "new tune...is this shit?" He responded the next day, saying that the song wasn't so much shit, but that the drums annoyed him to no end.

The next day, scalding cup of coffee in-hand, I ventured back down into the basement to start from scratch...or so I thought. Before doing so, I figured I'd just come up with some more appropriate drum sounds and fly in the new drum track. Upon doing so, the whole track seemed to come together and the new mix sounded, to my ears at least, like a force to now be reckoned with.

I'd love to describe in endless detail how I carefully selected the most ambient room ever known to mankind and then spent hours meticulously mic'ing the guitars and drums, but the simple truth of the matter is that I just plugged in my trusty Alesis SR-18 drum machine and hoped for the best. For guitars, I ran my $300 Craigslist DeArmond M77 through my $200 Craigslist Line 6 POD X3. Vocals are sung into a crappy $35 mic I've had lying around forever.

I'm running Pro Tools 7 on my PC, but am doing only the minimum amount of on-board adjustments because if I ask too much of it, Pro Tools throws me a variety of different errors during playback. Hence, I minimize my headaches by using the Pod X3's supreme effects and amp modeling capabilities.

Again, limited by Pro Tools 7's propensity for crashing, I mix all 20 tracks down to a "rough mix" that I can live with and then begin a separate Pro Tools session, where I then import the "rough mix" and then administer final edits, fades, and Ozone 4 mastering tweaks.

One thing that annoys me to no end is that mixing in Pro Tools can often yield results that sound great in your headphones, or studio monitors, but not so good in the real world. Even when I do come up with a mix that works, I can rarely get it to sound loud enough. Thus, my final step is to run my final mix (in high-quality mp3 format) into a free software called "Mp3 Gain", where I bump up the levels to my requisite 98dB.

THE FINISHED RESULT - "RAIN IN MY EYES"

New Darren Robbins Single: "I Wanna Be In A Band With Steve Albini"

Seeing as how our musical equipment had been gathering dust in the corner for the past few years, all it took was a sexy gal asking "Why don't you make music anymore?" for us to wipe away the cobwebs and power up the ol' portastudio once again.

Thankfully, it's no longer necessary to press up a bunch of CD's in order to foist new music upon the world. Rather than wait for Lady Gaga to burp up the next blockbuster single, we figured we'd save her the trouble.

And, as luck would have it, we landed the first exclusive interview with the artist behind "I Wanna Be In A Band With Steve Albini"! What luck!

FUDGEKNUCKLE: So, what led you to write a song called "I Wanna Be In A Band With Steve Albini?"

DARREN ROBBINS: It's funny how the ol' brain synapses work. Sometimes, I think my best ideas come when one of them fires off accidentally, setting the rest of me in motion and doing something that I wouldn't normally do in a million years. There I was on my front step enjoying a cigar and watching my dogs chase each other around the yard when I asked myself what it would take to start another band. Without hesitation, I replied, "Getting Steve Albini to play guitar", and then one of those thought bubbles appeared above my head showing Steve and I tooling around America in a Ford Econoline van like caped musical crusaders. We showed up at a club and played to 50 people. We turned up the amps like we were trying to drown out a Boeing 747 and the audience literally refused to leave until the last person's ears were sufficiently bleeding. Strangely, we sold 52 t-shirts, so either the guy at the door let two people in for free or a couple folks bought extra t-shirts, which is totally what I would do.

FUDGEKNUCKLE: Then what happened?

DARREN ROBBINS: We went on to make an album that sold horribly, which is nothing new for either of us. Thankfully, those who did buy it all went on to write glowing reviews on their blogs and those that didn't already have a blog started one for the sole purpose of praising the album. At some point, a few tweets regarding how bad-ass we were got re-tweeted and Dave Grohl ended up inviting us to open for his band. It was an opportunity for us to play for a whole new audience and have expensive stadium food thrown at us. The upside being that by employing a liberal seven-second rule, we ate for free the entire tour.

FUDGEKNUCKLE: Where were your dogs while all of this was happening?

DARREN ROBBINS: Amazingly, they were in the front yard the whole time. Usually, when I get lost in thought, they take it as an opportunity to fuck with me by either wandering into the backyard, or hiding just out of view. Ultimately, their laughter gives them away.

