I marvel at how accurately that movie Robocop presaged um like the invasion of public and basic human services by private business interests. But most whoaaa-inducing facets of the Paul Verhoven masterpiece (please come back to Hollywood, Paul) are the little things, like touch lamps and that omnipresent Benny Hill-esque TV personality who from every home and business TV squeals Hhuuuh-I'd buy that for a dollar! Gyaa-aaahah---! I'm pretty sure with this character Verhoven is commenting on those ballbags in Bon Jovi, whose all-pervasive, eighty-pronged assault on the very sanctity of life is basically causing me to behave like a burnt-out hippie. For example, on Ocean and Santa Monica, I gestured dismissively and frowned at a passing bus bearing an image of Jon BJ's clenched 47-year old ass; then I had heated words with my cable provider, who assured me that Showtime would go forward and air the band's forthcoming ahem "documentary", with or without my 200,000-signature petition. (Even Sumner Redstone signed it!) At any rate, not even that would keep from my very home a talentless ripoff artist and his guitar player whose hobbies include drunk-driving his kids to California Pizza Kitchen: somehow the MLB playoffs were bumpered with earnest pseudo-populist Favre rock from those five fucktards and their team of brand managers. Hey Mellencamp and Jimmy Stewart called they want their schtick back.