It's only rock 'n' roll (but I like it)

I grew up in a home where I heard four musical artists almost exclusively throughout my formative years. I'm not even remotely kidding about this. Two of them -- horrific freak crooner Barry Manilow and 70s folk siren Carley Simon -- were Mom favorites that I successfully managed to tune out before permanent damage could be done. The other two were the Rolling Stones and the Beatles. You may have heard of them.

There is a popular theory about the latter two super groups that I happen to put a lot of faith into. It goes something like this: Everyone in the world can be divided into one of two categories. You're either a "Stones Person" -- which amounts to a kind of free-wheeling, outgoing and impulsive extrovert type -- or you're a "Beatles Person" -- a slightly more introspective and thoughtful brand of human, free in mind, body and spirit. Of course, I'm not sure you can divide all people like this -- it's doubtful a suicide bomber on the Gaza Strip is likely to side with either Mick or Macca on matters of the heart -- but it holds true more often than not.

The beauty of this breakdown is that you don't have to be a fan of either group to be part of this study -- although it's a serious red flag to me if you don't like at least some tunes by either band. I mean, c'mon. Not sure what category you fall into? Luckily I have a simple and effective test to determine just that.

Listen to the The Beatles' "Let It Be" -- off the 1970 album of the same name -- and the Stones' "Gimme Shelter" -- off 1969's Let It Bleed. I mean really listen to them. Dissect the lyrics, soak in the melodies, get lost in the atmosphere. Which of these songs grab you first? Which one changes the temperature of the room? When you figure that out, you have your answer.

A closer look at the two songs helps to explain why. The menace in Mick Jagger's voice is palpable in "Gimme Shelter," telling the story of a dark cultural acopolyse that's "just a shot away" with the opposite spectrum of love and peace "just a kiss away." It's a chaotic world teetering on the brink. The lyric and melody cuts a direct correlation into the unpredictable nature of a Stones Person.

"Let It Be," written and sung by Paul McCartney, is a deeply personal gospel-like tune with a theme centering on the loss of a love in your life and how that figure endures as you move on. That's how I hear it anyway. Over a soft piano intro, Macca croons, "When I find myself in times of trouble, mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom ... Let it be." I've never written a song, but just typing that made me jealous. I can only imagine how the lead singer of Hinder feels. Upon closer review, the vulnerable nature of "Let It Be" draws a connection to the dreamy and reflective nature of the Beatles Person.

Personally speaking, I think deep down I always wanted to be a Stones Person at heart, but in the end I became a product of Beatlemania ... with sprinkles of Keith Richards. You can't choose where you end up. It's in your DNA.

Now you may be inclined to ask, "Hey Dan, ye of the shocking social insight, steep intellect, generous looks, and incredibly large hands, can a Beatles/Stones love combo make it in the longterm?"

The answer is ... yes. In fact, the argument can be made that Beatles/Stones combinations make the best partners, as the relationship will be more dynamic and encompassing in scope. The worst all-Beatles pairings can develop into that boring married and/or engaged couple (you know who they are) who watch "The Ghost Whisperer" on Friday nights and attend way more garage sales than common logic should dictate. On the flipside, two Stones people gone bad can be mired in one of those explosive relationships where the couple basically do two things: Fight and fuck. This is entertaining at first to outsiders (hilarious even), but it grows old ... quickly.

That said, it's important to note that all Stones People are not whiskey-guzzling, smack-shooting, mass impregnators and walking semen dumpsters. Nor or all Beatles People stoner hippies, bizarre zealots, and doughy peaceniks. Let's try to keep that in mind.

Chances are, you've dated both Beatles People and Stones People. Think back to your ex's and I'm sure you can divide them right now without much of a problem. Hopefully, a pattern emerges. Your more lasting relationships will likely fall into one category or the other. Remember that in the future as you navigate the Highway of Musical Love (it's Exit 12 off the Hutch).

And with that, I'm going to grab a Gatorade and watch some bad Court TV murder mystery programming. I'll discuss the devasting effects of Barry Manilow's Greatest Hits tomorrow. Until then, let it be.

Yeah, I'm a Beatles guy all the way.

Perverted Justice, indeed

Chris Hansen's got balls, I'll give him that.

As an avid fan of Dateline NBC's wildly successful To Catch A Predator series, I can tell you that Hansen -- who on the surface looks like your typical blandly handsome network newsman -- knows nothing in the ways of fear.

On each Predator installment -- and I believe there have been roughly 312 of them at this point -- Hansen comfronts another sorry bastard sick enough to want to hit skins with kids and dumb enough to try to meet them in their homes to do it. The pedophiles come in all shapes, sizes, colors and creeds, and Hansen treats each of them like they just shot his dog and dragged it through town. Hansen gleefully reads the damning chat transcripts to the horrified men, graphic dialogues that torpedo any possible alibi. Again, Hansen is positively giddy as he does this. Sometimes it seems a bit like piling on to me -- 90 percent of the dudes realize that their lives are, for all intents and purposes, over as this is happening -- but then I remember these guys like to do children. This typically sterilizes my sense of pity.