FUDGEKNUCKLE: So, why write a song about being in a band with Steve Albini?

DARREN ROBBINS: I figured maybe the world had enough boy/girl songs. I try not to litter the world any more than I possibly have to and figured there probably weren't nearly as many songs about forming a band with Steve Albini so I went with that.

FUDGEKNUCKLE: What if Steve Albini calls you next week and wants to form a band?

DARREN ROBBINS: If he's half as cool as I think he is, that will never happen.

Stream or download "I Wanna Be In A Band With Steve Albini" HERE.

Letterman/CBS Post Entire Foo Fighters Concert

It's one thing for a TV show to post clips of their musical guests' on-air performances online after the fact, but the fine folks at Late Show With David Letterman/CBS went one better by posting an entire 70-minute concert by the Foo Fighters.

In this day and age of autotune and lip-synch pop stars, I gotta say that it is so refreshing to see a band just tear it up without any digital augmentation.

Dunno how long CBS intends to keep this up, so check it out sooner rather than later.

The obvious nod to the Fab Four, who changed the world on that very stage some 40+ years ago, was also a nice touch!

Lastly, if you haven't grabbed a copy of the Foos' new platter, do yourself a favor and do so. You can thank us later. :)

WTF?! Of The Week: Iggy Pop On American Idol

I don't know which was harder to fathom, a 9.0 earthquake followed by a deadly tsunami or hearing that Iggy Pop appeared on American Idol this week. Either way, this reporter is finding it harder and harder to believe what he sees being broadcast on ye olde boob tube these days.

For starters, the whole idea behind American Idol is to pluck virtual unknowns from the furthest reaches of America and give them a chance to showcase their talent in front of a national audience and potentially gain fame and fortune in the process.

That's why the appearance of Iggy Pop was so mind-boggling. I mean, let's face it, if Iggy Pop were a total nobody, he wouldn't make it past the first round auditions. Still, there he was strutting his stuff sans shirt, hitting maybe one out of every three notes the song required and showing the kids how it's done.

While I consider AI to be responsible for the continued self-destruction of the music industry, the idea that the contestants could somehow learn something about showmanship from Iggy was absurd. Make up your mind, AI, do you want the kids to sing or roll around in shards of broken glass?

Do you want future artists to take the time to learn their craft, or pursue a career of endless annihilation for which one could potentially be awarded entry into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame for surviving.

Don't get me wrong, I adore Iggy. He's proof positive that you don't have to sing on key to eek out a 40-year music career just as long as one of your songs eventually lands in a Carnival Cruise Lines commercial.

As for Iggy's performance "shocking" middle America, that's just a bunch of hype. Middle America has watched Jerry Springer and Maury Povich on a daily basis for the last 20 years. A 63-year-old prancing around without a shirt doesn't even register a blip on their redneck radar. Maybe if Iggy had corn-holed a crippled kid (to quote a line from the flick "Cedar Rapids"), they might have chuckled a little bit, but don't think for a second that Iggy's appearance was anything but some producer's lame idea to garner ratings from a demographic that wouldn't normally go anywhere near an American Idol broadcast.

My only question is why on earth did Iggy Pop think it would be a good idea to go on AI and perform a song that came out in 1986? Are copies of the song now flying off of iTunes' cyber-shelves? Will kids suddenly wake up from their Beiber fever and begin begging their parents for copies of "Blah Blah Blah" on vinyl?

Hell, Iggy may as well have done a fucking Diane Warren song. I mean, he goes on AI and does a song that was foisted upon him by A&M Records, who were scared that his new album didn't have a hit. In my wildest dreams circa 1986, I could not have imagined a sadder sight than that of Iggy trotting out that shit-heap of schlock as some shining example of punk rock. Hell, I'd have rather seen him do "Lust For Life", as played out as that tune is these days.

If the producers of AI really wanna introduce kids to punk rock showmanship, they need to call these guys:

Pop Quiz Alert: Test Your Chicago Rock IQ

A cool rock trivia test I figured I'd pass on to you fine folks. Click on the picture above or HERE to be taken to the web page where the test is hosted.

Then feel free to report your scores on the Superior St. Facebook page, if you DARE! Superior St., of course, is the premier rehearsal facility in Chicago and the quiz sponsor. Show them some love if at all possible.

