Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you the all time heavyweight champion of overheated hyperbolic schadenfreude in the name of critical epistemology concerning modern popular music---Nick Tosches! “The Box Why is this box different from all other boxes? The answer is nine-fold; irony abounds. Its spine is predolated. A hint of verdrian lake at the upper right-hand spinal corner. Spinal imprinting is off center. Intentional so as to affect casualness? Unintentional, the fault of the paste-up man or production assemblist? Conjecture reigns. Mainly on the plains. Acoustics: a pen placed on the hollow of the box takes on the obsidian and macabre aire of silence. When shaken in a regularized forward-backward pattern, one is reminded of the somnorific chuga-chuga-chuga of a trans-continental express train. A lighted cigarette in the box and shaken alternates mammalian thud with hushed anguish, ember ‘gainst cardboard. Imprinting: front and back. “Chicago” as sole dominant hieratic, empiricized, stately lection, the last remaining leaf of autumn. Timeliness: as perishable and auto-obsolescent as all get out. Will dissipate into a laughable-looking piece of spineless crap within a decade. This could have been prevented by re-inforced binding. The rectangular opening of the box veritably reeks of the ricorsic saga of Man. If only it could speak! What wonders it might unfurl for the curious and callow ears and young at heart alike. Nor Byron with his lecher limp, nor Poe with his starry stare, nor Villon, that petty thief and pimp, but the sere testament of muted existence. Once a sapling, now pulp. It might be used as a large, rather unorthodox dice-shaking cup if one is actually quite stupid. This and Linear B have perplexed scientists for years, simply years. For a total of five exterior planar surfaces involved in the whole kit ‘n’ kaboodle, the angular vectors are only slightly less than unique. It cannot house a runaway child. The implications are myriad, the teeth shiny and white. Dental Floss. Vitamin D. Nibbling the coronal regions, lips parted softly wet. All while it quietly snowed outside. What we have here is a historical process.” This is from “The Nick Tosches Reader”, a collection of his writings from his first published work in the late 60’s up to 2000. It has an even more caustic review of Black Sabbath’s “Paranoid”, so scabrous and scatological as to be unpostable in this forum.