Death of the Parrotheads?

ENDANGERED SPECIES

When the Parrotheads lose their leader will a new hero appear or will it mark the end of an era in pop music?

On Christmas Day, flip-flop prophet Jimmy Buffett, Coppertoned hero to armchair beach-bums everywhere, will turn 61. And his disciples, those party-focused Parrotheads, will beer-crawl that much closer to extinction.

Now, now, party people, don’t get your feathers ruffled just yet. The singer of escapist mantra Margaritaville has announced no plans to retire. Not when he continues to have one of the highest-grossing concert tours in popular music. Not when Buffett-branded restaurant chains, clothes, blenders, drink mixes and then some ring up fortunes more. Not when he dumped Corona as a longtime sponsor — only to develop his own brew, Land Shark Lager.

But let’s be honest: 61 is still 61, no matter how much you surf. And when he stops, so will a long-standing concert tradition commenced with the Grateful Dead, carried on by jam-banders Phish, and mastered by Buffett: rock shows as all-encompassing fantasylands, rock shows as communal bacchanals that continue long after the lights go up and the mind-altering substances are stashed.

Parrotheads: It’s a way of life — and sooner rather than later, that life will come to an end.

When Buffett plays Ford Amphitheatre in Tampa this Thursday and Saturday, he will create a full-fledged utopia — an inherently singular experience that has taken on a life of its own.

I went through my requisite Buffett phase in college, and indeed, there's a tremendous lose-yourself joy at his shows — like Disney World with thongs. It's drunken, it's bawdy, it's skintastic. Down with the 9-to-5, up with the fins. I stopped going to his shows when the peaced-out buzz turned a little too frat-boy rowdy for my tastes. Nevertheless, there’s nothing like a Buffett gig. Everyone should try it once; just don’t wear nice shoes.

"Parrotheads have feared him retiring — or worse — for the last 10 years," says Susan Blankenship, 51-year-old commander of the Tampa Bay Parrot Heads in Paradise Club, which, at 1,000-plus members, is the largest of its kind in the world. "But whether he retires or not, that’s not going to affect the music we already have. I’m still going to have the albums I bought in 1972."

"We have no plans of stopping," says Rachel Keller, Blankenship’s daughter and the "chief officer of media" of the Tampa Bay club. "We like to say we’re not fans of Jimmy Buffett — we’re fans of the fans of Jimmy Buffett."

That's a nice thought and all. And sure, after Buffett retires, his fans may continue to gather at the neighborhood bar for a group singalong of Boat Drinks. But there’s no mistaking that the concerts are the thing. And when the house lights go up for good, the thing just won’t be the same.

Britney Presents...Cool Robot Noises!

Britney Spears, Blackout (Jive) GRADE: C-

Blackout, Britney Spears' notorious new album, reminds me of one of those posthumous Tupac Shakur discs, the ones somehow released umpteen years after the rapper's death. The sales "line" was that 'Pac was a prolific craftsman and had recorded hours of extra tracks. But ultimately, his afterlife recordings sounded more like the essence of Tupac, wisps of the man patched together by big money producers.

The "essence of Britney" might work as a perfume, but her album ultimately plays like a bumptious con game. Much like Tupac, she is but a ghost in the machine, as hot knob-twiddlers such as Pharrell and Danja show up to make some hits -- perhaps while Brit-Brit was off buying bad wigs or playing peek-a-boo with the paparazzi. The album often sounds like the sexiest game of Pong you could imagine.

I have no idea how involved Britney was with this project; we know she stayed still long enough to have her picture taken for the album cover and provide breathy spoken-word intros (that really sound like they were recorded over the phone). But the truth is, we have no idea how involved she was with ANY of her albums, right? When some of your "greatest" moments involved lip-syncing, all bets are off. With all apologies to Paris Hilton, Spears is the poster-child of our vapid celebrity-driven culture, a smoke-and-mirrors game in which fan manipulation isn't nearly as tricky as the stars think. But for all the bashing Britney et al. take, we still can't look away. So who's the bigger dopes?

It's no surprise that this is a party disc -- no one was expecting a Blood on the Tracks dissection of her lousy marriage to Kevin Federline or her suspect parenting skills that led to her kids being carted away. The album is empty of ideas but fat with big beats and swirling sound machines. Unlike the new album by Carrie Underwood, Brit's biggest rival for this week's No. 1 album spot, Blackout actually serves a funtion -- it's a loud, '80s-synthy, late-night dance disc. The best tracks include Heaven on Earth and Gimme More, pulsating songs that resonate below the belt.

On the polar sex party of Break the Ice, Britney announces, "It's been awhile. I really shouldn't have kept you waiting. But I'm here now." Well, that's debatable. But at least her hot producer friends showed up, and they show a lot more respect for us than she does.

The Potty Mouth Playlist

So I'm giving Kid Lulu a bath, once again putting off the horrors of hair-washing and instead playing with her Dora the Explorer cups. Oh, it's a real Norman Rockwell moment, innocence abloom. We're having a cup-filling race, and as I begin to pull ahead, my 3-year-old looks at my Dora cups and shakes her head.

"This is fresh water," she says, pointing to her cups. "And that," she says, pointing to my cups, "is bullsh-- water."

Whoa! I'm both shocked and impressed by her profane creativity. "What did you just say?!"

Her eyes get wide: "DON'T TELL MOM!"