New Foo Fighters CD Rocks Out With Its Cock Out!!

BUY IT NOW!

There's just something inherently cool about a guy who can stand in his own garage and talk about how bad-ass his band's new album is while behind him sits a pink bicycle with training wheels.

The bicycle, of course, belongs to his daughter and the garage is where he and the Foo Fighters set about recording their brand-new album, Wasting Light with legendary producer Butch Vig (Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins, etc.).

It is that low-budget DIY aesthetic that drives this new album, proving that while Foo Fighters may very well be entering their third decade, the venerable rock act has not lost a step in keeping up with their contemporaries.

Anyone expecting more laid-back Tom Petty-esque tunes like "Wheels" will be greatly disappointed. Truth be told, Wasting Light is not the creation of a band resting on their laurels, but, rather, one that seems to have a lot to prove.

Album opener "Bridge Burning" comes charging out of the gate like a stallion, intent on throwing one hook after the other at the wall to see what sticks.

"Rope" continues the distortion-filled melodic onslaught in fine fashion. If there is a any justice in this world, this tune is one that will be blasting out of radio all summer long. That is, if anyone still listens to the radio.

Oh, that all mid-tempo ballads should have the rock-solid clackers of a tune like "Dear Rosemary", which marries the band's love for 70's soft rock guilty pleasures to a massive Foo-style modern rock hook.


"White Limo" out-riffs just about any current metal band short of Motorhead. This, of course, is partially due to the fact that Motorhead's Lemmy guests on the track. Can you imagine living next door to a garage where such musical demons are being exorcized, all the while driving down the property values?

"Arlandria" builds from a lone guitar and vocal to a soaring, wistful chorus seemingly still pining for someone for whom everything is never enough.

One of the album's finest moments comes in the form of "These Days"; a song that shows the Foos perfectly capable of adding new colors to their musical palette and breaking some exiting new ground in the process. While we are not privy to liner notes, we are unsure if it is Grohl who sings the opening verse. If it is him, we award the man 50 bonus points for a decidedly heartfelt and soulful performance that soon leads into one of his trademark primal scream choruses. Vig's tasteful production on this track makes it easily one of the most unique tracks the Foos have ever cut.

"Back And Forth" is what we call a "summer car jam radio song"; a fist-pumping ear worm rocker that recalls "Dream Police"-era Cheap Trick, so good it can make a fifteen year-old kid long for the good old days of '79.

"A Matter Of Time" is more of the same crunchy, chugging guitars - albeit a tad more introspective on this go 'round.

Look up "deep cut" in the dictionary and it will play you "Miss The Misery"; a tune that is the musical equivalent of a utility infielder. They might not hit many homers, but they add a little more backbone to an album full of heavy hitters.

"I Should Have Known" is an atmospheric tour de force that sees Grohl unite on record with Nirvana band mate Krist Novaselic, who adds bass and accordion on the track.

Album ending "Walk" starts out with a chiming guitar lick swiped from, of all songs, Tal Bachman's "She's So High". The difference, of course, is that if Bachman wrote tunes like this, he'd be more than the answer to a trivia question.

Add it all up and what you have is the most mature, cohesive, and consistent album of the Foo Fighters' career...the best part is that it's just in time for summer, providing the soundtrack for what will most certainly be the good new days.

Street Date: April 12, 2011

The Kills Return With "Blood Pressures"!

BUY IT NOW!

After the critical and commercial success that was 2008's Midnight Boom, the transatlantic duo known as The Kills suddenly found that there were a whole lot more eyes and ears eager to feast upon their next sonic platter. That's probably why an album that was started in 2009 took another two years to finish.

Still, having spent the weekend with this record, we at Fudgeknuckle HQ can say with total conviction that The Kills' new rekkid, Blood Pressures, is the best album of 2011.

Thankfully, the duo of Alison Mosshart and James Hince have finally outgrown the lazy comparisons to the White Stripes and created an album that stands on its own like a rising, dark grey monolith of cool.

That's right, we said "monolith of cool".

What makes this record so brilliant isn't that it barges out of your speakers demanding to be heard despite having nothing to say, but that it says what it says with nary a thought as to whether anyone is listening at all. It is that whole "comfortable in their own skin" quality that makes them so irresistible, like the kid in class with the mismatched shoes that no one makes fun of because there's still something kick-ass about the way they eschew convention at every turn and exist in their own little world, which, of course, is getting bigger all the time as more folks clamor to be a part of it.

