Pagan: 1987-2005

I lost my cat, Pagan, last night. She was nineteen, all of 5 lbs, and was a beautiful, midnight black Burmese.

She had been having bowel problems, on top of the ailments and sufferings elderly cats endure: arthritis, fading vision, bouts of confusion. Two days ago, she began to howl, pacing the house endlessly, unable to rest. The vets said any surgical procedures would be cruel at this stage, and only offered euthanasia. Pagan would not be made to endure anything more. She didn't deserve it.

She died in my arms last night at 2:30 a.m at the Emergency Animal Clinic. She's gone, my beautiful girl is gone.

For nearly twenty years, she's been by my side. My constant companion. My longest friend.

I love you, girl. Rest now, my love.

The Lost Art Of OuchieMyFootSu

Anger gone. Went to karate. Hit things. Feel better.

Feeling like a staggering alcoholic, I loaded up on wine at the LCBO in case they go on strike today or tomorrow. (For the record: I like the LCBO the way it is. I don't want alcohol in my variety store. More comics,maybe, but not the hooch.) Saw a busker playing Rammstein on an acoustic guitar. I gave him two dollars for his daring. "Danke schein," he smiled.

Done Freepers column. Now my three readers will have something to line their budgie cages with come Saturday. Also got a commission from Knights Of The Dinner Table for another piece, so that's good. Heard my friend James Bow has sold his fantasy novel, which is spectacular news, even if I hate him for his good fortune. My other pal, David Southwell, also has a book coming out. And here it is. Southwell, of course, is a prime fucker who thinks he can take me in a fight, drinks like a fish, and has uncountable bastard children down the coast of California. Beach blondes find him irresistable. A mystery.

Read the latest Hellboy last night, called The Island. Good, creepy fun, even if I had no idea what's going on. I've been staring at the last two issues of The New Avengers in my Pile of Guilt for the last week, and really should read them. I think my life will be far more fulfilled by doing so.

Oh--Cher has destroyed her foot courtesy of last night's karate class. Looks like soft tissue damage of some description, which means she can barely walk. Furious cannot begin to describe her state of mind. Her legs are brown and purple with bruises from sparring. She looks like some sort of battle hardened Amazon. I remember when I met her: she was barely 120 lbs and dressed like an Amish punk rocker. Now she's 140, all muscle, and has martial arts trophies littering the house. She wins them, then casually tosses them aside.

I think she would make a good pirate.

Money Wins!

So, according to last night's city council vote, it's still okay for to use dangerous pesticides on your lawn. City council will encourage you not to, the way a brothel owner will tell you it's kind of dangerous to try to have sex with six whores on a burning trampoline. ("I mean, you can do it, and I still get paid regardless, but you really shouldn't.")

Nothing surprises me in this town. In this little fucked up insular little burg of London, Ontario, having a perfect, golf course lawn takes precedent over anything as fucking hippie trippy as 'the environment'. Not that the environmentalists here help themselves: instead of presenting themselves in the armour of the Enemy (suits, well spoken, eliminating any of the whackjob elements the media love to snatch onto and use to distort the message), we have people talking about feeling the 'life force of trees'. We lose immediately that way.

London dances to the business tune: if a man in a $2,000 suit and Oxford modulated tones told them they had to sell their children, they would line up, babies in hand. 'It's good for business' is what most of this city needs to hear to justify any obscenity. Or any perfect lawn.

Sometimes, I hate this fucking close minded little shithole of a town. I really do.

Yes, I'm angry. I'm angry because I wasn't surprised. I expected this rather corruptible result, and it arrived.

Deadwood

Okay, so I'm addicted after one episode of Deadwood. My friend Grad Student Barb recommended it to me, so I hied meself up to Rogers and found the first two episodes.

I love Westerns when they're done right--which for me means tons of swearing, an honest look at the depredations of the age, and bad teeth. You can take things like Young Guns and Silverado and bury them in the three dollar DVD basket where the bastards belong.

What I really liked about this--aside from my qualifications for a good Western being met--was the use of historical characters like Calamity Jane and Wild Bill Hickok. Imagine my surprise when I learned that Hickok and Jane did go to Deadwood, which may not have been in Hickok's best interests.

Yes, I'm in love with this show. Rogers Video will now make even more money off me.