Now here's where Chris Hansen's blandly handsome balls come in. In the segment's infancy, this sting operation was like shooting fish in barrel. But now the pervs know the score. It's discussed in chat rooms (this has been reported, I don't know firsthand). And as has been proven in several instances, many of these men are armed and dangerous. One man had an army supply store in his trunk when he was arrested, another -- a shamed Texas politician -- barricated himself in his home before putting a slug into his head. That's one way to evade prison.

Is it just me, or is Hansen putting himself in serious harm's way each time he agrees to do another one of these programs? Maybe it's worth it for him, he is infinitely more famous now and he even has a book coming out about his experiences. Maybe in a business where everyone looks the same, journalistic risks are almost impertative to separate yourself from the pack . Maybe that's part of the reason Bob Woodruff has a dent in his head.

Bottom line is, I don't want Chris Hansen to get picked off by some pervert. It's good to have people like Chris Hansen around. In fact, if I ever find myself face-to-face with, say, a rabid grizzly bear, I want Chris Hansen by my side.

(Chris Hansen -- dressed in an impeccable suit and sporting perfectly-coiffed sandy blonde hair -- steps in between me and savage beast of nature. I have no explanation how this scenario presented itself.)

Chris Hansen: "Why don't you take a seat right there."

Grizzly bear: (Stunned, stammering) "This isn't what it looks like, I wasn't going to ..."

CH: "Wasn't going to what? Tear my friend Dan limb from limb and then eat his flesh?"

GB: "Nooooo ... I just wanted to talk to him."

CH: "That's not what this chat log says."

GB: "Fuck."

Don't let me down, Jack

As an American, I watch a lot of TV. It's pretty ordinary behavior. I'm a consumer. I consume. And let it be known that I don't discriminate in my viewing habits. I love a great movie or TV show (Shawshank Redemption, Arrested Development) as much as an awful one (Masters of the Universe, Step By Step). I'm no snob.

And in all this time watching entertainment good and bad, I've learned that there are only two things that I cannot bear to witness. One, I can't deal with people getting framed. This is torture. I just sit there like a madman blasting the local law enforcement for their obvious shortcomings in character judgement and crime detection and it saps all of the enjoyment out of it for me. Second, I abhor when pets or retarded people are killed. This is just uncalled for. In fact, if you know of a television program or motion picture that involves a mentally handicapped person being framed for murder who is then executed along with his loyal dog (this may or may not have been the plot of The Chronicles of Riddick), please alert me immediately so that I can take the proper steps to avoid it.

I bring this up because Monday's episode of 24 featured a mentally-challenged computer wizard (I know, I'm stumped, too) named Brady who looked like dead meat fo' sure. I mean, in any given episode of 24, 13 to 10,000 people have their lives come to a violent end, and it didn't seem like poor ol' Brady even had a chance. His brain was weak in matters not involving HTML code, he kept on complaining about red peppers, and he was (without his knowledge) involved in business with nefarious terrorist-type characters that included his own brother. Playboy was getting iced in my mind. I didn't think there was any doubt about it.

Seeing as the Kiefer Sutherland-powered thriller is one of my favorite shows on TV, you can understand I was torn. Should I change the channel? If I do, will I miss another poorly-acted scene by President Palmer that will reveal a pivotal plot point? And what if I miss another scene involving Ricky Schroder? WHAT IF I MISS ANOTHER SCENE INVOLVING RICKY SCHRODER! I don't even want to think about that. (chills)

So I decided to stick with it, and luckily, Brady survived the hour by the slimmest of margins. But he's not out of the woods yet. Not by a longshot. Jack Bauer promised to personally ensure his safety, typically a guaranteed death knell for any character on the show. For further reading, please see every woman that Jack has ever bonerjammed with since 2001. It's a graveyard of bitches, yo.

So now 24 takes on a new identity for me. While you worry about whether or not the Western seaboard will be destoyed, or if the evil vice president who looks like my fourth-grade teacher is going to start a nuclear war, I'm going to be focused on the physical well-being of my new friend Brady.

And you thought he was the retarded one.

A tribute to an overlooked soul

So I'm not sure if you've heard, but Anna Nicole Smith died a little while back. She was a Playboy playmate and actress, and she married a billionaire who died because he was incredibly old and weathered. And now she's dead, too. I suppose they're together now, if you believe in Jesus and angels and harps and stuff like that.

