Ginned Up

Damn you, Gin Blossoms!! Brazenly driving around this town, inviting “the cops” to chase you around! What in blue blazes could you newly-minted musical wunderkinds possibly be thinking? Are you not aware that your fans are only recently in possession of their first drivers licenses, and that your defiant, anti-establishment rant — blasting out of the AM radio in Daddy's car — is tantamount to a direct law-breaking order? If there are accidents pending, sirs, know that I will hold you culpable! While we're on the subject, methinks it would not "be alright if you just crashed here tonight." I will not stand by idly and allow you to set up shop in teenagers' living rooms and commence to banging away on your ruby red guitars, rousing unsuspecting parents from their slumber. Furthermore, your contention that you're "in no shape for driving and don’t have anyplace else to go" is suspect. Surely there's a fellow up-and-coming scenester with a spare Murphy Bed™ to share. Call bloody Hootie or the Spin Doctors or that Pat Monahan wanker and see if he can't put you up at the Train station. (Haha!) I offer this rebuke with some befuddlement, as from all appearances you seem like nice enough lads, sporting the necessary accoutrements of an MTV-era band — the “alternative” eyewear, the rainbow suspenders and shiny, silken jackets, the colored tees and sneakers, the dippity-do hairdos, the pleading looks and windmill guitar hooks. All of which belies the defiance you display in the aforementioned "Hey Jealousy" number. Hey, Gin Blossoms: Your cavalier implication about the inabilities of your town's police officials is a misstep on your path to stardom and possibly punishable by the laws of terras firma and/or digital. I urge you to restate your intentions in a new lyric. Pour your broken hearts out into a song about bloody "Closing Time" or something.