It's Not Like The Books

So Constantine didn't suck. Okay, so I really enjoyed it. Sure, it really had nothing at all to do with the Hellblazer comic I've been reading since the sixteenth century or whenever it came out ( I believe Guttenberg actually ran the first issue on his printing press), but it still works. Toss in a whack of Catholicism, mix liberally with voodoo, sprinkle with alternate planes, and put Keanu in a two hundred dollar crisp white shirt, and I'm happy.

Again, I have the Bleaughs. I think if I just sit here I'll convert to primordial ooze. Have no energy. No ambition. I can spend three generations of lifetimes on the work I have to do, and I'm just sitting here. I blew off karate class last night, which is part of the problem. Instead, I drove around and did errands while Cher took class. Wondered why the LCBOs in the east part of the city always look so grungy, and why men think tank tops are a valid fashion choice. Last night it was if everyone was spoiling for a domestic fight. The heat is taking its toll on London.

Sat in the parking lot outside the dojo and just watched life stumble around me. Outside the gaming store I thought there was going to be fight, but it was just one overweight man getting het up about whatever it is gaming store people get het up about. Watched the Korean owner of the variety store come out, fire up a cigarette and hock a lugie into the parking lot. A minivan of Muslim women arrived, walking silently into a fabric store while their young daughters giggled and ran around.

I was amazed when over half an hour had passed, me just sipping a volcanically hot tea, bearing silent witness to a forgotten parking lot in North America.The other karate students came out, fired up with post combat energy, stealing each other's Kali sticks and giving pursuit. No one noticed me, so I wondered if the tea had a magical invisiblility potion mixed in with the teabag. Cher came out, and we drove home. Th e sensei asked where I was--and for the life of me I don't know why I didn't go.

I think sometimes our subconscious just wants us to shut down so it can work. I haven't just sat and watched the world go by in years. Too busy doing things that don't matter. Just like everyone else.

Shadow Temple Blues

I'm nearly forty. I'm on vacation. I should be out somewhere with friends, sitting in a cottage, talking about RRSPs or what I plan to do when I retire. But no--I'm at home, trying to finish The Legend of Zelda: The Ocarina of Time.

The Shadow Temple is a pain in the ass. I'm at the platform jumping stage, which I like to call the I Hate Myself I Must Do If I Keep Playing This stage. For those who don't know, here you have to navigate Link across several platforms. Which would be easy, if there weren't guillotines dropping down on three of them, some of them are invisible, and when you land on one particular platform, you have to fight this malicious skeleton--who despite having his ass handed to him each and every time, manages to reform and fight you again on your return journey. What is the intelligence of such a creature? Doesn't he know I'm fucking Link?

My heart containers keep getting hammered, courtesy of Beamos and Skaltos and guillotines. I tell myself that a real gamer would get past all of this easily. I must be a fake gamer. I have no gamer cred. I will go back to playing checkers, and maybe find the peace I so vainly seek.

Bleaugh

Funny. You look forward to vacations all year, but then two days in, you have no idea what to do with yourself.

Went down to Neo Tokyo yesterday (London's only anime/manga/cool stuff store) and rented Perfect Blue. I have a natural aversion to anything called a 'psychological thriller', since usually the psychology angle is hamfisted and often just wrong, and my definition of a 'thriller' varies widely from what I see on screen. But this one succeeded on both counts. Well, mostly.

Many of the Japanese films I've seen recently like to play with the blurring of reality and fantasy, so much so that I wonder if it's a Japanese obsession. Films like The Grudge and Ringu spring to mind. Blue also wanders the same territory, using the vehicle of the 'pop idol'.

Japanese pop idols have so far escaped my notice, as well of most of North America's. They appear to be cute young things who can sing and/or act. Cuteness remains the main ingredient, though. Noriko Sakai seems to be a good example of this. And she likes sunflowers!

Blue tells the story of Mima, an pop idol who leaves her band to branch out as an actress. As a singer, she was the epitome of cuteness and otherwordly perfection. As an actress, though, she quickly becomes prey to the more lavicious attitudes and demands of the Japanese media circus. In short order, she gets a job in a television series, and is asked to film a rape scene. She quietly does as she is asked, but the psychological damage is done. It continues as she poses nude for a men's magazine. While she is polite and apologetic to her handlers, photographers, and screenwriters, she leaves her rage and shame until it's triggered by other events--like the death of her pet fish.

