Rock Band Bush Forgotten in Record Time

neaking up on an enduring place in music history like an albino in a snowstorm, the platinum-selling English grunge band Bush has dropped completely from public memory in record time, a study found Tuesday. Previous record holders The Escape Club could not be reached for comment, as nobody could remember who was in the band or what they looked like.

Bush rose to fame behind the success of their 1994 album Sixteen Stone, which sold over 15 million copies worldwide and settled hundreds of bets over how long it would take alternative rock to turn into Def Leppard. Bristling under the weight of overwhelmingly poor reviews and tired of not being taken seriously by anyone over the age of fourteen, Bush donned indie producer Steve Albini like a credibility hat for the release of their second album, 1996's Razorblade Suitcase. Despite sporting an title that Spinal Tap thought was artsy, the album was another critical failure, sending the band into a deep prettyboy funk. They returned in 1999 with The Science of Things, an attempt to succeed where U2 had failed, by half-heartedly aping popular trends in techno music and alienating every last one of their fans.

Bush drew massive ire from music critics and hipsters on both continents for their 2000 release We're Nirvana, then promptly dropped off the face of the planet when the record-buying public lost its taste for generic bands copying good bands and developed a passion for homogeneously generic bands and rich white teens pretending to be angry and black.

Tuesday's report included a poll of over 3,000 households, none of whom could recall the grunge quartet in any meaningful fashion. Polls of the commune staff and random yokels on the street provided similar results.

Professional man-on-the-street Rodney Brown came the closest to remembering the band with his comment "What was their big song? Crazy Train?"

Others were not so lucky. commune reporter Lil Duncan feigned memory of the band with her claim to have toured with Bush as a groupie in the mid-90's, but her stories of wild debauchery and pharmaceutical excess quickly revealed the band in question to actually have been Scottish uberdorks The Proclaimers.

Other staff members confused the band with similarly forgotten, yet not completely eclipsed pop acts such as The Crash Test Dummies, Fun Lovin' Criminals and Frente.

"I got it. They were the ones with the two drummers, and the guitar player would always get naked for the last song," convenience store clerk Rasham Levin nodded with barrel-scraping conviction.

Whoever the members of Bush were could not be reached for comment as of press time.

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My parents are having a trial separation right now. I think that's the word—what's it called when your dad wallops your mom in the head with a brick and they lock him up? That's what's going on anyhow.

It's nothing new for the Coleman clan, but I can understand the police getting all upset about it seeing as how a brick is real hard and stuff. It's not like dad meant to hurt her, they were just re-modeling the place and there's not a lot of soft stuff to grab when you get suddenly enraged, so a brick was handy. The irony is super, though, since they were in the police station to bail my uncle Luke out. At least dad didn't have to suffer that humiliating ride downtown in handcuffs.

If you ask me, and I know I'm asking me, Uncle Luke should have known better. I like him and all, but if the judge throws the book at him I'll understand perfectly. Uncle Luke made a bet that the cops can't bust you for possession if the weed is sitting in the passenger seat while you're driving, like it defies technical definitions of possession. I was educated by a poorly-paid on-set tutor and even I know anywhere in your car counts as possession, it's like a big pocket in the eyes of the law. Anyway, it was sour grapes for dad since all the money he won on the bet had to be used to bail Uncle Luke out. And now he's in the cooler and has no money still.

They've already arraigned dad and denied bail. Not for the assault, but since the judge said dad was pretending to be black. Yeah, I didn't even know judges could do that, it's new to me. The judge called it contempt, but dad called him a motherfucker so they're at a standstill—dad's in jail and will probably be there until the next hearing. At least until he apologizes to the judge or brings in some genealogical evidence there's an African-American in his family tree. I'm betting the last one will be the more likely thing to happen.

Now my mom doesn't want to live at home while he's "visiting orange jumpsuit camp," so she's pushing hard to live with me. I've actually already agreed to it, but she hasn't shown up yet—you pay $69 for a bus ticket and it takes forever before you get your mother. It's gonna be hellish living conditions, I know that up front, but she should do all the cooking and cleaning since it's her way of dominating everybody, just like the shrink said. Call me crazy (he did), but I don't mind being a little domination if it means French toast for breakfast and clean towels in the bathroom.

It's just temporary, I've laid down the law about that. Dad is bound to get a suspended sentence like last time and once he's out, she's out. I don't want this to be some kind of sneak plan to move in with me now that my new show is about to take off. I separated all my bank accounts from theirs when I was 18, and they were eager to do it, too—now that I'm riding high again it's just their tough luck if I've actually got money in it.

The show is still in post-production and negotiations, which means it's not on TV and may never be, but there's still a reasonable assumption it could be. This is the part of the business I hate. Actually, I'm not too fond of the auditioning, the rehearsing, the taping, reading the boring scripts, looking over contracts and seeking work, and the acting part is a little stupid, too. I suppose if they paid me money and just showed me on TV all the time that would be cool. But once again, I haven't figured out how to get on The Real World. It probably involves auditioning, too. But I've still got the mom situation to deal with in the meantime, and if she's not here by tomorrow I'll have to file a claim with Greyhound or something.

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"Cakes are for baking
and rakes are for raking,"
declared Paul Von Nosberg
Von Shaking.
"Numerous studies
have indicated the same thing,"
he said as he buffed
his large amethyst ring.
"Ships are for shipping
and chips are for chipping,"
he continued,
though little encouragement came.
"Though not for dipping,
as dips are made for the same."

"Meats are for meeting,
and fleas are but fleeting,"
he pondered as he scratched his strange chin.
"And therefore ticks are for tickling,
and sticks are all sticky,"
his eyes lit as he grinned a pontificant grin.
"In tombs filled with tumors…
you cough in your coffin.
And in day old-canoe,
in robes made for rowing
we paddle with oars but not witches…"

"Which witch grabbed the oar or the paddle,
which, padded, was added to the boat for an ad, which I wrote?
Do not eat a donut in shorts that show nuts if you're grown-up.
And if you groan up tree number three, which is a Douglas fir,
doubtless fur will fall in the Fall,
as chipmunks who live with hens within when scared are given not to shitting but, as ought to, shedding."

"I met a man named Mark who I avoided,
lest my hands turn black.
But I was quite keen on Carrie,
since I had some heavy boxes waiting around the back.
I met Robbie in the lobby and when I did I clutched my handbag tight.
I thought Will was too determined, and Davie kept me up at night.
Hal I found quite funny
Bill just wanted my money
As did Sue, though she was less polite."

"Charles burnt my hot dogs,
Bertha goes into labor every time she jogs,
Miles made me wait too long,
Paul kept humming this depressing song,
John pissed me off,
Dusty made me cough,
Pat was too touchy-feely,
Lisa's monthly payments kept her from living freely,
Sharon had nothing of her own,
and Peter?"

"He was just a dick."

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