The Contrarian

Give Ben Stein Money. . . By Jebson Interlandi

"Darwin said nothing about how life originated."

Who wants to have some fun today? The above quote is from Ben Stein during his appearance on the Glenn Beck show back in 2007. Stein, famous for his classroom-cameo monotones (and speeches for Nixon), released a film in February called Expelled: No Intelligence Allowed. The "documentary" argues for the inclusion of "Intelligent Design" discussions in the public realm, particularly in the classroom.

Although I've yet to see the film, Stein's primary objective seems to be questioning Darwin's Theory of Evolution. Stein suggests that since it hasn't yet explained the origins of existence, Intelligent Design should be entertained as an alternate hypothesis.

Nothing seems to illicit as much bitter back-and-forth as Creationism vs. Evolution, but no one ever talks about how fundamentally STUPID and INEFFECTIVE the entire dispute is. In fact, actual debate between these two worlds is simply impossible. Supposition and science are totally different things.

Now, I'm not an expert. But from my understanding, a theory is an argument that can be falsified through processes of experimentation. In some cases, a theory becomes law, such as the Law of Gravity. Intelligent Design is a claim stating supernatural power(s) deliberately created all Life. It is not a theory, since it can neither be proved or disproved. It's merely somebody's assertion.

Of course, some in the scientific community posit that Existence is the result of a Big Bang, Cosmic Egg, or Electrical Bolt to the Mud Puddle, but these are only guesses. Frankly, this is all anyone can do. Yet there are key differences between empiricism and assumption. Intelligent Design is a conjectural activity with a supernatural worship agenda. Evolution is a theory regarding an ongoing process of adaptation and survival. Evolution utilizes a different critical framework than Creationism, rendering debate between the two futile.

Stein is troubled that Darwin didn't answer how life began or how cells came to be, and his counter-proposal is Intelligent Design. On a recent Bill O'Reilly segment, Stein claimed that supporters of ID are failing to be heard. Hey Stein, guess what? Since at least the days of Thales, every fucking thinker has been discussing and speculating about the supernatural or natural origins of life. The mythological arguments have been made and are certainly well known. They continue to be claims and guesses; that's all they will ever be.

To be fair, Stein is mostly concerned with modern frames of discourse. Scientists and other professionals do run a risk of  harassment if they voice religious beliefs. Freedom of speech still stands, but pointing out the possibility of God or Tiamut is frowned upon in the scientific community, mostly because it's irrelevant to their work. The aim of experimentation and research is to achieve results, and simply saying the world may have been created is unnecessary.

I've said it before: if Intelligent Design wants a place in the classroom the teachers better be prepared to address every single Creation Story known on this planet, as they are all equally possible and impossible. You say Jehovah, I say Uranus.

O'Reilly asks: "Why can't you just mention in Biology class, or whatever class you want, that there are theologians who believe a higher power was responsible for first life?"

Most children do, in fact, know there are theologians who believe in higher powers. Hell, even Secular Progressives are aware of the concept. If you are wondering why public schools don't educate on supernatural primogenitors, it's because we have churches for that. So if you want spoon-fed answers to the unanswerable, you've got a place to go, and plenty of flavors to choose from.

I've heard it suggested that Stein is only in this racket for the money. By rallying for controversial Creationism, Stein is guaranteed attention, publicity and a fatter wallet. Now that's a decent theory.

La Dolce Vita and Soak Me in Cognac. . . By Jebson Interlandi

For the past twelve days, I’ve been sauntering through the healthy climes of Italy. When the Prez first gave word of my “assignment,” I booked a flight to Palermo and eagerly waited my expense check. This was his faxed memo to yours truly:

“Foreign Correspondent Interlandi: The Contrarian will provide supplies and means for your immediate travel to Cefalu, Sicily, in order for you to take photographs of Aleister Crowley’s Abbey of Thelema. Western Union has your money."

It could’ve been my Great Shark Hunt, but that cheap bastard of a Prez only wired me 15 bucks with a pathetic note: “Hey Jeb, be sure to learn about Cefalu and have some 'Za on me." Luckily, I had recently won a fair amount of cash in a game of chance with some street urchins in Amsterdam. Let that be a lesson to those scamps — never bet against a blue-eyed Italian on a hasheesh bender.

My time in Cefalu was flush with hiking, sun, gelato, vin della casa and seafood. On the last day I finally managed to find Crowley’s old residence, which proved to be a difficult search as there are no signs advertising its whereabouts. Situated beside the soccer stadium, the decrepit compound of that charismatic and influential magus still stands, enshrouded in palm tree-overgrowth.

