Americans Copying Shitty Music They Refuse to Buy

ecord companies were faced with a 10% drop in CD sales from 2000 to 2001, and are quick to point the finger squarely at internet music piracy and illegal CD copying. Now the awful songs and albums consumers refuse to buy are available to them for free elsewhere.

“It used to be someone would have to buy an album just to find out it was crap,� said recording industry lawyer Snig Partridge. “Now they spend hours downloading it, take one listen, and mutter they’re glad they didn’t buy it.

“That’s our money!� yelled Patridge, leaping across the desk and savagely attacking this commune reporter.

There is some validity to the maniacal lawyer’s complaints. A recent survey conducted found nearly 25% of respondents were downloading or making hardcopies of CDs they didn’t want to buy. Numerous reasons were cited, such as the expense of purchasing CDs, the ease and availability of pirating materials, the chic of bragging about burning or downloading something, the lack of new Beatles material, but most popular among the answers was “just don’wanna.�

Many record industry analysts are puzzled by the slow down in CD sales, given the height of artistry of popular music with acts such as Britney Spears, Nelly Furtado, Creed, Pink, Uncle Kracker, and No Doubt topping the charts.

“It’s obvious music is experiencing a renaissance,� remarked some dreadlocked teen at a music store, in a voice that didn’t sound at all sarcastic.

“I don’t get it,� said Marx Kapital Records CEO Fred Ingells. “People hear the single. They like the single. They hum the single. They don’t buy the album. Something’s not right here.�

In 2000, music product sales totaled $14.3 billion. A year later that amount had dropped catastrophically to $13.7 billion.

“$13.7 billion! How are we supposed to live on $13.7 billion?� shouted Snig Partridge, this time leaping out from behind a Volkswagen on the street and attacking this commune reporter long after our interview had finished.

Across the music industry, response from record company representatives has ranged from perturbed to dismayed.

“Y’all fuckin’ my money now, biatch,� growled A’ight Records President Tru Dat Williams, cocking a Glock and firing blindly out the window in a confessed effort to hit potential music pirates.

“What makes me sad is the poor artist,� said Ingells. “When you steal a CD by bootlegging it from a friend or downloading it from the internet, you’re stealing a dollar out of their pocket. A whole dollar, or considerably less if we’re talking just singles and EPs here.�

Several artists were contacted to hear their reaction to this matter, but instead of listening to the interview tapes we burned copies of them and sold them on eBay as bootleg interviews. Snig Partridge then leaped out of our filing cabinet, knocked this commune reporter unconscious and made off with all our unsold copies.

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I know officially I'm not entitled to any veteran's pay or anything, but I think I deserve it after last weekend. The post-Thanksgiving Day weekend. The Vietnam of weekends. And where's my parade?

Okay, maybe it's the Korean War of weekends, and the weekend before Christmas is the Vietnam. That call's up in the air. But I do deserve some major pity, and I want it delivered since I'm still too tired to go anywhere else. I haven't been shopping since. I've got post-mallwalking stress disorder.

It started innocently enough. I saw McCattery's Jewelers was having a half-off sale on bling-bling, but it started at 8 a.m. Yeah, "a.m." as in "at morning." I'm completely out of my element when it comes to shopping on a budget, which also explains where all my Who's Your Daddy? money went to, so I didn't know where to go. Then I lucked out, because I found out the lady who keeps calling me trying to get money for my credit cards, Mina, turns out she's a big shopping wizard. Wizardess, whatever you would call it. It took some conniving, but I managed to join her shopping party. I figured she would help me with all the inside secrets.

Big mistake, though I didn't know it at the time. She was leaving the house at 1 a.m. ("almost morning). I've left the house a lot of times at 1 a.m., but it was different this time because my fridge was already full of beer and I didn't have half a buzz. I thought it might be fun, we'd make a night out of it, head for the bars and tie one up. Drop by the stores on the way home and make fun of the shopping morons while we loaded up on ornamentation.

No. Check this shit out—Mina and her shopping galpal Lynette were actually getting in line at Wal-Mart at that time. I thought it was shopping overkill, but there was already a line when we showed up. Mina said Wal-Mart opened at 5 a.m., and we'd have more than enough time to get to McCattery's for the stuff I wanted. She wanted to get a DVD player for the guest bedroom and a guest bedroom mattress, and then would hit Lowe's when they opened for lumber to build a guest bedroom. The deal, as far as she was concerned, was I would help stake out items she wanted and help her carry stuff to the cart, her shopping safety base, and she would keep me from getting screwed at the jeweler's.

