by Patrick	The Mediocre Rule by Craig Kester
	Still shocked and upset by EIliott Smith's suicide (?), I wondered why. Ian Curtis, Kurt Cobain and now Elliott Smith – the best from each generation – CIA conspiracy? I'm also being selfish in that I will miss Elliott Smith. Instead we're left with one less voice of authenticity (who actually had record label support) and with the giant mediocre glut of shitty, cliché, sex-violence-driven, mass audio hypnotism.       Author John Trevanian wrote over 20 years ago, "The mediocre rule," and "The masses are the final tyrants." Mediocre music for mediocre people for a mediocre president, etc. Or as I like to say these days, "The Clear Channelization and Wal-Martification of America." Bye-bye living wage and unions. Bye-bye to the true spirit of Rock 'n' Roll and Art, and hello to car commercials and to your 48-hour, caffeinated work week.
So I decided to take my frustration out with my own reality TV program. Our cameras would spend a few hours with three mediocre rock stars. And in this show, "The Mediocre Die!" Enough of this frail genius clocking out. In this show the creative voids clock out. The successful formula: F-A-I-L.       In our first scene, Aerosmith (who did record a couple good records 2,500 years ago!) are at their new CD's private listening party with the sonic clichés blasting out of a $3 million stereo system. But Joe is upset. Something is missing (originality?). He recalls the spine tingling sensation of hearing "Sweet Emotion" for the first time. That sensation is gone. He suddenly breaks his 12-step promise and rings up his old coke dealer on his cell, "Bring a pound! Like old times!" He shares his theory with Steve. If they party down like old times maybe good songs will emerge again. Hours later, Aerosmith's manager arrives with "Dream On" blasting and poor old Aerosmith sprawled out, dead on the floor! Poor Joe didn't realize that a 55-year-old heart is not as strong as a 25-year-old heart. The headlines read: "Band Comes off Rehab and O.D.s."
by Patrick	Next we zoom in on a perspiring Kid Rock. Kid just got back from a Pabst Blue Ribbon binge with the boys. As he stares into the mirror he can't believe his eyes. There is flab on the ab! He knows his contract with his record label specifically states, "No flab on the ab, Kid, or you're history." What will Pamela think? Kid's not a kid no more. He's in his 30s and his metabolism is slowing down. So Kid disappears and a week later turns up in a hidden room in a mansion, the victim of a Pabst Blue Ribbon overdose – the first case in history!       And finally our cameras find a teetering figure on the edge of the Golden Gate Bridge ready to jump. "Don't do it, Hoot! Your new CD isn't that bad – I even heard a new chord change!" Hoot turns and yells, "It sucks, and I know it sucks!" Then Hoot turns back and leaps: Hoot, Hoot, Hoot! "Farewell ole mediocre world." As Hootie spirals ever downwards, a hungry shark moves in for an early dinner. Chomp, chomp, chomp! No more golf videos.
So, in closing, my intention is not to mock the tragedy of suicide, but to mock the horrible music industry and its sell-out to the quickest buck and to society's most primal instincts, and the way the music industry is able to so easily press the sex-violence-ego, cliché, easy-to-grasp, and non-controversial buttons that keep the masses sleeping and conforming. I leave you with a nice little ditty you can hum on your way to work, chasing that ever elusive dollar (remember the Nevermind CD cover?), sung to Disney's "It's a Small World." It's a fascist world after all... It's a fascist world after all...
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