Earlier in the week, Lu asked to borrow my iPod. I said I left it at work. "Oh, focker!" she replied heartily. Close, very close. I tried to chalk it up to her love of Ben Stiller movies. Still, after saying "focker," she immediately followed with "DON'T TELL MOM!"

Usually, I'd blame a parenting snafu like this on the Forever Fiancee. But alas, I'll have to pin this one on my dad. You see, I have a terrible tongue, a blue streak I learned from my father. So through sheer genetics, Kid Lulu has apparently obtained a vocabulary worthy of Red Foxx. I'm sure that goes over swell at her Christian school.

Anyway, in honor of the sheer genius of "bullsh-- water," here's today's Potty Mouth Playlist:

10.) Slip of the Lip -- Ratt
9.) Words -- Doves
8.) Bluer Than Blue -- Nanci Griffith
7.) Tongue -- Damien Rice
6.) No More Words -- Berlin
5.) The Girl Can't Help It -- Little Richard
4.) You Talk Too Much -- Run-DMC
3.) Heard 'Em Say -- Kanye West
2.) Shout It Out Loud -- KISS
1.) F--- Tha Police -- N.W.A.

The 2007 Halloween Playlist

Here's your Halloween shindig soundtrack, 30 songs to keep the horny neighbor in the cheap pirate get-up dancing and drinking at your house 'til all hours of the night.

This list has been carefully concocted to maximize thematic glee and sing-along fun.

We played this game last year, too, so I went back and added reader recommendations. Keep sending in your requests, and we'll bump the 2008 Halloween Playlist to 50 hits. 

1.) Bad Moon Rising -- John Fogerty
2.) Weird Science -- Oingo Boingo
3.) Somebody's Watching Me -- Rockwell
4.) Thriller -- Michael Jackson
5.) The Boogie Monster -- Gnarls Barkley
6.) I Put A Spell On You -- Screamin' Jay Hawkins
7.) Dead Man's Party -- Oingo Boingo
8.) House Of Fun -- Madness
9.) Shakin Shakin Shakes -- Los Lobos

10.) Bark At The Moon -- Ozzy Osbourne
11.) The Mask -- Dangerdoom
12.) The Headless Horseman -- Bing Crosby
13.) Moondance -- Van Morrison
14.) I Was A Teenage Werewolf -- The Cramps
15.) Monster Mash -- Bobby 'Boris' Pickett And The Crypt-Kickers
16.) The Blob -- The Five Blobs
17.) Candyman -- Christina Aguilera
18.) Masquerade -- Berlin
19.) Werewolves Of London -- Warren Zevon
20.) Torture -- The Jacksons
21.) Bela Lugosi's Dead -- Bauhaus
22.) Shout at the Devil -- Motley Crue

23.) The Devil's Been Busy -- Traveling Wilburys
24.) Scream -- Michael Jackson
25.) Running With the Devil -- Van Halen
26.) Superstition -- Stevie Wonder
27.) I Want Candy -- Bow Wow Wow
28.) Highway to Hell -- AC/DC
29.) Blue Moon -- the Marcels
30.) In The Midnight Hour -- Wilson Pickett

Heavy Metal Madness (with crayons)

Here's a rainy-day exercise courtesy of the new Heavy Metal Fun Time Activity Book. The puckish nod to both Crayola memories and head-banging debauchery is 48 pages of cheeky games, including "Color Metallica (1983)," "The Monsters of Rock Crossword" and "Color Metallica (1988)." 

My personal favorite is "How Many Words Can You Make Out of Yngwie Malmsteen?" (Hmm, "stingy," "misty"...)

Good times, good times.

It's the perfect stocking stuffer for your 37-year-old buddy who still has a velcro Ozzy wallet.

Enjoy!

REVIEW: Carrie Underwood's Bumpy "Ride"

Carrie Underwood, Carnival Ride (Arista) GRADE: D

She loves Jesus and Jack Daniel’s, the Rolling Stones and Rascal Flatts. She’s the farmgirl-next-door from the great state of Oklahoma; she’s the legs-aplenty champ from American Idol. She sings for the single city gals; she sympathizes with the dirt-road housefraus. She plays state fairs and stadiums, working multiculti crowds with a politician’s precision and a bombshell smile.

Country star Carrie Underwood is all things to all people, which is one heck of a trick for a 24-year-old. Seriously, Willie Mays didn’t cover the bases like Underwood does. As a result, the blond looker is the best-selling musician of the last two years, her 2005 debut, Some Hearts, having sold more than 6 million copies. Hit singles ranged from religious plea Jesus, Take the Wheel to besotted revenge fantasy Before He Cheats. Each song had just enough butter-knife edge to separate them from the rest of the pop-country dreck.

Not that content mattered that much. At a time when selling albums is a Herculean task, Underwood is a marketing marvel, a product of Simon Fuller, Clive Davis and the rest of the Idol starmaking machine. She was born on television, raised on radio and nurtured by a widespread country fan base that believes in brand loyalty. As to the real Carrie Underwood, who the heck knows? She might as well be a Disney princess — which is entirely the point.

With her new album, Carnival Ride, Underwood could wind up being the top seller of 2007, too. I wouldn’t be surprised if she moves more than a million copies this first week alone. Never mind that her second disc lacks the pop punch of the first album. Never mind that it's not very clever. Never mind that it’s actually pretty dull. Underwood keeps her nose clean, dates Dallas Cowboys quarterbacks and does whatever her handlers tell her to do. And for that reason alone, she’ll remain the pop star to beat.