The house has surely seen better days — its roof is crumbling away and the rooms are littered with rubble. In fact, there’s no reason at all to visit the Abbey, other than to see Crowley’s now-faded artwork on the sanctum's innermost walls.

I experienced a warm, tingling sensation, however, as I stood on the floor where Crowley once performed his unique rituals. Hashish, goats, yoga, sodomy, cocaine, Egyptian incantations, 69ing. . . the energy still lingers. No, not really. Any sensations come solely from the historical imagination. But all in all, it was pretty cool:

The Wickedest Bungalow in the World.

Rec Room Window of the Damned.

DirectTV Antenna picks up "Cooking with the Scarlet Lady (a.k.a. Rachael Ray.)"

Satan's housekeeper is clearly on vacation.

The smiley cock-boobs demon makes you feel right at home.

Translation: Perdurabo gives good head.

Better soak me in Michelob Ultra instead — I'm counting carbs.

A similar design can be found in the Romney family room.

If you want to know how it all really went down during those dark nights at Thelema, watch this clip. Yes, that is Ron Jeremy as the priest.

After Sicily I took a Ferry to Naples. I’m not a fan of that burg, and I don’t expect I’ll ever go back.

Rome is, other than Paris, my favorite city for overall aesthetics. Any metropolis that's laden with statues and fountains (especially fountains) naturally wins my endorsement.

My favorite region in all of Italy is Cinque Terre. On the northern coast of the Mediterranean, these 5 coastal villages are all connected by an 8 mile hiking trail with bedazzling views of the verdant surroundings. The ambrosial air is perfumed with a sweet, floral fragrance. I also read a lot of Maupassant and Gautier on this trip.

Last stop was Florence, which is another open-air museum. I thank The Contrarian for granting me a period of renewal and professional leisure.

For anyone interested in Aleister Crowley, you might like to know there’s a new book on the way entitled, Aleister Crowley and the Temptation of Politics by Marco Pasi (my current professor). The English translation should hit the stores in a month or two.

Picking Scabs. . . By Jebson Interlandi

There really hasn't been anything to write about, plus the last few weeks I've spent in isolation slowly becoming a non-credentialed Rabelaisian scholar. My descent into total Nerdness (even more so for using that word) is nearly complete.

I feel like it's 1989 and I'm tossing and turning all night in anticipation of Back to the Future II. These days my adrenal flux is capacitated by the 15 minute Islam-critical film, Fitna, produced by Dutch MP, Geert Wilders. It's too exciting. The release is set for March 29th and shit is going down. Protests, the burning of Dutch flags, name-calling, petitions, etc. I was set to attend the initial screening, but my physician has forbade my presence, saying there is a potential "health-risk."

Supposedly, the film will be available for viewing at www.fitnathemovie.com a day or two before April 1st. I'll plug it one more time when it's out. It'll probably be pure shit, but it's worth watching.

While I'm here, I should review Nick Cave's latest: Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!! I think I'm beating Casey to the review here at The Contrarian. Sorry, buddy. [S'cool. I just turned in my review to Washington City Paper - ED.]

I like it. "Albert Goes West" and "More News From Nowhere" are my favorite songs, by far. Great lyrics on "We Call Upon the Author." 11 tracks. Less piano-oriented Cave writing. That's it, that's my review. I guess it will be released in April — in America. Here's a taste:

"We Call Upon the Author".mp3

A little while back, there was discussion over here about banning piggie-banks. This was meant to be a response to Wilders, the aforementioned ultra-conservative. By getting rid of pork-related icons, the Dutch Government was hoping to demonstrate tolerance and compassion for the Muslim population. I can't wait for the day when Jainism catches on in the U.S.A and we rally together to place a ban on fly-swatters. Respect.

Bullseye on the Podium. . . By Jebson Interlandi

Not a cartoon depiction of the Prophet Mohammed.

It's heating up over here. The Netherlands, as I'm sure everyone knows by now, is dealing with a few sensitive conflicts regarding, what else? Religion. Big controversy over this anti-Islamic film produced by Geert Wilders, a right-wing MP. On top of that, there are the ongoing vehement protests against Danish and Dutch satirical cartoon depictions of Mohammed. I'm not sure I should go near this issue, to be honest. 

