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“Baby, the experience and emotions tied to having sexual intercourse with you are like witnessing the stillborn birth of a child while simultaneously having the opportunity to see her play in the afterlife on Imax.”
“Nothing in this article can match the humor of that above quote.”
[The Internet; 1995-whenever indie sells out]
So there I was, sitting at my computer on a rainy night. One of those nights that are so bleak they sap a man's very will to live. You know the type, man. When the rain batters against the windows like a barrage of bullets, and the wind howls and whines like my stomach after burrito night at the local Arriba Arriba Mexican restaurant. Anyway there I was, scouring the vast wasteland of internet music blogs, looking for hip new indie bands that I could namedrop at parties to make myself sound cool. After three frustrating hours of fruitless browsing, I collapsed lifeless on my desk, contemplating the tragic state of music journalism. Real criticism had disappeared, replaced by corporate pablum geared toward thirteen year old girls. Desperate, I clicked on one more link, only to find that the charlatans at Rolling Stone gave Animal Collective's newest album a lowly 3 out of 5! The nerve of they! As the thought of this outrage penetrated the depths my cranial matter, I teetered on the brink of an existential crisis. My mind reeling, I appealed to the gods of music, begging for a website that would cater to REAL music fans. People who "get" Sonic Youth, rather than run away screaming when they hear one of their songs. People who understand that "ironically" wearing stupid clothing is the pinnacle of "cool". People who understand that Thom Yorke isn't simply a man- he's some type of lesser deity. People with immaculate tastes like me. As I despaired of ever finding such a website, my eyes were drawn to a link on the computer screen. The link read simply, "Pitchfork". Little did I know, clicking this link would be the single most important event in my life. Trembling with anticipation, like a nubile young virgin in those exquisite moments just before coitus, I slowly pressed the mouse button.
When I laid my skeptical eyes on front page, my heart went into arrhythmia, and I had to shock myself with a defibrillator before I could continue reading. For the first thing I saw was a perfect 10.0 review for Radiohead's newest release, Words Are A Sawn Off Shotgun. Finally, I had found a music publication who appreciated real music. As I read the review, the lucid and insightful prose caused my loins to stir with excitement. "Mean, fuzzy bass shapes the spine as unnerving theremin choirs limn," wrote the reviewer. I nodded in mute agreement, amazed by his astute observation. But the best was still to come. Each perfectly crafted metaphor, every flawless sentence, spurred the review onward toward its logical conclusion, like a lone cowboy riding across the dusty desert plains toward the golden sunset on the horizon. Finally, the article reached its glorious conclusion: "When the headphones peel off, and it occurs that six men created this, it's clear that Radiohead must be the greatest band alive." The undisputed truth of this sentence seemed to answer every question about the universe. This article was