Mima also finds a website, allegedly written by her--but isn't. Then people begin to die, and our heroine begins to hallucinate, seeing herself back in her virginal pop star persona. Is she killing the people who are exploiting her? Or is all of it just a fantasy?

The film looks at the obessiveness of pop culture fans, of how clinging people can be to their unattainable idols. They need them to be perfect, and out of reach. (Which is another odd bit about the film: after Mima performs, she does her own grocery shopping, passing people on the street who recognize her, to return to a cramped apartment. In Japan, you can be a celebrity, but also walk the street, apparently. And not make any money being famous, either.) The first chance that the media gets, though, they thrust the idols through expected sexual exploitations: sex scenes to fulfill darker fantasies, as well as other forms of pornography. The consumption is then complete, and the allure of the idol is gone. The fantasy has consumed the reality of the person, leaving them damaged and empty.

This got me thinking of all the celebrities who have posed in Playboy as a last stop career salvage--and how it never works. Mimi Rogers, Charisma Carpenter, Chyna (is she a celebrity? She even went as far as to make a sex video). And now, they're C-list.

Anyway, don't hold me remembering Chyna's sex video because of Perfect Blue against it. It's a decent, thoughtful film, even if some of it is difficult to watch.

Healing Through Leather Attire

Heard from some other columnists, all busy picking up their teeth from yesterday's mugging. Hurt seems to the common feeling shared all round. Ah well. I can always get my old job back as a hired ninja. Some skills are always in demand.

Gave in to temptation today. Probably because of all the stress I've been under. So I headed to the seedy part of downtown, paid my money for an hour, and....played Guild Wars.

I've resisted getting involved with MMORPGS for two simple reasons:

1. My computer isn't capable of running them, and would probably just spit the game disc across the room before contracting a virus just to spite me.

2. I can't justify paying to upgrade my computer just to swing swords, let alone paying the World of Warcraft monthly fees, pint of blood, firstborn or whatever it is these games demand.

But I've been interested in Wars. The reviews have been kind, and I really liked the idea of not shelling out monthly fees. So I went downtown to Head 2 Head Games.

I signed up for an hour on their store account, quickly created a leather clad female ranger I dubbed Beppi Bebop--and instantly forgot about the real, stinky, humidity choked world outside. The gameplay--even without a manual--was fairly easy to figure out. The scenery was beautiful. I didn't manage to decipher how to speak to other players, but the there were a fair amount of them. Within an hour, I almost leveled up to Level 2--all by fighting giant worms and finding some brat's broken flute. The game just screamed 'Time Sink'--but in a good way.

So if I want to play Guild Wars, I guess my options are to buy the game and simply play down at Head 2 Head. Since my friend Carol runs the place, I guess I could justify it as a social thing. Right? It's good to meet people, isn't it?

Sunday Bloody Sunday

Well, this was a nice way to start my vacation.

The Free Press has halved the contributions of many of their freelancers, myself included. So instead of being weekly, I am now only twice a month.

I'm a little unhappy at this, especially after seven years of writing a column, and of doing it weekly for the last four years or so. I think after all that time, I warranted more than just a group email. I think we all did. But that's how things operate in today's newspaper world.

Then again, it's probably for the best. I've been wanting to focus more on other writing projects, since I never set out to be a newspaper columnist at all. The problem with a weekly column--at least with me, since I'm unsure how others see the process--is that it takes up a fair amount of headspace: trying to come up with something original each week, and if that's impossible, at least presenting the material in a way that's amusing. I've never found the process easy. It's always been a challenge each and every week--and when you're holding down a full time job on top of freelancing, some nights the energy really isn't there. But I've done it, and have only not submitted a column once , and that was because a good friend had died.

Sometimes, the column would be the only thing I would write all week. And that ain't gonna buy me any satisfaction, either creatively or financially. It's a hard road for a freelance columnist these days: you either parrot the political line of the paper you're working for, or you present some bullshit homily that everyone can agree on, or you don't get the gig. I've been fortunate in having editors who allow me to do what I want--especially with a very conservative, blue haired paper like the London Free Press. But it's time to move on.

Cutting the freelancers this way is the equivalent of a bar owner flicking the lights at three am. It's time for us to unplug our amps, and let the elevator music take over.

Vacation, All I Ever Wanted

It's vacation time. I intend to geek out to the fullest of my geek power capabilities.