"Future Starts Slow" begins with a tom-tom pulsating like a beating human heart as guitars swell around it, creating the pedestal upon which Mosshart and Hince's voices can slither to and fro. The song effortlessly ebbs and flows, playing hard-to-get just long enough to nail you with the chorus yet again.


"Satellite" scrapes, grinds and crunches to a start like a '57 Chevy that has been sitting in some dark garage for ages. You turn the key, hear the sound of harsh metal-on-metal, and almost give up on the thing before it comes to life on its own and takes you for a helluva ride. Of course, you have your eyes closed the whole time as your ears take in the sonic data and your mind fills in the blanks.

One only hopes David Lynch can create a movie worthy of such a song as "The Heart Is A Beating Drum", with it's staccato stabs and smoky lounge vocals c/o Mosshart, who has never sounded better, or more seductive.

What can one say about "Nail In My Coffin" that one listen to this song wouldn't say a million times better? For starters, Mosshart sings her ass off, begging the question...why do we waste our time worshiping the Gagas, Britneys and Aguileras of this world when Mosshart outshines them in her sleep? Granted, those gals exist on a whole different plane, adored by millions, their every move followed by gaggles of paparazzi, but can we still not ask why as we scratch our heads in dumbfounded wonder? Meanwhile, the Kills play to 1,200 at the local Metro, or Troubadour, or whatever mid-size club will have them.

Now, just before you get the idea that this is the Alison Mosshart show, along comes James Hince to slyly slay you with the Lennon-esque "Wild Charms". We thought about saying "Nilsson-esque", but didn't want the comparison to fall on deaf ears. Seriously, name three Nilsson tunes. Those of you who can, we award you ten Fudgeknuckle bonus points. The rest of you, you have your homework for the day.

"DNA" makes us not miss Siouxsie Sioux so much, with Mosshart's commanding vocals that seem to thrive on darkness. D'oh, more homework for those of you wondering who the hell we're talking about.

"Baby Says" is our personal favorite, taking the same ingredients from which most of the other tracks on the album are constructed and putting them in an order that strikes total gold. Vibrato-drenched guitars and metronomic drums crash beautifully into Mosshart and Hince's hypnotic vocal hook then, like a kiss in the dark, it's gone.

"The Last Goodbye"...wow. Anyone who thinks Mosshart's vocal prowess is reliant upon an indie-rock wall of guitars and drums need only press "play" on this stunner that sees her sing circles around all contemporaries against a lush, yet minimal arrangement of piano and strings.

"Damned If She Do" is a bit of a misstep, not quite rising to the heights of the rest of the album, but still a nice little cut that has a certain charm. When I was a kid, they used to put 45 rpm records on the back of cereal boxes. We kids would cut them out and play them on our turntables. This sounds like the kind of song that, in a perfect world, would've been on the back of a box of Boo Berries or Count Chocula.

"You Don't Own The Road" sees Mosshart and Hince sticking close to home, creating the sort of bare bones rocker for which they're already known. Give the people what they want.

"Pots And Pans" closes out the album with a laid-back campfire rave-up that'll leave your clothes smelling of smoke and you'll find yourself taking a whiff now and then just to remind yourself of the good time that was had by all, the refrain of "These are the days that we'll never forget" still echoing in your head.

Perfect Gift For The Drunk Who Has Everything

When we saw this, naturally, we thought of you. :)

Our pals at Gama-Go have unveiled a simply hilarious set of shot glasses. Seriously, can you imagine the look on your buddy's face the next time the two of you decide to throw back a few and he notices that your glass is bigger than his? Maybe he won't even notice, which would be funny, too.

It'd definitely be worth the $12 price tag, if you ask us!

CHECK IT OUT

Charlie Sheen ROCKS Chicago!

Mere hours after he was practically chased out of Detroit Rock City, Charlie Sheen showed up in Chicago ready to hit the stage as if the previous night had never happened. Gotta love being so high on your own fumes that you can't see the wrecked fuselage still in flames from the previous night.