The Iranian government is pissed off.  Gholam Hossein Elham, the recently appointed Iranian Justice Minister, is pleading for an official ban of the film. Then there are several Dutch government reps wanting to prohibit burqas from being worn in public places. Turkish and Moroccan Muslims are adding significantly to the Dutch population and reactions to this are varied. How will things play out in the next ten years?  A famously liberal and tolerant country confronted with a belief-system (like most belief-systems) that is famously repressive and restrictive. My position is simple: I'm always on the side of satire, iconoclasm, and freedom of expression — and when I say freedom, I'm referring to more than the freedom to prostrate oneself in the wake of some "holy" mortal's worldview.

A cartoon, a movie?  The way I see it, if you're truly secure with your own faith and beliefs, it shouldn't matter what anybody says about them. Actions are another matter, of course. I hope Mr. Wilders takes necessary precautions — particularly in light of activist/director  Theo Van Gogh's 2004 tragic end, which was motivated in part by his films.

Spoken, written, or illustrated criticisms of morals and beliefs should have no damaging affect on a mind that is strong and secure in said opinions. That's the way I see it, anyway. But I suppose this outlook will inevitably hinder my own bid for longevity.

But enough of that. I just came up with a fun activity to get our collective blood pressures back to normal.

Check this out: I've hung around my fair share of universities and colleges, attending Middlebury College's prestigious "Essay Camp" and Dartmouth College's 2003 summer "Talent Seminar." I love to look at course catalogs. Education is the cat's ass, no doubt, but academia is yet another self-contained, self-validating structure with plenty to mock.  If I ever become Dean of my own university here are a few courses you'll see in my personally devised curriculum:

Vegetarian Ethics

Blue Collar Sympathies: Understanding Hidrosis

Feeling Roth: Van Halen and Postmodern Discourse Theory

Secondary Narcotic Knowledge

Modern Methodology in Blues and Suffering

Foucalt's Perineum: Tickling Suppressed Fancies in the Communication Age

Klezmer Bass Lines in a Global Economy

Eh? This could become a regular feature here at The Contrarian.  The Contrarian Curriculum?  Good lord, this is severely corny.  But it puts a smile on my face, at least. [Maybe it can put money in our pockets, too! -ED]

So, I just discovered this television show called "The Sopranos." It used to be on HBO and I guess it's about the Mafia or something rad like that. It's even got Steve Buscemi. Remember in Fargo when Buscemi gets put into that machine and it cuts him up? That was awesome.

Githead and Rocco. . . By Jebson Interlandi

A young Jebson Interlandi and his now-deceased twin brother show their political stripes.

Since living in Amsterdam, I've been on vacation from American politics, and it's been highly refreshing. But as Timmy Leary would say, it's time again to get down on all fours. I'm pretty excited, for my own perverse reasons. And regardless of the primary's outcome, in a historical sense, progress has been made.

I've already lost fifty dollars because of a bet made over the summer in which I predicted the general election to be between John Edwards and Rudy Giuliani.  Clearly, my political augury is lukewarm.  Anybody care to make a wager on Barack Obama/John McCain?  The odds are in your favor.

What I anticipate  most is witnessing the rallies and fervent displays of the supporters waving signs and explaining their dim reasons for "liking" their candidate. This is the season when that innate instinctual urge comes out in people — that magnetic pull towards worship. Whether in religion, politics, music, literature, film, etc., we tend to seek icons to bolster up and place on the pedestal while we kneel down, eagerly waiting to be sprayed with their charismatic discharge.

Seen through the most cynical lens, one could say we're looking at a compacted fecal log — a regurgitated colonic composite, passed through the polypoid anus of humanity, dropped on the grass and then swarmed by coprophilic flies.

I'm more of an optimist, at least for today, so I prefer to view this phenomenon in a different light. Perhaps, regardless of whether our testes drop or our mammary glands expand, we retain our infantile urge to grasp at the nearest parental finger. That finger, whoever it belongs to, offers a degree of hope. A symbolic way of replacing posters on the wall — Don Mattingly to John Lennon to Bob Marley to William Burroughs to Ronald Reagan to Jimmy Carter to Jesus to the Dalai Lama to Chris Rock to a mirror, etc.

Yes, yes.  I look forward to watching things heat up in the election.  More icons for our dissection.

Speaking of icons, on Tuesday night I went to the famous Paradiso to see Colin Newman. When I first arrived at the old cathedral-turned-music-venue, I walked into the main-stage area where Tower of Power were wankin' and blowin.' I had to catch a glimpse of their bassist, Rocco Prestia out of respect from my Berklee days. Though I can't stand the music he plays, Rocco is the sixteenth-note king and a champion of carpal-tunnel.

