Dear Westernerds,
If you feel the need to write about your origin story with Paul Westerberg and/or The Replacements (oh, and I know, the temptation just may be too great what with the release of this ridiculous live album – there could be someone left in the world who hasn’t yet heard your tale about that one time when Westerberg slipped on some barf onstage and it’s legend and you were there) please, kindly refrain from the using the following in your treatise:
– “shambolic” – it’s been done. To death. They weren’t, very often.
– “like lightning in a bottle” – yeah, you could say that about Halen, too.
– “soundtrack to my disaffection/alienation/brooding/loneliness/tearful jerkoff sessions” – AND EVERYONE ELSE’S.
– “bought Tommy a beer/smoked a cig/did coke with Paul/Tommy/Bob” – EVERYONE DID.
– “self-sabotage” – these days we call it blind arrogance.
– “post punk drunks” or “clown princes” or any other vaguely preposterous linking of nouns and adverbs that avoids that which is “squandered talent.”
No amount of purple prose is going to make your hair less gray, your Chucks any cooler, inspire the Mats to re-reunite, or impress anyone under 30. These are delicate times. Most people are buckling from information overload every damn day regarding things that actually matter. Chances are whatever you experienced in 1984 while laid out on the carpet in front of your parents’ hi-fi is the exact same thing all the rest of us experienced. Just save it, snowflake.
Much love,
Venezuela MacNamara
