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.

ext Wednesday will mark the first anniversary of the Sept. 11^th attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, a day of tragedy that made Americans pause from their normal lives and rally together in support of the victims. In addition to fears of new terrorist attacks on the anniversary, most Americans are uncertain how to commemorate the event. Already, however, most are expected to resume their habits of complaining about the smallest of problems.

"I hope they give us the day off at work," said Texas cell phone salesman Bob Whiterich. "It's like a national tragedy and crap. How are people supposed to work on a day like that? And if I knew I could take a couple of vacation days Monday and Tuesday and head to the beach with the family."

Most companies and government agencies have decided against imposing a holiday, feeling the anniversary would be spent better keeping businesses and services functioning as normal. Even plans for restricting air travel on Sept. 11^th have been declined, feeling the statement to the rest of the world, including Muslim extremists believed to have launched the attacks, is a stronger exclamation of solidarity and a country affected, yet not shaken in their resolve by terrorism.

Mark Turnskit, a 42-year-old UPS driver and volunteer fireman in Piermont, North Dakota, however, thinks that is bullshit.

"It's bullshit, man," said Turnskit. "We need a day to remember the importance of it all and stuff. I have a lot of friends back east, in Ohio. A cousin of one of them was married to a firefighter and I think he may have been in the World Trade Center disaster and stuff. I haven't talked to them in a long time—I don't write letters and all, you know, and I don't have their e-mail address or anything. The worst part is not knowing."

Added Turnskit, "I'm a firefighter, so I know what it's like. I could have been in that place just as easy as all the guys who were."

California telemarketer Steve Gerber has made no change in plans for Sept. 11^th. "What is that, a Wednesday? I don't imagine I'll have time to think about the loss of lives and how great it is to live in a country that is still the most secure and wealthiest on the planet. Maybe some time in the evening, after work, if there's something on the Discovery Channel talking about it or—aw, shit. West Wing is on that night, right?"

"I would take a minute or two to stop and think about life and death and all that," said Howett, Tennessee factory worker Milt Darling, "but the Dodge has been crapping out on me a lot, lately. I'll probably have to worry about getting a ride to work. Life's so fucking unfair, man."

Decatur, Georgia realtor Shari Cartier summed up the feelings of most Americans on the subject: "It will be a dark day. This has been the greatest tragedy in history of all time. Something like 6,000 people died—that's more than died in Vietnam, you know. But, c'mon, I got my own life to worry about. Those damn Peel St. properties aren't going to move themselves. And the kids can't take themselves to karate."

The most significant commemoration of the day, outside of New York and Washington, D.C., is likely to come from Perkins, Nebraska, where button collector and local crackpot Vernon Heston is planning on building a scale model of the World Trade Center towers out of Popsicle sticks. Although, according to Heston, if the price of Popsicles continues to skyrocket, the whole thing will be scrapped.

I hope all of you are content to die in the middle of the night, having accomplished all in life you set out to do. Because it is certain to happen shortly. The world is about to be destroyed by ominous forces from another world or plane of existence and no one will believe me. I suppose that is what really bothers me about it all.

Oh, make no mistake, good people—Rokwell T. Finger has no urge to die. Certainly there's a lot I have left to do in life, like anything substantial at all. Or eat a green apple, that always seemed like a wild experience I wanted to try at least once. But none of that matters now (refer back to first paragraph)—it's about to become dust in the wind, like the band Kansas. I think they also had a song by that title.

These aliens, who will be destroying us imminently, made one mistake: They foolishly broadcast their secret correspondence on Channel 26, the local UPN affiliate, thinking nobody was watching. Lucky for the earth I really enjoy that The Parkers television show. Then again, nobody believes my tale of the invasion, so I suppose the aliens did not make one mistake.

The aliens—or other-dimensional earthling beings, I don't want to sound ignorant to them if they aren't from outerspace—are small, green men that appear to exist in minimal dimensions. I could hear their alien war jargon, and most of it sounded like unintelligible nonsense. Words like "fudge-striped" and "chocolicious" were tossed about as they prepared to stomp the earth flat. Without the help of a translator, I could only guess at their plans by the sinister looks on their small faces. That brown goo-firing gun of theirs spoke volumes to me alone.

This is not another "War of the Worlds" radio broadcast, I assure you—these aliens aren't martians. To mistake them for martians would be to seriously miscalculate and risk losing casualties to their goo-gun, and I'm sure it would offend them as well. Which is not how I want to start my future life as a slave, should we fail to stop them.

Still no one will believe me. It really pisses me off. I can live with getting killed, the insulting part is to realize your friends and co-workers place absolutely no value in your judgment. One even suggested the signal I intercepted was a television advert for some kind of candy product. This is what I get for working with a gaggle of hippies, beatniks, and fruitcakes—they'll believe anything. Except for me. Why won't they believe me?

Needless to say, knowing what I know, I plan on living these last few possible days to their fullest. I've worn my best underwear, straight out of the drawer (no waiting for Saturday now; every day will be wear the nice underwear day) and I've begun writing that play on Norm Abrams that I've always dreamed about. I've also taken to reading The Golf Bible for myself—not just skimming it, but really reading it. And I've begun writing out my will, which will surely be the filler for my next column should this whole thing turn out to be some sort of mix-up. But I'm reasonably sure we're going to die, so I'm not worried about that.

In the meantime, hug your children tight and perform dangerous erotic acts on your loved ones with care, certain that it may be the last time. Maybe these mysterious Keeblers will be thwarted, but it won't be by anyone here at the commune.

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