On the second stage was Colin Newman's band, Githead. Newman is one of those musical icons who deserves more recognition than he gets. He was in the influential London band, Wire (est. 1976), who are another example of an act benefiting from exposure to Brian Eno. I'm a big fan of his two solo albums, A-Z (1980) and Commercial Suicide (1987). You may recognize his song, "Alone," from the Silence of the Lambs soundtrack.  Anyway, Githead was mediocre at best — it was clear they had rehearsed maybe twice. But the gear-geek quotient was considerable, as they sported two Line 6 guitars paired with Roland amps. 

I suppose my standards for live bands are too high. I either want them to be such good friends it appears they're constantly sharing an inside joke and the audience laughs even though they don't get it, or I want them to hate each other so much the drummer pretends his snare drum is Sting. (Or, if the drummer doesn't happen to be in The Police, then some other band member.)

Here's "Life on Deck"  from Newman's solo album, A-Z. It's a fine example of his talent for climactic songwriting.

MP3: Colin Newman — "Life on Deck"

If you have 10 minutes to spare, I encourage you to listen to this recent Wire track, "23 Years Too Late," from their November 2007 release, Read and Burn 03.  It's long and repetitive, but it's a literary gem with Newman's accentuated voice controlling the choruses. Enjoy.

MP3: Wire — "23 Years Too Late"

One last thing, "Sexy Sadie" passed away in Vlodrop over here on Tuesday.  Peace be with you.

Even Steven. . . By Jebson Interlandi

Sweet Georgia Brown, as Chris Peterson once exclaimed.  I'm on the pinnacle, dear readers. The peak has been reached, and the summit looks lush. I may have to plummet downwards, but not yet.

Casey and Brooke recently took in a new feline, and this is good news. The windy whims led this cat towards the right home, and there will be a valuable reciprocity. I, too, have taken in an affectionate creature and am compelled to share my newfound love.

I'm proud to declare that a 2001 Rickenbacker 650 Colorado has entered my life. I know it's not quite the same as a sentient being, but it is a provider and receiver of love. I've been craving a Rick since high school and now I have one to hold, to caress, and to confide in. Look at her, my fellow artisans, and behold her beauty:

Well, this is my immediate source of joy, and I'm reveling in it. On the other hand, I'm also the recent victim of massive disappointment.

A few days ago, I was asked to play bass with The Aztext in Jamaica for eleven days. If I wasn't living in Amsterdam, there would've been no hesitation. Unfortunately, I can't do it. Now I've returned to the prime meridian.

Learic, a good friend of mine and an MC with The Aztext, is one of the few adept wordsmiths I know. He is a genuine super-emcee. I can be quite prolix, in fact, and Casey and I used to used to engage in awe-inspiring freestyle bouts. But I never could compete with Learic.  A mere 15 seconds was all I could handle against the oratorical oracle. Seriously, this guy plucks electric words from the flux of the encircling swirl, all the words in the world, shucked like pearls, retrieved from the ocean and put into motion with impressive devotion. For the record, I wrote that without hesitation, no time for cessation, a real revelation.  Still got it.

I hope everyone reading knows about  The Aztext and their second album, The Sacred Document. Pro, Learic, and DJ Big Kat have talent. I only know a handful of people with genuine talent, so I don't make proclamations like these often. Indeed, The Sacred Document should be in your possession.

A Seinfeld analogy, if I may: Elaine's Jujyfruit-stuffed mouth may kill Pendant Publishing. George's opposite-approach may land him a job with the New York Yankees.  I'm left in the middle.  Even Steven.  At least for today.

A Couple of Things. . . By Jebson Interlandi

A good friend of mine, Jeff Weigand, recently told me to check out M.I.A’s new album, Kala. I’m not typically into the female pop icon, but in this case, I’ve developed a genuine crush. I only like three songs from the album, my favorite being "Paper Planes," which was a recent victim of censorship on Letterman and MTV. I find myself addicted, and I still have no logical answer for this. Something gives her a unique quality you won’t find among America's rehab-prone, pampered pop infants. Maybe it’s the climate of her native Sri Lanka.

I suppose I may as well reveal (way ahead of schedule) some other news regarding my aforementioned pal Jeff. Taang Records will be reissuing two important albums that I encourage you all to pick up. The Bright Orange Years and All Night Lotus Party were two great LPs released by the Boston band the Volcano Suns back in ’85 and ’86. The band’s lineup at the time (and arguably the best) was Jeff on bass, Jon Williams on guitar, and Peter Prescott (Mission of Burma) on lead vocals and drums. The albums have been out of print for quite a while, but thanks to the gracious re-mastering of Bob Weston (Volcano Suns, Shellac), they should be available for purchase in April. Consider this a heads up, for now.