Apparently, she had a substance abuse problem. I surmise this because a medical examiner announced today that Smith was on seven different medications when she accidentally overdosed. How could those close to her let her spiral so far out of control? I mean six prescriptions ... fine. But seven? Unacceptable.

Geez, I really hope you know who this woman was. You may or may not have masturbated to her likeness in Skyscraper, a 1997 erotic thriller that aired after 2 a.m. every Saturday night on Cinemax until Y2K hit. Hoity-toity film buffs thought it was laughable that Anna played a scientist in the movie. I thought it was pretty awesome.

Is she still not ringing a bell? OK. She was in the third Naked Gun movie that everybody saw but nobody remembers, and she had a short-lived reality show on E! that co-starred Howard Stern.

No, no. Not that Howard Stern. This is a different guy. This Howard Stern is kind of a swarthy fellow, a lawyer I believe. There is speculation that he may or may not be a serial killer. I'm pretty much terrified of him.

So yeah, Anna Nicole Smith is dunzo. I think she was a real talent and more people should be aware of her untimely passing. Tell all your friends. America deserves to know.

Drew Barrymore, Gray Sweaters, and the Intricacies of the Female Mind

I have a job that is probably unlike yours. I can give a million reasons why this is so, but for the purposes of this story I'll only say that everyone in my office wears blue jeans and has a 12-inch television with cable capabilites sitting on their desk. Obviously, these two perks are kind of rad.

I sit across from a girl at said job I call Kiki. Kiki is not her real name and she says she doesn't like it, which I surmise is why I address her as such. She is tall and thin, has fairly prodigious red hair and was apparently a highly decorated volleyball player during George W. Bush's first adminstration. She plays something like 393 instruments and has a bizzare vendetta to bring down talk show host Rachael Ray. I know no one else in the world like Kiki.

We also disagree on just about everything. Kiki calls me an idiot at least once a day for being sexist, or insulting, or both, which I never get mad at because 80 percent of the time she is probably correct. The advantage of this clashing of opinions is that it leads to some pretty interesting discussions -- sassy "he said-she said" exchanges not unlike low-grossing George Clooney-Michelle Pheiffer romantic comedies from 1996.

On Sunday, I was working on my computer when I received an instant message from Kiki telling me that her "favorite bad movie from high school" was on. My interest was immediately piqued, being a scavenger of all things culturally relevant from the preceding decade. My remote soon found its way to Comedy Central, which was airing the 1999 Drew Barrymore-vehicle Never Been Kissed. Having previously seen the film in theaters with a old girlfriend, I immediately explained to Kiki that I took umbrage with the premise of the picture.


"This movie is bullshit," I protested via the powers of AIM. "I know Drew wasn't looking her best here, but there's no way she wouldn't have been laid (let alone kissed!) by the time she was 25 or whatever. She was foxy and had BOMBS."

Though it was clear she was trying to suppress laughter, Kiki apparently didn't believe that mammary glands should be likened to explosives.

"You are a pig."

Kiki then told me that the best part of the movie was on the horizon.

"The gray sweater is coming up."

"Huh?"

"Michael Vartan is going to come onto the baseball field to kiss Drew Barrymore and he's going to be wearing a gray sweater."

Apparently, the outerware of the former Alias star and Jennifer Garner paramour had caused quite a stir in the mind of Kiki and another female friend of hers. To me, Vartan appeared to be wearing fairly standard v-neck garb. What was I missing here?

And that's when I realized Never Been Kissed is female pornography.


por·nog·ra·phy (pôr-nŏg'rə-fē) Pronunciation Key
n.

1. Sexually explicit pictures, writing, or other material whose primary purpose is to cause sexual arousal.

It all made sense! When the handsome and kind Sam Coulson (Vartan) walks onto the baseball field to kiss the sweet and relatable Josie Gellar (Barrymore), every woman watching begins to fantasize. The scene is especially effective in that the film fades to black immediately afterwards -- leaving the female audience to picture their own happy ending -- the marriage, the house in Westchester, the four kids, etc. I call this the "crack ending" in a chick flick, because 90 percent of women can't get enough of it and they'll always come back for more. This is why Matthew McConaughey owns a $10 million ranch in Texas.

To me, Hollywood romantic comedies and San Fernando pornographic films are far more similar than people realize. They both illicit more-or-less the same response in terms of their target audiences. They just take different routes to get there. In the end, they get people off, in their own unique way. The two industries may share little in common on the surface, but at the end of the day they are delivering the same fantasy-based message to the brains of their respective demographics.

I see no difference between Michael Vartan's sweater and Jenna Jameson's vagina.

"What are you talking about? That makes no sense," Kiki responds, writing off my theories as the rantings of a madman. "You're being an idiot."

Like I said, 80 percent the time she is probably correct. This time she is not.