Why Is My Job Awesome?

Because this was waiting for me on my desk this morning. Slash's entry into the literary world officially comes out Oct. 30. But I'm contemplating quitting my job today just so I can read it.

In related news, Slash is gonna be my high-concept Halloween costume. I have the hat, the hair, the smokes, the shades. I ordered the classic Guns N' Roses black "crucifix" tee from a cute punk girl at Hot Topic. Now I just need a nose ring, bracelets and any semblance of Slashian cool. I'll settle for the nose ring. 

Smothered, Covered, Chunked & Rocked

I love this story: On Sunday, Kid Rock, hero to suburban dirtballs everywhere, was arrested in a DeKalb, Ga., Waffle House -- at 5 a.m. no less -- after beating down some dude who bad-mouthed a woman in his entourage. Kid Rock spent 12 hours in jail.

In his smirky mug shot, Kid Rock looks like he's having the time of his life. And why not? That mad-grinning greaseball has created a foolproof, jailproof persona for himself. He's a Southern rocker-cum-Detroit rapper with a taste for strippers (Pamela Anderson included), booze, Waffle House and police reports.

The last time Kid Rock (aka Bob Ritchie) had an album out, he "got caught" on tape having sex side-by-side with the dude from Christian-rock band Creed. The dude from Creed was never heard from again; Kid Rock wound up on the cover of "Rolling Stone."

Kid Rock's new album Rock 'n' Roll Jesus was released last week. Some people shave their heads for publicity. Some people do the talk-show circuit. Kid Rock has his hash browns scattered, smothered, covered, chunked and diced -- then he beats the crap out of some brainiac sitting at the counter scarfing an omelette. The brainiac is never heard from again -- Kid Rock's album just went No. 1.

Kid Rock just might be the smartest man in America -- or at least the smartest man in a wifebeater.

Boo Berry's Time to Shine

Due to an explosion of excitement for Franken Berry on this very blog, we took that cereal hysteria to the pages of the St. Petersburg Times. In Saturday's paper, we'll honor Frank, Boo and Count Chocula, and even set them up with their very own playlist. Here's the story -- feel free to play along at home.

So I’m cruising through Target, racking up the inevitable $100 in things I don’t need, when I come face-to-face with three old friends, a trio of sugar-jacked gents from the disco '70s.

Franken Berry, Boo Berry and Count Chocula.

Yep, the boys are back.

Every Halloween, for a limited time only, General Mills releases these throwback cereals at throwback prices, about two bucks a box. You can still find the Count throughout the year, but around here, Frank and Boo usually only pop up during the witching season.

The kids could care less. But you should have seen the 30-somethings grabbing boxes, ecstatic at the cavity-making nostalgia of it all. I was right there with them. I remember the goofy commercials. I remember the toys at the bottom of the box. I remember the sugar rush. Heck, I'm hiding my home stash. My daughter’s palate isn’t sophisticated enough to appreciate the marshmallowy goodness.

Me? I'm a Franken Berry man myself. We're about the same age (Frank was born in 1971). We both have enormous misshapen heads. And we'd gladly terrorize a small Bavarian village just to slurp pink milk. Frank's cereal is so delicious, I don’t even care that it carves up the roof of my mouth.

In the Target checkout line, a woman in front of me looked in my cart and winked, "Where's Boo Berry?" Honestly, it was the sexiest thing anyone's ever said to me.

Franken Berry is a pop-culture icon. He’s been referenced in The Simpsons, in Chris Rock routines and in a great Al Franken bit from Saturday Night Live. Just the other night, Jon Stewart compared presidential hopeful Fred Thompson to Franken Berry. But despite his popularity, he’ll soon go back into hiding for another year. So buy a box or seven before it's too late. Cherish him while you can.

And while you're crunching and reminiscing — and maybe even watching Saturday morning 'toons — enjoy this playlist of songs inspired by our favorite cereal monsters:

The Frankenberry & Friends Mix
1. Breakfast in America, Supertramp
2. A Spoonful of Sugar, Julie Andrews
3. A Marshmallow World, Dean Martin
4. The Larger Bowl, Rush
5. Monster Mash, Bobby "Boris" Pickett and the Crypt-Kickers
6. My Boo, Usher & Alicia Keys
7. Yummy, Gwen Stefani
8. Hyperactive, Thomas Dolby
9. Toothache, the Charlatans UK
10. Forever Young, Bob Dylan

BUY THIS NOW: Ryan Shaw

What the world needs now is another Wilson "Wicked" Pickett, an R&B party star with a lot of soul and a touch of sinister. And wouldn’t you know it, Decatur, Ga., throwback Ryan Shaw has answered that call.

On his debut disc, the newish This Is Ryan Shaw, the 26-year-old lets his backbone slip, dip and do the Watusi, venturing into the Land of 1,000 dances and bringing back a blast. It doesn’t sound forced or phony — it just sounds great.

Shaw built his voice in a church choir, and there’s definitely a touch of the almighty in his rafter-reaching wail. But more than anything, Shaw, who prefers a tight, live band to glossy modern production, wants to get you out of the doldrums and onto the dance floor. In anticipation of his Saturday show in Tampa, head to iTunes and check out Do the 45 and I Do the Jerk. You won’t be sorry — but after all that dancing, you might be sore.

