As I ride the train into Chicago I am listening to my mp3 player on shuffle. So far bands such as biohazard, hatebreed, and job for a cowboy have permeated through my ear drums while I read what may be the most asinine music magazine ever - Paiste. This magazine exemplifies a music/lifestyle genre of the worst kind, something - call hippie/indie/faggy/scruffy haired pussy rock. The only reason I'm reading this magazine is because it comes to my house monthly free of charge; there's no way in hell I'd pay a penny for this magazine. Every month I stare at the cover at the likes of Elvis Costello, wilco, and a bunch of other so called musicians and artists and ponder how many wigs could be made and given to cancer patients if this magazine's target audience would get a haircut, shave of their dreads, get rid of the chin beard, etc. The type of music popularized by these people is the bane of my existence. I am moved to tears as I think of the great 40-year old virgin quote "know how I know you're gay? You like coldplay." My mind is racing as I picture some femme wanna be jack Johnson complete with long hair protruding from a ski cap, jeans with a hole in the knee, woven bracelets on both wrists, and a t-shirt from some microbrewery in Portland playing his acoustic guitar and singing a lame song in front of 20 or some of his closest naturalist friends at a bonfire. Now I'm starting to get really pissed - I hate the whole existence of these people. The people need a dose of morbid angel to wake them the hell up.