Death By Mixtape

Settin' it straighter for all y'all haters (special guest cameos: Clay Aiken, Black Eyed Peas).

I, Andrew D. Bonazelli, employee of Seattle Weekly, happily encourage interest in Death by Mixtape. My e-mail address is right smack at the end of the column every week, and you'll find general snail-mail information in our masthead. There is an abundance of space in my virtual and physical inboxes for your feedback, be it ass-smoochin' positive, ass-wreckin' negative, or anywhere in between.

That said, if I'm lounging with friends at a bar on a Saturday night, pleasantly buzzed, visions of salacious after-parties with stripper poles dancing in my head, please don't insinuate yourself at my booth with minimal introduction and proceed to deconstruct my tattoos, apparel, lifestyle, and this column. For that matter, if I'm sitting alone and stone-cold sober at a bar wearing a mesh trucker hat that reads "Please insinuate yourself at my booth and deconstruct my existence," feel free not to do so, and/or simply fuck off. It's just a lose-lose situation. I dish it out in print specifically because I am witless, thin-skinned, and inert in person. I'm going to be flabbergasted by your ballsy frankness and come off like a pompous cretin, and you're going to come off like an alternative weekly-obsessed jackass with way too much free time . . . or at least you will by the time this column is over.

Now, thanks to my pathological, self-destructive inability to avoid Giving Them the Satisfaction, I will address a few recent points of criticism, made not only by Smarmy Closing Time Ass, but other unnamed Hatorade guzzlers (thanks, Fred Durst, as always, for the inspiration): (1) Death by Mixtapeand this should be obvious to most poop-hurling, quasi-literate primatesis not a "gossip" column but a "music/ lifestyle" column with elements of, um, "humor." (2) I frequent the bars I do not to accumulate gossip for my non-gossip column, but out of pathetic familiarity, a dearth of cash, and the excitement of getting romantically thrown under the bus by alleged male acquaintances. (3) I do not wear tank tops to "show off" my Rocket From the Crypt tattoo (this assertion being so ridiculous that it occurred to me, briefly, that SCTA was possibly on salary at Punk'd; since when did RFTC + my grotesque bare arms = cred?). And finally, (4) per SCTA's outlandish suggestion that I "go to a concert" once in a while (as opposed to, presumably, drinking within his optic range), thank God some fairy godmother floated me two passes to 106.1 FM's Jingle Bell Bash 6 at the Wack-oma Dome.

And thank God you don't tire easily of lists, because there are multiple reasons to thank his omniscient ass for JBB6: (1) I needed a vacation from this self-perpetuating hypocritical scenester lunacy; (2) this column just got way too obscure for 99 percent of the readership; and (3) the VIP access inherent in said passes generally means free grub, which I obviously value far more than deigning to analyze rock music. I rang my always-game ex-roommate Mat, and we were out of nasty ol' Seattle for a Sunday, en route to inappropriate preteen booty dancing heaven.

This particular holiday hodgepodge was ripe with land mines high-school freshmen who make more than I do, the T-Dome's purgatorial grayness, Clay Fucking Aikenyet everything came out aces. The appeal of live radio pop, good or bad, is its desire to simply be hugged. I try to convey this most weeks but evidently have work to do. Embracing crappy pop doesn't have to be ironicthis isn't about slumming. The obvious can be beautiful. Dumb fun can be the antidote to your ills. Let it be . . . naked.

So when Black Eyed Peas, who music editor Michaelangelo Matos frequently, giddily reminds me are responsible for the worst album of 2003 [Have I mentioned that the Black Eyed Peas are responsible for the worst album of 2003? I just wanted to mention that.Ed], unleash a Soul Train-style revue to aptly named new tracks like "Let's Get Retarded," that's dumb fun. When Simple Plan pirouette clumsily with cordless guitars, encourage the swaying of glow sticks to their ballads, congratulate MCs Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey for "staying together"for, you know, all of 18 friggin' monthspromise to sign autographs after the set if you buy their DVD, and basically pipe bomb 30-plus years of punk ethos, that's dumb fun. When the girl who had been wildly waving a Canadian flag during the Plan's set inexplicably continues to do so as Jamaican dancehall king Sean Paul comments that "I'm not used to the cold up here," that's dumb fun. When American Idol runner-up Aiken appeases thousands of little girls clutching double entendre-laden placards like "Taken by Aiken" and "I'm Achin' for Clay" by performing three songs and getting the fuck off stage, that's dumb fun. And when Mat and I leave after every set to gorge on comp hot dogs . . . you get the drill.

See, SCTA? In the simplest of terms, in the most convenient of definitions, I went to a concert and I wrote about it. You happy? I am.

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