Ryan Shaw, with Bishop Wayne, performs 7 p.m. Friday, Oct. 26 at the Orpheum, Ybor City. $15. Benefits WMNF. (813) 248-9500.

REO Speedwagon: Iraq's Greatest Threat?

Whether you're breaking up or making up -- or stuffing your 11-year-old face with Funyuns 'cause girls call you Lumpy -- you can't go wrong with a little REO Speedwagon to help your heart along.

Purveyors of such gargantuan '80s weepers as Keep on Loving You and Take It on the Run, the Midwestern rockers had a way with the ballads -- and, as lead singer Kevin Cronin told me, a way with the groupies as well.

In an audio interview that you can access for FREE, Cronin -- who's bringing his band to Clearwater's Ruth Eckerd Hall Oct. 23 -- talked with us about wooing fans, trashing hotel rooms and how REO Speedwagon is influencing the war in Iraq.

Now if you'll please look to the right of this page, you'll see a link to the "Stuck in the '80s" podcasts. As you may or may not know, '80s is a show I co-host with jovial lothario Steve Spears. We've done a potload of them, and the latest is an interview with Cronin.

Listen while you work; just plug the headphones into your computer and let 'er rip. We're also available on iTunes, so you can download that sucker for free to your iPod. I also highly recommend our Brian Johnson interview (he bashes U2) and our salute to Strange Brew.

If you wanna get caught up with the in-jokes and intrigue, check out our 100th episode. That's where you can hear Huey Lewis chew my ass out.

MUST WATCH: "Walk Hard"

"Life made him tough. Love made him strong. Music made him hard." Here's the cheap-laffs trailer for the new Johnny Cash/Ray Charles biopic spoof "Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story." It stars the great John C. Reilly and was written and produced by "Knocked Up" and "Superbad" braintrust Judd Apatow. Very Spinal Tappian. Check it out.

Miley, Shooter, J.Lo & the Crue

A smattering of housekeeping matters...

The letters and vitriol are pouring in regarding my Sunday 1A story on the Hannah Montana ticket imbroglio, brouhaha, hot mess. You can read that ferocious bit of investigative journalism here. Make sure to read all the surly parents sounding off at story's end.

If you missed Sunday's epic LISTEN TO THIS in the Latitudes section of your trusty St. Pete Times, you can find that here. Reviews include Robert Plant & Alison Krauss, Shooter Jennings, Bob Dylan, Jennifer Lopez, the Pipettes and She Wants Revenge.

Bucketloads of new musical crap continue to pour in to Pop Life central. I'm trying to weed thru the lot, giving away what I don't need. But I have severe OCD, so right when I'm about to toss a reissue of Electric Light Orchestra's Balance of Power into the giveaway bin, I imagine a future interview with Jeff Lynne and pull back. I'm a sick, sick man. Anyway, here are today's new CDs...

Motley Crue -- Carnival of Sins Live (2CD)
Eric Clapton -- Complete Clapton (2CD)
Aretha Franklin -- Rare & Unreleased Recordings
Jimmy Eat World -- Chase This Light
Marc Cohn -- Join the Parade
Kenna -- Make Sure They See My Face
Chicago -- Best of Chicago: 40th Anniversary (2CD)
Darlene Love -- It's Christmas, Of Course
City Sleeps -- Not an Angel
Sick City -- Nightlife

Ready to Re-Buy "Houses of the Holy"?

On Nov. 13, for the first time ever, Led Zeppelin's catalog will be available for your iPod. Here's a press release from Rhino Records:

LED ZEPPELIN TO RELEASE DIGITAL CATALOG ON NOV. 13

"LOS ANGELES -- Led Zeppelin's catalog is among the most enduring bodies of musical composition to come out of the 20th century -- and now it's coming to the 21st. As one of digital music's final holdouts, the band's illustrious catalog is one of the most highly anticipated digital releases to date. Beginning November 13, the band's original albums will be available for full-album or a la carte download from all online music retailers.

The albums being made available include Led Zeppelin (1969), Led Zeppelin II (1969), Led Zeppelin III (1970), Untitled fourth album (1971), Houses Of The Holy (1973), Physical Graffiti (1975), Presence (1976), The Song Remains The Same (1976; recently remixed and remastered for reissue on November 20), In Through The Out Door (1979), Coda (1982), How The West Was Won (2003), and Mothership (available November 13). Featuring such indelible anthems as Communication Breakdown, Whole Lotta Love, Immigrant Song, Stairway To Heaven, D'Yer Mak'er, and Kashmir, these releases, together with various retrospective collections, have sold more than 300 million albums worldwide."

SO: WHAT DO YOU BUY FIRST?

Factory of Living Fear (Thanks, Estelle)

So I took the Forever Fiancee and Kid Lulu to Zoo Boo Saturday night. That's the Lowry Park Zoo's nighttime attempt to keep up with Busch Garden's Howl-O-Scream. Tampa flips for Halloween; it's a major deal around here. So the zoo spent serious money on this sucker.

The grounds are lit up with horror, loudspeakers crank creepy carnival music, there's a midway overrun by maniacal clowns -- and a dude in a Michael Myers mask cut in front of me in the beer line.

They also have five haunted houses, the most notorious of which is the Factory of Living Fear, "a tour of an abandoned mannequin factory." Now listen, I don't even like mannequins in JC Penney. But really now, how scary could a zoo haunted house be? I couldn't leave without trying it.

