The Petty Files: Wayne Gretzky Disappoints

*Disclaimer: Wayne Gretzky is awesome*
*Disclaimer 2: I’m overreacting* 

So yesterday I received an email from a Phoenix Coyotes multimedia person that wanted to promote some new interactive fan fun at the team’s website. The first item was Coyote’s Hockey HQ, a site that lets you create a game face, play games and make your friends look ridiculous. Meh. Not so into it. But the other nugget was "Coyotes Trax—Where we have players iTunes playlists so fans can find a common ground."

The only thing I know about the Phoenix Coyotes is Wayne Gretzky and goalkeeping great, Grant Fuhr, and most people would say that’s more than enough. In hopes that I’d be able to see what The Great One was rocking out to, I eagerly followed the link… to a land of great disappointment. 

I really don’t know what I was expecting when I clicked on Wayne Gretzky’s tune resource. Since he came of age in the late 70s and early 80s, I assumed his list would be filled with a healthy Canadian mixture of classic rock, 80s new wave and some new but internationally chill band like Coldplay. But since he’s The Great One, it’d be the cool classic rock, the cool new wave and the cool new but chill. But alas.

Mixed among obvious and perfectly reasonable favorites like Bachman-Turner Overdrive, Golden Earring, The Kings, Red Rider and Triumph, were the ultimate of horrors: Nickelback… Sarah McLachlan… (brace yourself) Nelly Furtado.

I’m not even going to start on Nickelback and I’m going to let Sarah McLachlan go because "Angel" is hauntingly beautiful. But Nelly Furtado? Really? The thing is, it’s not even "Promiscuous" Nelly Furtado or the Nelly Furtado that got down with Missy Elliot in "Get Ur Freak On." At least listening to that version makes sense. Pop music becomes far more tolerable to men when they want to put their dick in the singer. But "I’m Like a Bird" Nelly Furtado? She only inspires me to get a Peter King style latte at Starbucks with money that I’ve pulled out of my bedazzled purse. I can’t imagine how that version has any effect on men.

I know I’m overreacting here, but I don’t know, I just didn’t see this coming. Sarah McLachlan and Nelly Furtado are okay for women because, you know, we have vaginas. But The Great One? While I never expected Slayer or anything, I certainly didn’t anticipate seeing the 2001 lineup from Lilith Fair.

A-Rod Selfishly Helps Yanks Afford Pitchers

To A-Rod: Thank you for hitting .314 with 54 homers, 156 runs batted in and .839 RISP this season. Without it, I wouldn’t have had the luxury of bitching about and, eventually, melting down over the Yankees playoff result. Your regular season magic was and is highly appreciated – just as it was last year and the year before that. I hated you for a long, long time but I eventually came around before this season, finally recognizing that you played your heart out for us, day in and out. I would have loved for you to stay in pinstripes for the rest of your career. Hell, it even seemed like you might be down for the ride, dropping two ridiculous lies in as many months:

"This feels like home. It’s hard to believe that I played for another two organizations. So much has happened to me here, adversity, some success, that I feel like anything but New York feels weird for me now."

“I understand I have an option, but I want to be a New York Yankee.”

But alas, your pimp has spoken – amazingly, on the same night that you dare to snub Hank Aaron, a man of penultimate integrity and class… Looking back, that seems painfully appropriate. Apparently, you can’t deal with the uncertainty of not knowing "what the composition of the team was going to be." As if the brass isn’t going to pony up the money to keep three of the four remaining pillars of recent Yankee lore. Correct me if I’m wrong, Alex, but aren’t you the same whore that signed a $252 million contract to play for a team that called Rick Helling its ace and had Dough Davis leading the pitching lineup with a 4.45 ERA? How dare you have the audacity to talk about team composition. You are a prostitute and a weasel and worse, Alex Rodriguez, you are not a man.

A man comes correct with honesty. He stands up and says, "Thanks for the opportunity but New York’s not for me," "I want to test my value on the free agent market," "I want to define my legacy on a championship team." Those comments would have stung but at least you’d have your dignity and your pride. By feasting on the mercenary market, the Yankees set ourselves up for those possibilities. We could have handled it.  But no. Instead of standing up and dishing truth, the only thing you manage to accomplish is proving that you are a sackless, vacuous punk. What a legacy, Alex.

Don’t let the door hit you and your tepid .136 postseason average and 0/18 RISP in the ass on the way out, you fucking weasel.