First off: I intend to dust off the Nintendo 64 and finish--finally!--The Legend of Zelda: The Ocarina of Time. Oh, I'll do it. Toodle toodle on my ocarina will I go.

Second off: Clear the Pile of Guilt beside my reading chair a bit. I'm currently enthralled with Lois McMaster Bujold's The Curse of Chalion , and when I finish that, there is that little known book that came out today called Harry Potter something or other. (It was delivered this morning by a harried yet smiling Canada Post employee--Cheryl allowed me to open it, but then claimed it as her own.) I also many DC Comics to wade through. (Lately, I've been reading mostly manga, and it's been difficult to return to more toned down adventure stories where nothing ever changes. Which is why I'm elated to hear that the Jim Henson Company is using the manga format for the new Dark Crystal and Labryinth comics. Yay!)

Third off: House projects. Boring. Paint this. Repair that. Despair at the rest.

Fourth--and finally--off: Get back to the BREAKTHROUGH NOVEL! Oh, I'm sure Canadian publishers will be falling over themselves for this one. I think I'll do a signing tour in garden centres. I also have the STUNNING SHORT STORY to finish. Sadly, there is no POWERFUL POETRY on the production line. Though I do have hopes for my Young Man From Nantucket series. A niche market, to be sure.

More Good Ones

Just sitting here, trying to think of other authors who are rather decent human beings as well.
This list is composed of people I'm not friends with, but who I've had dealings with, or friends have had dealings with. A few of them are email buddies--and you can tell a lot about authors by their email. No, you can.

1. Terry Pratchett
Extremely approachable. Very friendly. The man could buy the Eastern Seaboard, and doesn't forget why that is. He did a very generous thing for a woman here in London, allowing her to make little Discworld dolls. This is her life: she doesn't have much money, and her focus in this world is making costumes and dolls. He only asked for money if she started making quite a lot of it. Other authors would have speed dialed their lawyers while reaching for the pepper spray.

2. Neil Gaiman
I met him briefly many years ago. At the time, my hands looked horrible due to some undoubtedly alien cultivated burst of dermatititis. (I've learned not to use rubber gloves when cleaning.) In short, my hands looked liked they belonged clutching a tomb lid.
When I met Neil, I--being the polite gentleman my masters beat me into becoming--offered my hand in greeting. Neil looked at my hand just as I remembered how Romero-liked they currently looked. I was embarassed, but before I could pull my claw back, Neil grabbed my hand and gave it a solid shake. He then sketched Dream across a book I had brought for him to sign, and then quickly forgot about me as he chatted up my wife, getting into a long discussion about the most commonly misspelled female names. It was 'Guinevere', he said.
As for chatting up my wife, most men do upon meeting her. I blame pheromones.

3. Elizabeth Moon
Replies quickly to emails, very friendly. Has the ability to make the fan feel he or she has made her day, and not the other way around.

4. George R.R. Martin
Very generous with praise, also quick on the email draw. A nice guy. Rare.

5. Gary Russell
Editor of Doctor Who Magazine a few years ago, now at Big Finish, writing both plays and novels. I met him in London, England, for three hours of soda and conversation, and he is that rare combination of established writer who still thinks, feels, and is as passionate as a fan.

That's all I can think of right now.

Here in London, Jason Dickson is okay, but just don't get him drunk.

The Danger

I think the greatest danger in being a writer is becoming an asshole.

I just finished browsing the livejournal of an author whose work I used to enjoy. The tone of her site left me shaking my head, realizing that yet another writer has fallen to the Ego Side.

I know a few well known authors and artists, and it's disquieting how many of them start to believe their own hype. One of the good guys out there is Tad Williams, who remains a decent, solid human being as well as being one of the most talented and imaginative people I know. Yet he's one of the rare ones. Others seem to see their fans as a pain in the ass, forgetting that the only reason they can now write full time are the poor slobs who march up to the counter and buy their books.
I've seen others just throw themselves into the persona of Tortured Artist, howling at the cosmos that they have to sit and work for eight or nine hours a day, and can't go out and write the definitive catalogue on Lapverian earwigs that they believe is their life's work.

I just don't get it. Which is why I'm never invited back to literary functions, it seems.

Well, I'm Sold.

I've always adored Power Girl, so I was buying the upcoming JSA Classified anyway--but this just sold it to me all the more. And remember: Copyright DC Comics.

Go Go Emergency!

Column is due, and I can't find the running time to the Go-Go's Vacation to save my life.