With the FF and Lu taking a break, I lined up by my lonesome. Just before the factory doors opened, a gaggle of older ladies joined me. One of them looked like Estelle Getty. We were ushered inside.

Boom! Strobe lights are popping, fog machines are cranking, children are sobbing -- and creepy mannequins, hundreds of creepy mannequins, are everywhere. But every now and then, it's not a creepy mannequin. It's some angry kid unleashing his Clearasil angst, lurching from the strobey shadows. Making matters worse, this is the LONGEST haunted house in history.

So I literally grabbed Estelle Getty and used her as a shield. Am I proud of this? No. Was it effective? Absolutely. At one point, a trembling Estelle tried to bolt through an early exit. I was having none of that: "Hey! No way! Get back here!"

I then pushed Estelle through another door. Immediately, she was attacked by mannequins: "HELLLP!" Thankfully, I was safe.

God bless, Estelle. She actually apologized once we got outside: "Sorry I tripped up a bit there."

So as a bit of thanks, I'd like to send out a bouquet of songs to my protector. Herewith, "The Estelle Getty Protected Me From Creepy Mannequins Mix":

1) Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me -- U2
2) All Right -- Christopher Cross
3) Shelter From the Storm -- Bob Dylan
4) I Need You -- America
5) Hold Me Now -- the Thompson Twins
6) Into the Night -- B.B. King
7) Safety Dance -- Men Without Hats
8) Run Like Hell -- Pink Floyd
9) Put Your Hands Where My Eyes Could See -- Busta Rhymes
10) You're the First, the Last, My Everything -- Barry White

He's Back!

Yet another reason why Halloween rocks: Frankenberry. Booberry. Count Chocula. The boys are back. $1.99 a box at Target. Limited time only. You can thank me later.

Finally...Paradise

I don't want to jinx the great state of Florida, but...after a hellacious stretch of 90-plus heat, we had ourselves a 79 today. It felt great to wake up not sweating like Dom DeLuise.

On the way to my daughter's school, some lady complained, "It's too chilly!" I almost ran her over with my car.

Even better, Kid Lulu is at a party tonight, which means the Forever Fiancee and I have the cool night to ourselves. And you know what that means, right? Naps!

So without further ado, let's celebrate the autumnal temps down here in the Sunshine State...

10) Cool It Now -- New Edition
9) Just Like Paradise -- David Lee Roth
8) Almost Paradise -- Mike Reno & Ann Wilson
7) Paradise by the Dashboard Light -- Meat Loaf
6) Breezin' -- George Benson
5) Cool -- Gwen Stefani
4) Days of Wonder -- the Wallflowers
3) Way Cool Jr. -- Ratt
2) Autumn Cannibalist -- Die Mannequin
1) Fallin' -- Alicia Keys

Live Nude Madonna!

Okay, maybe not nude. But she is going Live.

According to the Wall Street Journal, Madonna is ready to leave longtime label Warner Bros. and sign a $120 million deal with concert promoters Live Nation.

The 10-year deal is another sign of how power players in the toilet-bound music biz are trying to shuffle up and survive. By cutting a broad deal with Madge -- who usually deals with separate entities for albums, tours, merchandising, etc. -- Live Nation gets "a piece of the whole pie," as the paper reports. Of course, these days, Madonna's pie isn't a popular as it used to be (um, so to speak).

Sounds like a shaky deal to me. When I was a teenager, and Madonna was Like a Virgin, she really did it for me. I'm not gonna lie. She caused some restless nights. But after the Sex book, I pretty much lost interest. Do people care about her anymore?

Rather surprisingly, I have discovered a smattering of Madonna songs lurking on my iPod. So herewith, the BEST AND WORST OF MADONNA:

The Five BEST Madonna Songs:
5) Live to Tell
4) Crazy for You
3) Into the Groove
2) Music
1) Ray of Light

The Five WORST Madonna Songs:
5) Papa Don't Preach
4) La Isla Bonita
3) Take a Bow
2) Secret
1) This Used to Be My Playground

PLAYLIST: Strange Brew

Was I the only one shocked by Wednesday's news that Miller and Coors, the second and third-largest brewers in America, are blending their U.S. operations to take down No. 1 Anheuser-Busch?

Teaming up? Bitter archenemies playing nice? That goes against everything we believe in as a nation of irrational drunks. Isn't cocksure arrogance and blatant disregard for good sense what drinking beer is all about? I can't believe the "MillerCoors" merger isn't bigger news.

Forget about the business angle for a second. Beer wars define men. For guys who drink Miller Lite, basically the only people they can make fun of are people who drink Coors Light (and vice versa). Men have wasted great chunks of their lives (or at least innnings three through six) debating Miller vs. Coors, from the commercials to the beer girls to the actual ingredients.

But now Miller and Coors are buddies. MillerCoors? That's just weird. That's like Norway and Sweden joining forces and becoming Norweden. No one's afraid of Norweden. MillerCoors sounds like a bad married name. "Hi, I'm Larry Coors, and this is my wife, Gwendolyn Miller-Coors."