Arsenal Kinda Sorta Destroy Liverpool, 1-1

Before facing the Scousers, Arsene Wenger said that this match would be the true test in a long run toward the Premier League title. And William Gallas noted that "This is the day when we will find out if the boys have become men." After this match, it is abundantly clear that not only did the lads pass the test with flying colors but they are also man enough to contend for the title.

We came out in a 4-5-1 with Adebayor up top, Rosicky and Eboue on the wings and Cesc, Hleb and Flamini in the middle but we were on the attack from go. It was ridiculous. No hesitancy, no caution. It was, sorry to say, balls to the wall football. Absolutely magnificent. But Liverpool looked just as good and with only 6 minutes off the clock, Steven Gerrard ripped a free kick through a gap in the wall the size of Alex Rodriguez’s ego.

 
Though we controlled possession from then on, we couldn’t penetrate through Liverpool’s midfield. But we held on through the half and then a new Arsenal emerged… or maybe it was a diminished Scouser side. They locked down on defense, lost Xabi Alonso and never contended again. The menacing presence of Gallas and Toure turned their shots on goal into fruitless pursuits, with balls flying directly into Almunia’s chest or dribbling slowly to his feet. And as Liverpool grew weaker, The Arsenal grew stronger.. with every minute we became sharper and more accurate until Cesc Fabregas finally broke through with a gem in the 80th minute. 

Though you’d think that’s a little late in the going for some magic, we should have won by a hatful. The lads  squandered at least four golden opportunities with blasts both wide of and off the post. But at the end of the day, you just can’t be upset about walking away from Anfield with a point and a game in hand on ManUre.

The lads never panicked, never faltered and never surrendered – even with Eboue, Rosiky and Adebayor looking like they left the bulk of their skills in London. This match was a true measuring stick for this team and we showed we have what it takes to contend for a championship. I hope ManUre is paying attention… but that might be tough, what with the beautiful football they’re playing lately… too bad. I guess they can’t all be Tottenham, eh, Toxic?

Red Sox Punt Tim McCarver Into Broadcaster Abyss

As you all know, the Boston Red Sox unceremoniously punted the Colorado Rockies into the mountains last night for their seventh World Series Championship. Unless you live a mile above sea level, this wasn’t a surprising result. Sure, no one guessed that the Rockies would tighten up like a gnat’s chuff, roll over and die but let’s be real – the only question was how long this would last, not who would win. All the same, it was a nauseating result. But while kneeling in front of the toilet after watching the Sux celebrate, I realized that there is a silver lining to this quick result: 6 months without Tim McCarver!

That’s right – no Tim McCarver "analysis," no "Tim McCarver Show," no Tim McCarver anything. Just sweet  silence. And for that, I want to express my undying gratitude to the Boston Red Sox. By all but raping the Rockies in record time, they have ushered this addlepated baboon into the broadcaster abyss until March 30. Sure, Screamin’ A. Smith and a legion of jackass basketball personalities stand to infect the airwaves in only a matter of days, but a season of that isn’t nearly as painful as three more games with Tim McCarver.

As such, I leave you with a few parting remarks of Game 4 idiocy from the only man that can make the ears of a nation bleed (all comments provided in context):

On Manny Ramirez and aerodynamics while he’s at the plate in the 3rd….
Joe Buck (JB): Last night doing what he has done throughout the post season and throughout the season… with the dreadlocks, running the bases, last night kicking his helmet back into foul territory and last night tagged out at the plate on a throw from Matt Holliday in left (long pause) but that’s part of his action around the bases.
Tim McCarver (TM): It certainly does not make you faster.
JB: With two outs, there’s a strike on the outside corner.
TM: If that were the case, you’d be seeing marathon runners wearing helmets… hundred yard dash guys wearing helmets.

It’s as if McCarver believes Ramirez is wearing the helmet for speed. It’s not a fucking jetpack, you daft bastard. You don’t throw it off and get a boost! Amazingly, this continues:

JB: Well, last night was the first time we’ve seen it in the post-season where he pushed it off and it came back and hit him in the heel.
TM: First time we’ve seen it hit him on the heel… RIGHT.

Yes, Tim. That is right. Don’t act like you’re combing through your memory banks to check Joe’s facts. We all know you’ve got the short term retention ability of Leonard Shelby. As ironic proof of this, McCarver re-tells the story of Manny’s base-running/hat issues in the bottom of the 6th, as if the previous conversation never occurred. Joe Buck, as usual, responded with silence.

