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Tuesday, September 09, 2003


261* Dept.

I love the smell of a subpoena in the morning.

Today, the mighty Recording Industry Association of America has finally come to its senses and started suing the holy living fuck out of 261 Internet freeloaders. It took them long enough to finally find the balls to stand up to the wife and kick her ne'er-do-well alcoholic brother off the couch before he eats the last of the Nutella and Marshmallow Fluff.

I can't tell you how much money my new electroclash/pots-n-pans band, Hipster Douchebag, has lost in royalties to the file-stealing world. Let's just say that the gold fixtures on the hot tub in the third floor library of the Hollywood compound are only 10 karat gold. If I want to soak surrounded by the calming opulence of the 24K, I have to take the private elevator all the way up to the roof deck and expose my delicate skin to the harsh LA clime. And my live-in elevator attendant, while quite limber and always game for a quick toss as I'm in transit between floors, has an annoying tendency to try and talk to me about her day once my needs have been met. So instead I harumph and suffer the indignity of the third floor "gold."

If only the legion pimple-faced thieves of Kazaa and Grokster would spend their allowance on our $8.99 maxi-single cover version of that new Beyoncé song (the name of which escapes me at the moment, but man alive is it catchy!), the LCD screen in my Expedition might have a 120-hour TiVo instead of the woefully inadequate 40-hour box. Don't these shortsighted digital filchers understand that the B-side is a remix of the single with a drum machine instead of live drums? I spell it V-A-L-U-E.

It's about time we started getting tough on crime. I've gone on the record as being tough on criminals. Once, a tip from me led the loss-prevention team at my local pharmacy from surrendering a pack of strawberry Big League Chew to the dishonest hands of a shifty-eyed 12-year-old. I offered to gnaw off the child's index finger and spit it in the face of the girl's mother, whose inadequate parenting had led us to that unfortunate crossroads in the waif's life. But the security guard let me kick her in the shins after Mom offered to pay for the gum. I don't often visit the lawless badlands that the pharmacy has since become. Their spinelessness in the face of their certain economic ruin makes it impossible for me to enjoy my egg cream while flipping through the latest issue of Wallpaper.

I guess there's little else to do but wait for the next round of RIAA lawsuits. The guys from Metallica called me to invite me over to watch the first trial on Court TV next month. Lars is going to make popcorn. I'm not a huge fan of their music, but we have to stick together in these dangerous days if Hipster Douchbag is going to claw its way up the TRL charts and into my third "Cribs" episode. I don't want to be remembered as merely a writer with a bumpin' domicile. I need my gold records casually propped up in the background as I absentmindedly open the door to my Sub-Zero, revealing a rack of Cristal chilling.

This can only happen if the file-sharing banditos of the Internet are brought to heel by the power of right and litigated back to the Rock & Pop section of their local Virgin Megastore.

Thank you and God bless the RIAA.

About this site

This is the internet home of Mark Lisanti, a Los Angeles writer sometimes known as Bunsen. He is the founding editor of Defamer, a weblog about Hollywood, where he now serves in the nebulous capacity of "editor-at-large."
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