Anyway, the combination first has to pass an antitrust review by either the Federal Trade Commission or the Department of Justice. In the meantime, here's "The MillerCoors Playlist":

10) Strange Brew -- Cream
9) There's a Tear in My Beer -- Hank Williams Jr.
8) Keg in the Closet -- Kenny Chesney
7) Suds in the Bucket -- Sara Evans
6) Beer for My Horses -- Toby Keith & Willie Nelson
5) What Made Milwaukee Famous -- Jerry Lee Lewis
4) Rocky Mountain High -- John Denver
3) Have a Drink on Me -- AC/DC
2) 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall -- Atticus
1) Beer Barrel Polka -- Frank Yankovic, America's Polka King

(By the way, if you're looking for the PICTURE DAY playlist that ran in Thursday's paper, go HERE.)

"Caught between the Scylla and Charybdis"

Citing "mountainous pomposity (and) cloying spirituality," Blender magazine has named Sting the worst lyricist in rock history.

In the November issue of the saucy music mag, Rush drummer Neil Peart is deemed the second-worst lyricist, Creed frontman Scott Stapp is No. 3, Oasis guitarist Noel Gallagher at No. 4, and soft-rocker Dan Fogelberg at No. 5.

Haven't seen the whole article, but I gotta imagine James Taylor is up there. They'll probably mess with Dylan and Springsteen, too, cause Blender totally digs screwing with sacred cows.

In Blender's defense, it's fun to mock Sting, mainly because he's much more handsome than I am.

Play-Doh? For Halloween?

My formative trick-or-treating years were spent in Westford, Mass., a sleepy, apple-picking town 25 miles outside of Boston. Halloween was a townwide bacchanal there, a total shut-'em-down blowout, with the streets overrun with sugar-jacked hellions until late in the evening. Despite the fact that my mother dressed me as a lame hobo each year, Oct. 31 in Westford was the very definition of wicked excellent.

So the other day, when I heard a FLA neighbor say she was handing out mini tubs of Play-Doh for Halloween, I protested mightily. If you pulled a stunt like that in Westford -- or related crappery like pennies or toothbrushes or bubbles or stickers --- it was a surefire way to get a flaming bag of poop on your stoop. The currency was decadence; even the town dentist handed out stuff to crack your molars. He wasn't crazy -- the guy had a Porsche in his driveway that he really didn't want soaped and TP'd.

I totally dig Play-Doh -- 364 days a year. But on Halloween, you're asking for it. Can't we just overlook the scourge of childhood obesity for one measly day? Of course we can! Besides, it's a matter of self-preservation. Like my friend Chuck said, "Yeah, they'll be seeing that Play-Doh again." Trust me: You don't wanna mess with a 14-year-old kid with a pillowcase and a Freddy Krueger mask.

So in lieu of a musical playlist, here's a Halloween primer I like to call the 10 Best Ways to Get Cavities (not including Three Musketeers or Milky Way, the worst candy bars of all time).

10) Almond Joy (giant size)
9) Peanut M&Ms
8) Reggie Bar
7) Root Beer Barrels
6) Mr. Goodbar (giant size)
5) Baby Ruth (giant size)
4) Lemonheads
3) Reese's Peanut Butter Cups (one of those eight-cup jobs)
2) Nestle Crunch (TWO giant size)
1) Fun Dip

Greatest AMERICAN Rock Band?

Went to a killer party Saturday night. Around 2 a.m., when the girls were dancing and the guys were philosophically besotted, we commenced a debate:

Who's the greatest AMERICAN rock band?

American and rock, American and rock. Tricky. Good one. We looked down into our Red Bull and vodkas, searching for answers.

I opened with Creedence Clearwater Revival.

Then came the Beach Boys. Van Halen. Guns N' Roses.

Green Day got votes, but someone said, "Come back to me in 10 years," and we harrumphed like wise men.

Someone added the Doors, but I berated them until they withdrew the entry. 'Cause as we all know, the Doors suck and Jim Morrison was full of sh--.

Despite having famous backing bands, such inherently singular icons as Bruce Springsteen, Tom Petty, Sly Stone and Bob Seger were not allowed. They transcend the group ethic.

Neither Lynyrd Skynyrd nor the Allman Brothers were mentioned. Neither were the Eagles or Fleetwood Mac or Wilco.

Anyway, we never came up with a definitive answer -- we were ultimately knocked off-task by the dancing girls. But I figured it'd be a good one for you guys...

So I ask you: Who's the greatest AMERICAN rock band?

The Imaginary Friend

So I'm giving Kid Lulu a bath, planning a shampoo sneak attack, which will inevitably lead to both of us screaming, crying, hurling accusations. Right before I descend upon my 3-year-old's ridiculous mop of awesomely thick hair, I hear her mutter something under her breath.

"What's that, honey?" I ask.

My daughter sighs and gives me a sympathy chuckle. "I wasn't talking to you." She motions to absolutely nothing. "I was talking to M&M."

Oh lord, her imaginary friend. This started a few months ago. He just kinda showed up. From what I can tell, M&M is neither the confection nor the incendiary rapper. He's very, very small and really enjoys Bob Evans breakfasts. He gets scared on roller coasters. He's emotionally unstable, as Lulu is usually trying to talk him off some sort of emotional ledge.

M&M also really enjoys the Forever Fiancee's cleavage, as he's often spotted in the vicinity of her chest.

From a psychological standpoint, I'm not too worried about the presence of M&M. He seems like an affable sort. If Lulu ever gets that Omen look in her eyes and demonically hisses, "M&M doesn't like it when you wash my hair. M&M says Daddy better sleep with one eye open," well, that's when you lock up the silverware.