I rummaged through the car and managed to find my copy of Return To The Valley of The Go-Gos, but upon opening it, found the jewel case empty. I flipped through all the other CDs in the car , but twas not to be found. I suspect an interdimensional wormhole.

It's my mission in life to keep reminding Londoners of the glory that was the Fab Five. I even endured a few episodes of The Surreal Life only for Saint Jane.

But where is that damned disc? And just how long does the song run?

Neil Gaiman doesn't have these problems, I'm sure. Lucky bastard.

That Special Moment

So I left this world of pain and travail, and wandered into the comforting world of Italian plumbers and vacations gone wrong that is Super Mario Sunshine.

I was a little skeptical at the story premise of Mario as a pressganged janitor. (Not that I relate or anything.) The introduction of FLUDD--a sentient, giant water gun strapped to Mario's back that also doubles as an aqua jet pack--took some time to get used to. And I thought the inhabitants of Isla Delfino (the ill-fated hell island poor Mario thought he could actually relax on, the one shaped like a dolphin) looked a little...well...floopy.

But the gameplay was as fun and challenging as Mario 64, so twas happy, I twas. But I wasn't ecstatic. Until, of course, I entered the Lost Cave.

Suddenly, the game shifted into this weird dreamlike sequence that can only be achieved through peyote. Mario is suddenly forced to jump across a shifting Tetris like platform sequence, surrounded by stars, floating railroad tracks, and a choral version of the Mario theme that would not sound out of place on an elevator.

Pure brilliance. Pure mindfuckery. Pure joy.

But that was last night. This is Monday. Allegedly, I'm on vacation today. But I'm spending it meeting freelance deadlines and caring for an elderly cat. So, like Mario, not much fun.

But at least he's got a water gun.

The Emptiness is Gone

Stayed up waaaay too late last night, drinking Australian shiraz, reading the Eberron Campaign Handbook, and watching G4. Icons came on, and it was about my favourite game designer of all time: Mr. Shigeru Miyamoto.

It was a fairly good programme, although it moved far too quickly. I would have loved to have heard more about the creation of The Legend of Zelda, for instance. But then as I watched, a growing horror fell upon me.

I didn't currently own any Mario games.

I've played them all, of course, but over the years, I've donated them to my friend's public school, where he lets his students play them as a reward. But as I've learned more about Mr. Miyamoto, and become more aware of game design in general, I've regretted losing them. (But only briefly: the thought that less fortunate children are chilling with Mario and Bowser has a way of making my selfishness seem...well...selfish.)

So today I went out and bought Super Mario Sunshine. Tonight, I'll fire up the Gamecube, and disappear once again into the wonderful world Mr. Miyamoto made.

After this past week, I really need it.

Bastards

Is there anything more cowardly than a terrorist attack on innocents? What a way to make your statement: by slaughtering innocent people whose only crime was to go about their daily lives. So far, 37 lives came to an end today in London, courtesy of terrorist bombs. 37 people who got up this morning, perhaps thinking of just getting through Thursday, looking forward to the weekend, maybe meeting up with friends or lovers later. Sitting on the tube, glancing at a newspaper, listening to an iPod, reading a book, or simply staring off into space. Maybe looking out the top floor of the bus, seeing one of the greatest cities on Earth rise for yet another day.

Gone.

I despise how the media centres on numbers: the number dead, and then compares it the Madrid bombings, or other attacks. Why can't they stress to their viewers the one thing that seems to be forgotten in media coverage: that each one of those numbers represents an individual--with family, perhaps children, pets, and a desire to see tomorrow rise. What matters here is coping with the human loss, re-enforcing what that means, and not comparing numbers with other attacks, or debating the activity of terrorist cells.

Not today, anyway.

EZ Rock Can Blow Me

I spent the day working with a man who will listen only to EZ Rock. Nine hours of Elton John, Shania Twain, Hall and Oates, all bumpered with cheery bland upticking chit chat.

Of course, now I want to die.

I have come to the conclusion that people who like EZ Rock don't really like music. They don't buy albums, nor do they read about music. They just like to hum along to favourite ditties. The fact that they've heard the same song since 1983 doesn't matter. It's a nice song. None of this bang crash of rock and roll, none of that hip hop c-rap. Just nice music. La de la de la.

If Sarte had heard EZ Rock, or had to endure Elton John's I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues, he would have given up writing to make a thermonuclear bomb.