I find myself missing the US these days. Over here in the Netherlands, the biggest news is that the Dutch are no longer the tallest people on Earth. But, turning to American news I find, aside from Dr. Phil's attempted rescue of Britney, a story on a little girl's essay claiming her daddy died in Iraq. Apparently, the kid's mother prompted her to lie in order to win tickets to a Hannah Montana concert. Slag the Stars 'n' Stripes if you must, but I will continue to defend our country's culture with pride and vigor.

I'll leave you with M.I.A's video for "Paper Planes," my favorite song of the week:

Death of a Glutton. . . By Jebson Interlandi

Insignificant Man Officially Bored With Food

This would've been a familiar headline had the Associated Press bought my story. I suppose they don't consider my sated appetite newsworthy. Jerks.

Yes, it's true. After seven years of intense eating and drinking, I've officially lost interest in culinary comestibles and gustatory treasures. Sporting a paunch since age 21, I've consumed megalithic proportions of all that is ingestible. Ever since my first raw oyster at age 6, I've been a confirmed seafood junkie. The memories. . .

Sun-dried cutlets of octopus on the beaches of Ios; steamed snails followed by raw mussels and french-fries in the streets of Brussels; Egyptian pigeon with a view of the pyramids; gnawing on rabbit bones in the hillocks of Delphi. The list goes on and on. Elk jerky, pig's stomach, calves liver, goat, frog legs, bratwurst, quail’s eggs, etc. You name it. It was not uncommon for me to conquer an entire Clam Supreme pizza in one sitting. I’ve glutted my way around Europe, to be sure — always washing down my daily feasts with ale, retzina, absinthe, whisky, ouzo, raki, reds and whites…

Those days are behind me now, thanks to the holiday season. After spending several days in Germany, stuffing my gob with schnitzel and drowning myself in liters of smoked beer, I’ve retired from my epicurean ways. My attraction to food has been quelled.

Aside from gaining a newfound respect for moderation, I also managed to steep myself in historical Germany over the holiday break. Bamberg and Munich, in particular, offered a few cathedrals in which I took temporary retreat through a timeless space. I’ve got a thing for Gothic aesthetics and their effects on the senses.

Christmas day was spent with the family in Dachau. This was a far more poignant and somber occasion. Walking through that wrought iron gate was a difficult step into a not-so-distant reality. It’s almost impossible to prevent the tears from welling up. Germany’s first concentration camp, Dachau began as a baleful prison for political dissenters, mostly journalists and academics. We all know the events that followed. I suppose this is the reason I’m deeply thankful for checks and balances. . . well, the idea of checks and balances, anyway.

New Years' in London was the end of my holiday hiatus. I was caught in a mob along the Thames, unable to see any of the fireworks emblazoning the sky due to the heavy fog. That was no problem. There was champagne being passed around.

Oh yeah, when I was in Brussels prior to Germany, I accidentally stumbled into Main Square, catching an impressive sound and light show using the windows and towers of the King’s House (a huge palace/cathedral-like building). The finale was Queen’s "Bohemian Rhapsody."  Never before was I in such strong need of good hash.

I hope everybody else made merry. I’m off to buy tickets for Colin Newman and Billy Bragg. I’m feeling hungry. Perhaps I’ll stop for a raw herring sandwich chased with sheep’s bile.

Too Much Fun. . . By Jebson Interlandi

"The 5,000-capacity park will be the first of its kind in Britain, but not in the world. In Orlando, Florida, hundreds of thousands of visitors make pilgrimages to the Holy Land Experience, where they can see a bloodied Jesus forced to carry his cross by snarling Roman soldiers."

This is, without doubt, my favorite planet. Perusing the Guardian today, I came across Big News. To challenge Darwin's theory of evolution, the AH Trust (Christian Businessmen) have tactfully decided to erect a Creationist Theme Park somewhere in Northwest England. Brilliant.

3.5 million dollars spent, in true Christian fashion, on things people need. I immediately wondered if this Genesis-based fantasyland was in response to an existing Evolution Theme Park. Turns out, this is not the case. [ED - too bad; we could've taken a staff field trip!]