What I do worry about is that my daughter (aka She-Hulk) is well on her way to being "the weird kid." And the imaginary friend sightings ain't gonna help. But I'm taking a certain pride in her imagination. I really am. And I figure with both M&M and I backing her up, the kid will be fine.

So today's playlist, "The Me, Myself and M&M Mix," is proudly dedicated to my daughter and her wee invisible pal:

The Great Pretender -- the Platters
You're My Best Friend -- Queen
I'm Looking Through You -- the Beatles
Imagine -- John Lennon
You've Got a Friend in Me -- Randy Newman & Lyle Lovett
Invisible Touch -- Genesis
Friends in Low Places -- Garth Brooks
Spirits in the Material World -- the Police
Don't Stop Believin' -- Journey
Thank You for Being a Friend -- Andrew Gold

Live Report: The Boss Kicks Things Off

A Pop Life exclusive! Loyal blogger Guy reports from opening night of the new Springsteen tour. Guy braved the wilds of Hartford, Conn., on a Tuesday, so please enjoy his reportage...

"And so it begins."

With those words, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band kicked-off a world tour Tuesday night in a sold-out Hartford Civic Center in Hartford, Conn.

Springsteen and his musical compadres were in rare mid-tour form as they deftly merged songs from new CD, Magic, released that day, with older selections. Although the emphasis on Magic (eight songs!), along with songs from The Rising and those originally performed with the Seeger Sessions Band (American Land, Long Walk Home), left little room for Springsteen to explore his extensive back catalog, several of the new additions proved worthy of placement next to warhorses such as Badlands and Born to Run.

Opening with the sonic blast of Radio Nowhere, the most arena-ready of the new songs, Springsteen quickly segued into The Ties That Bind and Lonesome Day, much to the delight of the crowd of more than 16,000. Other highlights included Reason to Believe, which combined the return of Springsteen’s bullet mike with an intro harkening back to La Grange-era ZZ Top and the Night and She’s The One combination.  The wistful Girls in Their Summer Clothes, which kicked off the five-song encore, served as a welcome counter-balance to the heavier subject matter of songs like the ferocious Last to Die and 10th Avenue Freezeout-sound-alike Livin’ in the Future.

The Slash Story: Parental Guidance Suggested

Someday I'll transcribe the first few minutes of my interview, in which my fanboy slobbering basically drowns out any wisdom Slash tries to impart. Lordy, I'm such a dork. Anyway, enjoy the story...

Behind the hair and the shades and the second-most famous top hat in U.S. history, behind the rattlesnake riffs linking the Delta blues and the Sunset Strip, Slash is not as cool as you think.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. The famously shaggy guitar god, whose licks are ingrained in the DNA of any rock fan worth his leathers, is certainly cooler than you or me.

He’s cooler than anyone in West Hollywood, the hair-metal Gomorrah that gave rise to his legend and heroin addiction. He’s cooler than Scott Weiland, the lead singer of Slash’s current supergroup, Velvet Revolver, which plays Ford Amphitheatre in Tampa on Saturday.

And he’s decidedly cooler than That Other Lead Singer from Slash’s Other Band, a famously brewing brouhaha we’ll get to in just a bit.

And yet, there are moments in the life of Saul Hudson, born in the United Kingdom 42 years ago to an English father and an African-American mother, when the coolest dude in rock is, lo and behold, a flat-out wreck. For all his swagger, Slash, calling from a tour stop in Dallas, is actually “painfully shy.” That’s the real reason why his long black hair is always in his face, why his glasses are always on, why that ever-present black topper has reached mystical status.

"Without it, I'd feel really naked,” he says. “It’s something that I hide behind. I couldn’t look at the audience without it."

It's Sweet Week, Boys and Girls

My work wife Janet Keeler, the travel and food editor here at the ol' SPT, is throwing a Sweet Week bash over on her Stir Crazy blog. All desserts, all the time. Mmmm, Gateau Mousse au Chocolat.

The work wife is a very important concept: totally pleutonic platonic (p-l-a-t-o-n-i-c, platonic), very supportive, occasionally constantly nagging. The most important thing about my work wife, however, is that she gives me money for the candy machine almost every day. That's why we're work married.

So in honor of Janet's gooey desserts and related sweet-toothery, here's today's "Oompa-Loompas Scare the Ever-Lovin' Crap Out of Me" playlist:

1) American Pie -- Don McLean
2) Cherry Pie -- Warrant
3) Candy Everybody Wants -- 10,000 Maniacs
4) Sweet Child O' Mine -- Guns N' Roses
5) Sugar Mountain -- Neil Young
6) Peppermint Twist -- Chubby Checker Joey Dee & the Starlighters
7) Candy Shop -- 50 Cent
8) Candy Girl -- New Edition
9) Whipped Cream -- Herb Alpert
10) Ice Cream Man -- Van Halen

Questions for REO Speedwagon?

Okay, a little random today. But my chunky-but-funky Stuck in the '80s co-host Steve Spears and I are interviewing REO Speedwagon lead singer Kevin Cronin. And we need a little help.

At the very least, does anyone have any good stories involving nudity, a six-pack of Schlitz and Keep on Lovin' You?

If You Could Sing Like Anyone...

...who would it be?

