If you put ten, perhaps twenty "modern rock" bands together in a room, lock the door, fill them full of mescaline* and Fruit Whirls, and not let them out until they wrote a song, they probably wouldn't write one three percent as good as this.
Not many of my students are into rock. A few are, though, including one nice kid who grew up in Newfoundland. We were talking in physics class about sound and frequency and speakers, and he mentioned Nickelback. I shot back with a forceful, "I don't normally use this word with my classes, but Nickelback sucks."
The look on his face ressembled that of the shock he'd have if I told him I had his mom tied up in my spare bedroom and had her on a steady diet of mescaline and Fruit Whirls.
So now I know who's been buying all those albums.
Next on the list: hunting down all the Celine Dion fans and smacking them each individually on their backsides for being so downright incorrigible.
* I'm reading yet another Hunter S. Thompson book these days — Songs of the Doomed: More Notes on the Death of the American Dream (Gonzo Papers Volume 3). He talks about mescaline a lot. Also, his writing is like a goddamned rollercoaster gone off the rails: fun as hell, and you never quite know what's around the next bend; you might die any second, but at least you'll go out with the biggest shit-eating grin on your face the morgue's ever seen.