Arts and Culture

Classic rock is a radio format that caters to humans who have decided that the music mainstream rock radio was playing on February 21, 1983, or some other random date in the early 1980s, is precisely what they want to hear for the rest of their lives. They have thrown in the towel on curiosity and a sense of discovery, and just said: “fuck it, play ‘Barracuda’ again.”

If challenged on this decision, all classic rock fans will state, in a hero’s tone, that no worthy music has been recorded during the past 30 to 40 years. So, they’ve embraced stagnation and a lack of adventure and figured out a way to be all haughty and superior about it. Humans are very good at such things.

The particular era being preserved within the classic rock format might seem arbitrary to outsiders (no offense), but it’s music that was popular during the high school years of many of the so-called Baby Boomers: children born as a result of the post-World War II rutting frenzy. There were a large glut o’ babies that came of age when the music was originally released, and all humans believe the greatest songs of all time were the ones that were popular when they were at their personal horniest.

In addition to playing the same 50 songs over and over again for decades, classic rock radio also features an abundance of puns and alliteration. Things like “Twos for Tuesday,” “Thirsty Thursday,” “Mandatory Metallica,” “Rocktober,” “Zeptember,” “George Thoroughly-Good,” etc. It’s almost like Sesame Street for people with salt ‘n’ pepper pubes.

Classic rock radio is also the home of the undisputed worst song ever recorded in the history of humankind: “Dude Looks Like a Lady.”

It’s worth noting that one of the easiest and most stress-free jobs on Earth must surely be program director at a classic rock radio station. This reporter has no direct knowledge of these specific humans and their work situations but imagines them calling meetings every Monday and saying, “Yeah, just keep playing the same shit we’ve been playing since 1978. Maybe up the Floyd a little this week? It doesn’t really matter. …I’m going to lunch.”

The current versions of many classic rock bands are still active on the summer concert circuit and generally tour in clumps. In many cases over half of the original band members are deceased or have allowed dignity to intrude on their rock ‘n roll dreams. But it makes no difference, not really. A high percentage of the audience is so clueless or blasted out of their minds on $13 Miller Lites, that five portly Ukrainian men could take the stage, call themselves Journey, and nobody would give a shit as long as they played “Lovin’, Touchin’. Squeezin’.”

I hope this report has proven to be helpful. As always, I will be standing in the open field behind Dollar General Store every Thursday between midnight and 2 a.m., if you should have any follow-up questions.

This concludes today’s broadcast.

Elvis Presley was an enormously popular human entertainer from the America region of  Earth, who began his career as a teenage rock ‘n’ roll singer in the 1950s, and eventually became a film “actor,” and full-blown cultural icon.

By the time he reached his late thirties, however, trouble was brewing. Presley was now bloated and drug-addicted, prone to wearing sparkly jumpsuits and scarves in public, eating “nanner” sandwiches, and acting erratically. It is reported that he would sometimes fly into a wild rage while sporting unreasonable sunglasses, and begin firing one of his many handguns into household appliances, sending his domestic staff scrambling for cover.

That’s right, scarves.

Elvis Presley died at the young age of 42, inside his personal bathroom, and with, it is believed, “one hanging.” It was an undignified passing (so to speak) for a man of his stature. And the world mourned his death at a number of emotional levels.

Since that sad day in 1977, however, Presley’s legend has only grown. He is now accorded almost godlike status by fans, and his recordings continue to sell in large numbers.

Indeed, he is widely known as “The King of Rock ‘n’ Roll,” or simply “The King.” And in the southeastern section of the United States it is not uncommon for homes on the market to be advertised as featuring three bedrooms, two baths, and a roomy ground-floor Elvis shrine.

Almost without fail, the human public seems to prefer the early “skinny” Elvis, over the later “fat” version. Indeed, throughout 1992 the U.S. Postal Service conducted a poll, asking respondents to choose skinny or fat, for a proposed postage stamp. More than 75% preferred skinny.

Even after the post office offered to sweeten the pot with a red gravy-flavored glue on the fat stamp [citation needed], Americans were adamant they wanted skinny.

Fat Elvis, however, gets his due via “impersonators.” These are entertainers who dress up like the singer, almost always in clothing inspired by the later jumpsuit and rhinestone era, and take to the stage to imitate the voice, mannerisms, and facial expressions of the late singer.

These impersonators, who are usually quite large themselves, have been known to suffer catastrophic trouser blow-outs, unexpected tugboat blasts of flatulence, and sometimes even serious spinal cord injuries while attempting to mimic Elvis Presley.

A small number of die-hards believe Presley faked his death in 1977, and is still alive today. He is said to be leading the simple life in western Tennessee, protected by the locals, and using the name Buttercup Wilson. Though vigorously disputed, some insist Elvis/Buttercup has developed, in recent years, a taste for human flesh.

I hope this report has proven to be helpful. As always, I will be standing in the open field behind Dollar General Store, every Thursday between midnight and 2 a.m., if you should have follow-up questions.

This concludes today’s broadcast.

Opera is a curious form of human “performance,” meaning it takes place on an elevated stage in front of an audience, which has inexplicably exchanged local currency for the privilege of witnessing the event.

It is this agent’s opinion that, save for a few oddballs and/or sufferers of trauma (severe electrical shock, kick of a race horse), almost no  Earthling truly enjoys watching an opera. Yet, they’ve been well-attended for centuries.

In general terms, the show consists of portly Europeans in lavish dress, hollering for two hours. There is usually an incomprehensible story that accompanies the yelling, which is conveyed via heavy accents or a foreign language. Spectators are forced to tap some rarely-used inner-strength, in order not to sneak repeated glances at their wristwatches, or lapse into dormancy.

During an opera, the performers glide around the stage and take turns emitting sustained tones. The audience is conditioned to applaud whenever the wail is prolonged to the point where it becomes extra-annoying, and snaps the spectators out of their daydreams about how sweet life will be once this torture is over.

Some of the more accomplished “singers” can actually increase the volume of their yelling, as the siren-like shriek continues. In those rare instances audience members know to not only applaud, but to also smile, exchange expressions of astonishment, and repeatedly mouth the word “bravo.”

In different settings these same humans would likely choose alternate phrases, such as “incredible,” “remarkable,” or “kick-ass.” But inside the opera house it’s always “bravo.” Tradition demands it. It would be considered very bad form if (for instance), a patron screamed “fucking A!” to convey his or her appreciation of an operatic performance.

Because it is so difficult to endure, opera is considered to be high art. Among humans who self-identify as sophisticates, activities that are easily-accessible and entertaining are automatically dismissed. If it’s fun or widely popular, it will be mocked or ignored by a certain segment of the population. (See also: hipsters, pretentious pricks.)

Opera is a favorite among aging upper-class sophisticates who live in large cities. Within this human group it is very important to be observed attending an operatic performance several times per calendar year. Preferably on “opening night.” Most do not enjoy it, but are bound by social pressure to continue with the tradition. (See also: family, church.)

Shape-shifting aliens wishing to infiltrate an opera audience should wear a white scarf on the outside of their tuxedo jacket, flat and partially hidden by the collar. They should also have well-manicured facial hair, and project an aura that says, “I could crush you like a bug with a single phone call.”

If the female form is chosen, she should be short, plump, and powdered.

I hope this report has proven to be helpful. As always, I will be standing in the open field behind Dollar General Store, every Thursday between midnight and 2 a.m., if you should have follow-up questions.

This concludes today’s broadcast.