I once had an editor say, if he could sing like anyone, he'd wanna sing like John Fogerty. That whiskey-yodel yelp is a helluva choice.

As for me, when talking about rockers, I hover between Robert Plant and Axl Rose, just for sheer crotch-thrusty, hell-hound-wailing ability. I'm not even that big of a Zeppelin fan, but to be able to sing Gallows Pole would be super cool.

Although as soon as I wrote that, Jackie Wilson singing Lonely Teardrops popped into my head. Sam Cooke is a badass choice, too. And then there's Elvis.

As for women, how about Aretha Franklin? Or Natalie Merchant? Or Stevie Nicks? Damn, that's tough.

But let's do it: If you could be any singer, who would it be?

(By the way, I have a vague feeling that I asked something like this two years ago. Screw it. It's a fun one, so we're doing it again.)

MUST WATCH: "I'm Not There" Trailer

Check out the wild trailer for "I'm Not There," the quirky Todd Haynes flick about Bob Dylan. Several different actors -- Heath Ledger, Christian Bale, Richard Gere -- portray Dylan in various phases of his life. But all the buzz is about Cate Blanchett as "Don't Look Back" Bob. Wow.

The "Picture Day" Playlist

Today was Picture Day at Kid Lulu's school.

Certainly you remember the Olan Mills-sponsored smile-a-thon that haunted you the rest of your life?

Needless to say, it was a rough morning. The Forever Fiancee was zero help, leaving the house early with a smirky look on her face. She knew I was doomed.

The beautifying process was a nightmare. My 3-year-old daughter, who has crazy-thick wacky hair to begin with, looked even more like Phyllis Diller than usual. I was literally dumping water on her head and her locks still wouldn't behave.

Then the kid starts sobbing 'cause I won't let her bring a dog cage to school. What? A dog cage?! "But dogs belong in cages!" she wails. Then, mid-breakdown, her face swollen, her hair a Medusan tangle, she started singing Jesus, Loves Me, which totally messed my game up. You can't tell a kid to pipe down when she's hitting you with the Lord.

Oh, and on the walk to school, it started to drizzle. Yep, those snapshots oughta be priceless.

So while I gather myself, here's today's "Smile for the Camera" playlist...

Every Picture Tells a Story -- Rod Stewart
Smile -- Lyle Lovett
Kodachrome -- Paul Simon
Poses -- Rufus Wainwright
Bad Hair Day -- "Weird Al" Yankovic
Look of Love -- ABC
Get a Haircut -- George Thorogood
Picture -- Sheryl Crow & Kid Rock
The Girl With the Golden Hair -- ABBA

REVIEW: They Ain't No Senator's Sons

Better make room on Mount Rushmore.

Made in America, mad at America, Bruce Springsteen and John Fogerty stand sentry on the covers of their new albums, ready to rock, rage and run for office on the "Music or Lose It" ticket. You think I’m kidding? Why else would they drop politically amped discs tomorrow, the Boss’s Magic, Fogerty’s Revival, on the very same October Tuesday? If these aren’t clarion calls from our new prez and VP — they ain’t no senator’s sons! — I don’t know what is.

Talk about the populist vote. Springsteen, 58, and Fogerty, 62, allies during 2004’s string of Vote for Change concerts, are in full-on crowd-pleasing mode, ready to whip the nation out of a funk and into a fervor. Springsteen is once again taking rock ’n’ roll call with his E Street Band — Clarence (check!), Nils (check!), Max...Max...c’mon, Max, try to keep up (check!). It’s no coincidence that there are moments on Magic when you swear he’s sampling Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out. Bruce figures the best way to wake the populace, the best way to connect us all, is to rock our collective socks off.

Not only does Fogerty call his album Revival and name one number Creedence Song, but he choogles up a swamp stew that sounds very much born on the bayou. Creedence Clearwater Revival tore up the lives of two brothers, John and Tom Fogerty, and led to lawsuits. But John has made peace with his past, which gives him more energy to take aim at the present.

For all their robust strengths, Magic and Revival are are not perfect albums, mind you. Bruce’s lyrics are sometimes hamhandedly opaque. Plus his song Your Own Worst Enemy is a cloying blend of Brian Wilson and Phil Spector, with the singer moying like his toe’s caught in a mousetrap. Fogerty piles on too much vitriol at points. Plus his notable clunker, Summer of Love, clumsily "borrows" riffs from Cream’s Sunshine of Your Love.

Still, these guys are in sweet shape to steamroll the White House. And just wait ’til they get on the campaign trail. These albums are built to thrill in a live setting: plenty of Big Man sax solos (especially on You’ll Be Comin’ Down), plenty of guitars cutting through Fogerty’s songs like Louisiana lightning.

Whereas Fogerty’s lyrics are as muscular as an arm-wrestling contest, Springsteen’s songs drip with a tricky twilight, as the middle-aged icon looks back and ahead, gauging the state of his country and himself. If that sounds like a drag, it’s not. After the pensive beauty of 2005’s Devils & Dust and last year’s old-timey Seeger Sessions, the Boss is reborn to run. Album opener Radio Nowhere, with its final plea of "I just wanna hear your rhythm," sets up Magic’s pervasive theme of disconnectedness, political and personal. It also sets up the album’s sonic assault, as Nils Lofgren puts a sinister tone on his guitar line, Clarence Clemons blows a throwback solo and Max Weinberg snaps a drumstick or two.