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And that's fine. Or rather it's not fine, but I don't care enough to continue the fight. Instead I will try to do whatever I can to point people towards the few tolerable pieces of Christmas music in existence in the hopes that it will crowd out some of the flat-out terrible stuff from their holiday playlists.
Like, for instance, the Roots and Jimmy Fallon collaborating with Mariah Carey on a rendition of her "All I Want for Christmas Is You," performed with the same kind of kindergarten-music instrumentation as that used in their utterly delightful performance of "Call Me Maybe." Check it out after the jump.
I wasn't a Budden fan prior to seeing him onstage—I actually ended up at the show for a school assignment. I'd been taking a sociology class on youth subcultures in my final semester at Brandeis University in Waltham, Massachusetts, and part of the coursework for one particular project required my peers and me to attend a few hip-hop shows, much to my delight. But due to my overly packed schedule and the difficulty that comes with trying to see live music in a Boston suburb with few public transportation options, I wound up snapping up a ticket to see Joe Budden at Cambridge's Middle East Downstairs out of academic obligation rather than interest. Fortunately I had a comrade-in-arms in Alex, who shared my lack of interest in Budden.
Did you know that we have this weekly blog series called Variations on a Theme, in which Reader writers explore a subject each week on the Bleader? Like last week's The Next Four Years Week—did you read that? Isn't it coincidental that Thanksgiving falls this week—a holiday wherein eating a turkey is a trademark—and that everyone's talking about Pete Wells reviewing a turkey, e.g., a total failure or flop? What if Reader writers spend this week writing about various instances in which they have had to deal with reviewing or encountering a turkey?
Well, they will be. Check back on the Bleader all this week for Turkey Week, this week's Variations on a Theme.
Lately, the presidential debates are what come to mind when the word "debate" is mentioned (at least in America, and especially in the media), but the topic would be a prescient one even at a different time of the year. In media, whether it be print, televisual, or digital, the debate format is more popular than ever. News articles increasingly take a tack that will engender lively comments section—the website Slate has even created a Twitter hashtag that lampoons the publication's tendency to publish blatantly contrarian articles. Television news programs do less investigative journalism and more roundtable discussions between pundits who look like they want to do little more than promote their own brand. And Twitter and Facebook comment boxes (not to mention comment sections on websites) are unending sources of debates between friends, colleagues, acquaintances, friends of friends, people who don't know each other, and trolls.
In the current media landscape, debates are ubiquitous, so what better to write about? Tune in all this week to read Reader writers on the presidential debates, topics that are being debated, or the notion of debates. By the time it ends, we might decide to do soliloquy week as a respite.

The megaphone-toting preacher's words stuck with me throughout Lollapalooza. In a way he was right; if hell is a place that punishes people for overindulging in something by forcing it upon them in such quantity that what they once loved becomes vile beyond recognition, then festivals can certainly be a type of hell for anyone who eats, breathes, and sleeps music. Festivals are where cherished bands perform with sound systems so shoddy or poorly run that you regret ever seeing them live. Festivals are where you go—if you're my height at least—to stand on your tiptoes to get a peek at a musician the size of a thimble from the back of the crowd. They're where you ditch any semblance of politeness to muscle your way closer to the stage—only to end up next to a meathead bigger than nearly everyone in sight who's dead set on forcing everybody smaller than him within arm's reach to crowd surf against their will, and he's looking right at you. Festivals are places that trap you for days, stick you in swarming masses of people for hours upon hours, and invade your dreams even after the headliners have finished their "impromptu" encore. Festivals are often held during the hottest months of the year—the weather's quite a bit cooler than infernal fire and brimstone, but unfortunately real.

Disbelief
Remorse
Self-loathing
Indifference
Amusement
Happiness
Conviction
Pride
Indecision
Doubt
Shame
Acceptance
Of course with any good barbecue comes a deep roll call of condiments and a host of "salads"—chicken salad, potato salad, pasta salad, etc—prepared by invited guests, bless their hearts. Unfortunately for the salads, however, many contain the highly questionable, creamy white substance congealed from egg yolks, oil, salt, and vinegar.
More than its coconspirators (TV, DVD players, computers), air-conditioning has wounded us socially, torn us apart, and ruined communities, thereby strengthening the hand of our capitalist masters.
Believe it or not, shorties, Chicagoans once spent hot summer evenings outside—in yards and on front porches. It was stifling inside. Outside, there was at least the hope of a breeze.
"Yes," my friend responded.
"Nice. Where in Chicago are you from?"
"All over, Near North Side over here, Rogers Park over here. How about yourself?"
"Zion."