Now, I don't care whether a person bases their understanding of the world on evolution or creationist theory, but come on. . . let's at least be fair. The major problem I have with creationists is their blatant pro-Genesis bias. If you want to teach creationism, go for it. Just keep in mind there's a plethora of creation myths, each one deserving equal attention. If the Apaches exist, surely they were created as they say they were. A valid creationist curriculum should contain origin legends for EVERYBODY — Babylonian, Egyptian, Chinese, Maori, Hopi, Aztec, Norse and so forth. The list is long and remarkably detailed: in the beginning there were blood clots, clay, dust, ribs, eggs, the Big Sneeze, water, chaos, the sky raining semen into the vaginal seas. . .

So why the explicit need for a Genesis Theme Park? Well, according to the AH Trust's website, this "revolutionary scheme" is crucial because:

"On television today there is so much sex and violence, it is no wonder our youth are binge drinking. . . This is a revolutionary scheme requiring innovative people with the vision to bring about change and a new direction."

I have a better solution for culture warriors intent on edifying art and entertainment: Eunuch Camp.  Sexual temptation ceases to be a problem, and the vulnerable children can peacefully surrender to the lukewarm allure of Audio Adrenaline and Sonicflood. Believe me, I'm tired of the corrupting influence secular-progressives have on our culture. I believe in preserving tradition. Whose tradition?  Which tradition?  Uh. . . whichever one worked out for the best. Take your pick.

I'm off to the carnival in two days.  Brussels, Germany, then New Years in London. I wish you all happy holidays.  Please feast and drink. Be excessive. Remember, merrymaking isn't a hobby: it's a way of life.

I Just Don't Understand. . . By Jebson Interlandi

Image courteously stolen from Frank Zammiello.

There's not really any interesting news to report over here, unless you consider the current Dutch/Russian friendship (largely over a gasline) newsworthy.

So, how about some general complaining? I've written elsewhere that I find it vexing when I hear people say they "don't watch television." The lesson I've learned in my life is that it's not wise to generalize. One may as well say they don't watch movies, don't listen to music, don't read books, don't drink liquids, etc. Within general categories there are good elements and there are totally tawdry, shitty elements.

Now, I can understand certain instances when one wants to steer clear of specific things. Subjectively seen, some products come pre-desecrated by the Public's approval. There are many books I won't touch for this reason--the Celestine Prophecy, Da Vinci Code, Harry Potter, and Life of Pi, for instance. And, since Casey recently brought it up, there are times when I'm deeply embarrassed to admit I'm a fan of Thompson or Bukowski. Too much infatuation with the lifestyles and myths: drinking, fighting, drugs, fucking.  . . it's all bullshit. What about the words?  I checked out that piece of crap show, "Californication" over the summer. I made it five minutes into the pilot and shut it off out of disgust. [ED: Indeed, a terrible, terrible program. That you can recognize this fact guarantees your continued employment here.] It was the same pathetic concept, the rallying cry of superficial Bukowski sycophants: that the writer who drinks will magically make women go down on their knees with one pensive look from his sotted eyes. Jesus.

Okay.  I am going somewhere with all this. You see, last week a friend of mine from Ireland had his friend visiting, and we all gathered at the bar for some healthy confab. We were on the subject of music, and of course, this was one of those guys who had to say he "hates the Beatles."

I've heard that line before, and I'm sorry, I never believe it. I completely respect people's individual tastes and I don't care what a person listens to. But when it comes to someone disliking the Beatles, I'm completely incredulous. I can understand protesting out of rebellion, sure. If everyone likes the Beatles, it probably feels good to rebel against the popular vote.

The crux of the Fab Four-hating argument simply doesn't hold up to scrutiny. The Beatles have different periods and productions, so it's difficult to generalize their output. For fuck's sake, openly stating dislike for the Beatles is akin to openly stating dislike for Melody, and therefore Music. If you're honestly telling me the charisma (cue Mike Damone speech. . .) and melody of the Beatles don't make you happy, okay. Resist all you want. Given that human brains, for the most part, are universally similar, certain melodies are experienced as pleasurable. [ED: I've had this argument with certain well-resepcted individuals in the music community, to no avail.] I've found the Beatles to be universally accepted for these very reasons, except by lying douchebags. I've never met a child in my life who doesn't like the Beatles, and I'd guess that such staunch rejection only evolves after careful thinking. It's the initial reaction that counts, in my eyes. . . not the constructed follow-up opinion.

Agh, I don't really care, as I said, what people like or dislike in music. But in this case?  Enough already.  Everyone likes the Beatles. [ED: Or else they're tone-deaf, mentally compromised, sociopathic, or as you so delicately put it, douchebags.]