I Need An Intervention! Oh, And A Life!

Woke up this morning to see a high school friend not only made something of himself, but was the first doctor in history to save a girl who contracted rabies without a vaccination. Dr. Rodney Willoughby put the girl into a coma, and managed to save her life.

Umm....I leveled up in a video game last night. Does that compare?

Rod was a great guy back in The Day. We watched Fritz The Cat together. You just can't break bonds like that.

Overdosing on Star Wars fiction these days. I need an intervention. I picked up Last of The Jedi on Saturday, while still working my way through Jedi Healer. If there is a Jedi Toilet Cleaning Manual, I'd probably read that, too. Such is the way of the geek, I assume: I need a new drug now that the BBC has cancelled the paperback Doctor Who novels. It's not like I could actually read all those Neal Stephenson or Stephen Baxter novels I have clogging my shelves now, can I?

Read Catwoman #43 this morning. A decent read. Not stunning, but decent. I saw the numbers for it recently, and I'm not sure how much longer DC will continue to publish it. The creative team has done some very interesting things with the character that have fallen beneath the radar of most critics' notice (but not mine! ha ha!): the idea that Batman occasionally swings by for a little somethin' something when he feels the urge; that Selina Kyle has a thing for older men, and that she's the only hero outside of Green Arrow who says 'Jesus' when she's upset. Even though I hate animal cruelty stories, the last few issues dealt with dog fighting without sugar coating the ending: we know the dogs that are liberated from the pits will have to be euthanized. I don't turn to comics for real world comment, but I thought Catwoman succeeded admirably.

And if that isn't enough to get you reading, DC makes sure there at least two decent shots of Selina's ass per issue. They know their market.

Live 8

Fucking embarassing.

Is there no one in Canada who can host this other than Dan Akroyd and Tom Green? Is this the pinnacle of Canadian talent? Okay, sure, they're doing it for free--but even at that, they're overpaid. Could not Akroyd put a little effort into it? Like maybe talking with Green before they go on air, determine who will say what, instead of talking over one another? Was Erica Ehm not available? Surely she wouldn't mind being the spotlight for a day. At least she's easy on the eyes.

And Bryan Adams. His one fan is too busy cleaning his bedpan today to watch him. Nothing is sadder than a has been who still thinks he commands the loyalty of a nation. So telling when one of his guitarists had a feedback problem, and Adams turns to glare at him. What an asshole.

Yes, it's for a good cause, and I applaud everyone for working for free, even the asshats. But honestly. Everytime Canada takes the world stage, we just show the world what a bunch of yahoos we are.

Rivers Cuomo Owes Me 22 Bucks

I'm a relic. In this age of downloading music for free, or taking the honest route but only downloadng songs you like for your iPod, I still buy CDs. And for the most part, I get burned every time.

I picked up the new Weezer album, Make Believe, last weekend. I've loved Weezer ever since The Green Album, which I quietly thought was as near to pop perfection as I've ever heard. I was not as impressed with the following Maladroit, (losing Ric Ocasek as producer was a mistake: he brought a clean sound to the album, and without him, the music sounded rough and glaring) and was repelled by the complete lack of effort that is Make Believe. In fact, Make Believe This Is A Good Album should have been the full title.

The good points: Ric Rubin's production is cleaner than what we heard on Maladroit, so the album sounds much better. Beverly Hills, the first single and lead off track, is pure Weezer fun. But when we launch into the second track, it sounds just like Knock Down Drag Out War. The lyrics that follow seem to be an inside joke--as if River is somehow mocking emo. And the horror continues. I kept waiting for each song to remind me why I loved Weezer. But each track was just another blast of mediocrity: simple rhyme schemes coupled with overly long guitar solos that you could set your watch by. There's nothing new here, there's nothing that could lead you to believe The Green Album had anything to do with this band other than providing a source of cover material. By halfway through, I'd given up on Make Believe.

But I'm alone in this. The album is selling by the truckload, and critics are falling all over themselves in praising it. But if you like clever lyrics, power pop guitar work, and short, punchy songs, then you won't find it here. Weezer has settled into the bland middle ground that appeals to most music consumers--not too challenging, but still carrying the aura of being an alternative band so Wal-Mart customers can feel edgy when they buy it.

Rivers? You owe me $22. I need that to buy the White Stripes Get Behind Me Satan.