Anyhoo, Sheen and his crew showed up at the esteemed Chicago Theater and came at the less-than-capacity crowd with an entirely new approach. Instead of the previous night's opening acts, video shows, and whatnot, tonight was essentially a Sheen-version of "Inside The Actor's Studio" hosted by Sheen's highest ranking "yes man" and Live Nation tour producer Joey Scoleri.

Despite some slow moments, by essentially not bombing, Sheen received a standing ovation from a city that is starved for #winners. Chicago is home to the Cubbies, after all, who dropped two out of three to the worst team in baseball, the Pittsburgh Pirates, this weekend.

As we perused the numerous reviews of the show this morning, we saw that most hailed the Chicago gig as a massive victory. It certainly says something about the human condition that, when compared to an embarrassing train wreck, a mediocre performance suddenly takes on this air of greatness. So much so that one website has gone so far as to say that "Charlie Sheen KILLS in Chicago!"

Come on guys, the closest Charlie Sheen has come to killing was when he allegedly threatened the mother of his children with a knife on Christmas Day in an Aspen hotel room.

Or went bananas on a prostitute in a New York hotel room.

What Charlie Sheen has proven to anyone who can bear to see the cold, ugly truth of humanity is that we humans are a forgiving bunch as long as you're #winning. Just ask Michael Vick, whose past was all but ignored as he was hailed as a God in Philadelphia for simply throwing a football.

The more delusional you are, it seems, the more humanity will worship your every utterance. One look at Sheen's Twitter page will confirm this to the 3,427,387th degree. That number, of course, is how many sheep currently follow Sheen on Twitter. Do you think any of them wish to be reminded that they're following the utterances of an alleged wife-beater and admitted drug abuser? Maybe some do. Now those are are the humans to most be proud of, right there.

Thank you, Charlie Sheen, for shining a light upon the dark underbelly of humanity and allowing otherwise unassuming Americans to bask in your greatness. Without your overwhelming omnipresence and complete lack of shame, we'd have no idea which of our closest acquaintances and co-workers to steer clear of from now on.

Open Letter To Those Who Bought Tickets To See Charlie Sheen

First there were the stories of drug abuse, debauchery and violence toward women. Naturally, this is just the sort of thing you find endearing so, when he began appearing on every TV show that would have him, giving one rapid-fire delusion-filled interview after another, you tuned in. Then he got a Twitter page and - BIG SURPRISE - you and everyone you know were soon following his every tweet.

Then came the Ustream broadcasts from Sheen's Korner, which, admittedly, sucked donkey balls. Before you knew it, all the positive hype about America's favorite drug-addled sitcom star had withered like an un-watered plant. Rather than disappeared into the night, ashamed, Sheen rocketed right back with the announcement that he was taking his show...you know, the one that sucked...on the road. Needles to say, you scrambled to buy tickets before they sold out.

Then you bragged about it on your Facebook page, reveling in your coolness, just like you did when you bought Conan O'Brien tickets.

Finally, after weeks of anticipation and debating which Tapout t-shirt you would wear to the hipster event of the century, the big day finally arrives.

You pick up your lady from work (hey, one of you has to have a job), demolish the boneless chicken wings she brought for you (one of the perks of having a girlfriend who works at Hooters), and weave your 1999 Honda Civic with the purple neon underbody kit and glow-in-the-dark license plate frame through downtown traffic.

Once at the show, you and your lady grab your seats and wait to be entertained.

The opening comedian, whose name you didn't catch, sucked donkey balls. You said so yourself as the first boos started to emanate from the crowd.

When Charlie hits the stage, though, the entire place erupts in reflexive adulation. You turn to your girl and smile knowingly. Are you the coolest boyfriend in the world, or what?

But then it becomes painfully clear that Charlie Sheen has no game. The dude came to Detroit, of all places, with nothing but a funny hat and a smug sense of self-importance. The booing gets louder and the first groups of disgruntled people start to head for the exits.

At this point, you can barely hear what Sheen is saying over the booing. You turn to your lady, who has that universal expression on her face that all women wear when they want you to get them the fuck out of somewhere. The last time you saw it was on your three-month anniversary when the two of you checked into one of those hotels with the heart-shaped beds. You know, the sort of place that charges by the hour. Things were going just fine until you realized that there was a gigantic wet spot in the middle of the bed.