It wouldn't be column-worthy if it all worked out as planned, you must have learned that by now. I was jostled, bustled, wrassled, bumped, poked, and prodded just standing in line for the lame-ass DVD player. Then a fight broke out when two monster ladies grabbed for one DVD player at the same time. They got to rolling and stomping around like Godzilla and Rodan and I was knocked off my feet. I lost hold on my DVD player, the one I had stood in line three hours for, and one of the she-beasts grabbed it.

I tried to make it up to Mina by grabbing some fencing, the only thing nobody was trampling over everybody else to get to, but I ended up needing to throw it over the crowd just to get past them. Mina was pissed, you better believe. She would have dumped me completely, but she needed someone to help her carry the lumber since Lynette had never returned from housewares.

It never got any better. All we could get from Lowe's was driftwood, thanks to a crowd that started earlier than we anticipated, and when I got to McCattery's I at last noticed even at half-price all the gaudy jewelry was outrageously priced. I might have bought it, but Mina was heckling me so badly I didn't think it was worth it.

I'm not asking for a parade, or even combat pay, although if the government wants to award it to me, I wouldn't argue. I just want you to take a few minutes this year over the Christmas ham and say a silent prayer out loud for the lost ones, like Lynette. This one's for her, and for Meek Susie, and Big Glasses, and Fatty with the Scarf, and Sweats. All the hard-fighting ladies who didn't make it out, or at least I didn't see again as I was leaving. And for me. Mostly for me.

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My sympathy goes out to the girl who tried to fake her kidnapping last week—hey, I've been there, sister. Whether you're just trying to get attention or making a serious bid for money, it doesn't matter, they always catch you. All these successful kidnapping movies you see just make you think you can get away with it—Ransom, Silence of the Lambs… actually, they didn't get away with it, so maybe the movies are innocent on this one.

I never got away with any of my fake kidnappings. I had enough real ones to establish some credibility that someone actually thought I was steal-worthy, but I wasn't very good at pulling off hoaxes. I like fresh air too much, I suppose, which is probably what the Wisconsin girl's problem was. She was seen parading around town, buying hoax supplies like hoax rope and joke knives and shit. I only hung out in neighborhoods, I never went on shopping sprees or anything. That's one for Clarissa.

Come to think of it, I was usually between 9 and 13 when I faked my kidnappings. What was her excuse? By college age I sure had enough brains to b.s. my way to a convincing kidnapping. Something really believable, like there were two kidnappers, one looked like Danny Terio but a little Horschacky in the face, and the other one had a big beard and looked like Grizzly Adams, but despite his menacing appearance, he was the one who was kind to me—brought me cold sodas and let me watch TV on a portable black-and-white set. Occasionally they would get nervous when they thought cops might be closing in, so they hid me in a closet in a burlap bag but the big one gave me a flashlight because I was scared of the dark. I could hear them through the door, arguing about whether or not they should just kill me and forget the money, but the big guy resisted, given his sweet nature. Eventually the nervous Danny Terio-Horschacky guy lost his cool and tried to ice me with a knife, but the big guy wrestled him away and had to snap his neck to stop him, but not before Danny Terio-Horschacky stabbed him in the belly. Regretful, he freed me from the closet and drove me to a bus station where I could contact my parents, and I asked him if he would be alright, and he said he would, but he was bleeding too bad and messing up the interior of his 1982 Pontiac Firebird. I got out and waved good-bye, knowing I'd never see him again, and that's how I managed to get away, but I don't know the way back.

Damn, that was good. I almost convinced myself I really was kidnapped. I suppose it's possible it's another real kidnapping from my TV days and I just repressed it or something, but I don't think so.

No matter what your reason, though, or how excellent and even poignant the story you make up is, fake kidnappings aren't worth the time. I should do a public service announcement like that. If you want money, hell, there's tons of easier ways to do it. Dealing drugs in minority neighborhoods is one way to make a fortune without ever drawing the attention of cops, but you have to be careful, because if you're a 20-year-old white girl selling heroin you might not be able to defend your turf well against local drug kingpins. But then again, maybe they'll appreciate your spunk. Make you a mascot for their drug trade or something.

And if you want attention, trust me, join a cult. It's like a legitimate kidnapping, drives the folks batshit and they give you a place to sleep and robes to wear. It's like a little vacation at a mind-control resort. Parents will even pay to have people kidnap you back, it's crazy cool. That's how we got my brother Poot back the first couple of cults he joined. Dad didn't pay the kidnapper, but he cooked some great steaks and we had a fun barbecue. The kidnapper was Freddy Mercury, but don't even get me started on that. I'm just trying to let all the kids know, if you're hard up for money or attention, sleeping in the woods and causing a national media frenzy is not always the answer. Sometimes. But not always.

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