Bird Songs, Rustling Trees, Bent in a Kiln-Like Wind, Over 90 Degrees

Last week came word that the Supreme Court, again, severely limited the right of Americans to hold Wall Street accountable for anything. And while we can bemoan the fact the George Bush's Supreme Court may do horrendous things to a woman's right to choose eventually, we'd be parsing a subject which affects, what, a couple of hundred citizens a year? Don't get me wrong, I'm firmly in the choice camp on this one. But, after all, isn't this just the kind of smokescreen the Boardroom Fat Cats want us all distracted by while they continue to gobble up even the sparest of change falling through the holes in the pockets of your well-worn dungarees? Not that you could afford new ones, even if you prioritized them above 99¢ cheeseburgers, petrol for your Pacer, or Da Capo best-ofs.

And so then, isn't what this was really all about anyway? Stacking the court with pro-biz whores like Roberts and Alito means you can expect more Ledbetter v. Goodyear decisions in the future, though nobody will be marching on Washington over it. While the rest of you may split hairs over when life begins, I'll be over here in the corner pointing out exactly when it ends: the moment you get chewed up into the gears of the Capitalist machinery and become known as "consumer", "employee", and both.

In the meantime, I'll take umbrage in Trent Reznor's latest work and RTX's new "Western Xterminator". (Damn you Believer Mag for cursing my mind to pour over the Catholic allegories in the Nine Inch Nails catalog!) So what if the hessians want to bicker about what constitutes "true metal"? Herrema's got me headbangin' like she's conjuring Maiden or Triumph and what does it matter whether she's bringing it from the indie hinterlands or from on top of a Columbia Records-financed monitor at Castle Donington? Can't we all agree that in music, as in art, the end justifies the means? (Even if the equation rarely holds true elsewhere. See: aforementioned business discussion.)

So it's currently and quite nearly impossible to escape All Jack, All the Time while Mr. White does his "Icky Thump" stump. But I'd like to go on record as stating, though I've got nothing against the piano, I'm glad Jack's got his axe back. Now, if you don't mind, I'll take a pass and let others conjure comparisons to Zeppelin-esque past triumphs such as "De Stijl" and "Elephant".

And if we're going to be splitting hairs, then, why not argue all day long about something like "Ride the Lightning" v. "Master"? Either way, there's no sense to it, since you'll both be right and, besides, the point is moot what with cost of memory so low these days.