Barely dressed, you and your lady storm to the front desk and asked for your money back. When you told the guy at the front desk that there was a creamy wet spot right in the fucking middle of your bed, it caught you a little off-guard when he just stared at you and said...

"WHAT DID YOU EXPECT?"

The way he said it, though, is what really set you on your heels. It was as if he actually wanted an answer.

"Gimme the manager, I want my money back," you replied.

Turns out he was the manager, which probably explained the dead eyes and the "so what if you kill me" attitude, and that this was the sort of establishment that didn't give a flying fuck about the customer being right. Refund declined.

"Okay, gimme another room then," you plead. The manager shakes his head and anger wells up in your throat and you contemplate reaching for this guy's throat. It is at that point that you see the large guy standing behind him with the t-shirt that says "The Enforcer" on the front.

Gulp.

You're fucked and, at that moment, you are faced with the decision of going back to the room and sleeping next to some stranger's wet spot, or leaving. You turn to your lady, who, in turn, gives you your very first taste of "the look".

What were expecting, though? You went to a hotel that charges by the hour. Not the classiest place to go, in hindsight, was it? For the same money, you could have gone to Motel 6 where you and your lady would be watching post-coital ESPN right now, but nooooooooo.

With the room now thick with the smell of Charlie Sheen's flop sweat, you grab your lady's hand and get up to leave. On your way out, you stop by the box office and demand your money back. This time, the manager is a mild-looking guy whose college degree, at that particular moment, is no longer worth the paper it was printed on as one disappointed ticket buyer after another tears him a new one.

You finally reach the front of the line, but, before you can even get the first words out of your mouth, the manager with the shell-shocked look in his eyes asks you for your ticket stub. You scramble to find the right pocket and hand him two stubs. He hits a few keys on a nearby computer, the cash drawer opens, and a few moments later you, your lady, and your cash are once again navigating downtown traffic.

Instead of giving people their money back, the manager of the venue should have done the exact same thing that the guy with the dead eyes at the fleabag hotel asked you last weekend: "What did you expect?"

I mean, only an idiot buys a ticket to a show sight-unseen, right? Luckily, you're not alone. Thousands of people all across this great country of ours opened up their wallets without even stopping for a second to wonder what the hell Sheen was gonna actually do up there on that stage that would be any different than the sucking he'd been doing for free on the internet.

If I were the manager of the next venue on Charlie Sheen "Violent Torpedo Of Turds" tour, I'd make sure every door leading into the venue had a sign on it that reads "NO REFUNDS" and a sign on every door leading out of the venue that says...

"WHAT DID YOU EXPECT?"

Dave Grohl and Courtney Love Join New Fleetwood Mac Line-up, Will Re-record "Rumours"!

In the wake of the sudden departures of Lyndsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks, who both left late last year to pursue solo careers, Fleetwood Mac's remaining members Mick Fleetwood and John McVie went on an extensive search for their replacements. Exhaustive auditions saw a number of notable rock icons vying for a spot in the band.

Then, last week, all activity came to a halt. Mere days ago, a cryptic tweet on Mick Fleetwood's Twitter page hinted at the future, saying, "Two stars have been plucked from the sky and the Mac is officially back! Stay tuned!"

And today, the band has announced the addition of new members Dave Grohl and Courtney Love. "We are genuinely excited by the opportunity to work with two stellar talents and look forward to getting into the recording studio as soon as possible to begin work on our song-by-song re-recording of our classic album, Rumours," says founding member Mick Fleetwood. "Truth be told, while Rumours was a great commercial success, John and I felt that the inclusion of Buckingham and Nicks on those sessions really held the album back from its fullest potential. Now, with Dave and Courtney on-board, we can finally give our fans the album they deserve."

Dave Grohl, who is also in the process of legally changing his name to Dave Growl, spoke highly of this new chapter in his career. "From the moment I first hit the stage as a young musician, I dreamed of one day playing in a band like Fleetwood Mac. My time in bands like Nirvana and the Foo Fighters was nothing more than me passing the time until such an opportunity presented itself."

Courtney Love seems equally thrilled about her new musical role, saying "Teh mooney iz rilly goof and I cna't see Bean ennyway sooo herE I em."

Amen to that!