On Hank Aaron during the recap of Prince Fielder receiving the Hank Aaron Award…
TM: If there was anybody in baseball history with a more appropriate nickname, HAMMER (McCarver’s emphasis), could he ever "hammer."
TM: You could take those 755 homeruns away and he’d still have 3,000 hits 

The United States of America is a nation in the Americas. You shouldn’t drink poison because it’s poisonous. I’m playing a computer game… on my computer. Thanks for stopping by, Tim.

Pitcher Aaron Cook bats for the Rockies in the bottom of the 5th…
TM: I know Aaron Cook is a good hitter, but I don’t think he can hit right here. The Rockies have 14 outs with which to score at least 2 runs. That’s provided they hold the Red Sox down.
*Cook bunts*
JB: He pushes a bunt past the pitcher and has a base hit! That’s the first time that a Rocky hitter has pushed a bunt to the right side, and once it got past Lester, it was a base hit.
TM: But he wasn’t up there hitting, he was up there bunting! 

No, that’s not a typo. During the commercial break, McCarver thinks up a way to redeem himself and drops this nonsense in the top of the 6th:

TM (confused): With Ortiz coming up, why didn’t the manager have someone pinch hit for Cook last inning? I mean, Cook got a bunt hit, yeah, but you’re taking the chance that he won’t and there’s an out! I’m just talking probabilities of getting a man on base here. You gotta pinch hit!

Oh really? Maybe that’s why you’re in the booth with Mr. Slamalamadingdong and not managing in the World Series, Tim. But I suppose it could be worse. You could be Dayn Perry of Foxsports.com, who suffered a case of Rocky Mountain hacking (click to enlarge):

In any case, thank you, Boston. Thank you for ripping off the proverbial bandaid as quickly as possible. I don’t think I could have stomached much more… too bad you can’t do anything about Dane Cook as well, but I suppose he’s one of yours, isn’t he? That just about figures.

Dennis Rodman Is A Classy Broad

Here’s Dennis Rodman being a hot tranny mess at his "Rodmania" Halloween Party last night.

One would think that at age 46, Dennis would know that the whole point of Halloween is to wear a costume that is creative, funny, shocking, outrageous, or, if you’re me and any other woman under 30, strongly indicates that you’re suffering from a severe case of the sluts. Rolling up to your own party in your regular get-up and Tina Turner’s hair from Mad Max is NOT a costume.

Come on, Dennis. It’s time to raise your game and give us something new. You didn’t even get your nails done! This tired shit is so 1998. Two thumbs down on this non-effort.

Here are some other gems:

HT: Dlisted 

Colts Fan Offends My Sensibilities

So I’m leaving a pizza joint the other day when my friends and I happen upon this monstrosity parked next to my car. After my eyes stopped burning, I whipped out my cell phone for documentation:

I’d ask myself what type of society would find this acceptable but having lived in Indiana for almost 7 years, I simply know better. When I first arrived for college, I didn’t know what to expect of this place. For me, the American Midwest may as well have been that area on the Lenox Globe denoted by the warning "here be dragons." But in the time that I’ve been here, I’ve come to realize that though it is not as bad as people make out, it is still the only area where driving a vehicle so hideously ugly that people get mad looking at it is not only normal but celebrated.

I can only imagine the kudos that the owner of this tragic heap of a mess has received. I showed this picture to my neighbor only for him to say, "That’s fantastic! I’d like that. Just Bears!" Ugh. It only figures. This is the type of dude that thinks a drive to Indianapolis, Chicago or Detroit is  as exciting and revolutionary as a trip to the moon. Hoosiers, ya know?

Now, I’m sure some of you are saying, "That PT owner has every right to display his or her Colts pride! Who are you to judge?"

Look, I’m all for people supporting teams and displaying allegiances. Magnets, stickers, decals – it’s all good. Let your affections be known. But if you’re a person that thinks its reasonable to drive a vehicle that looks like a mini-van with Down Syndrome, just stop right there. That tells the world enough about you already. We don’t need your ridiculous fanboy decorations. Your car is already an offensive, obnoxious vulgarity. Frankly, I’m surprised it didn’t turn me to stone when I tried to take these pictures. Considering that, forcing further attention upon it is nothing short of a crime. Shame on you Colts Fan PT Cruiser owner. Shame.

Rudolph Giuliani Is a Traitor, Fraud and Whore

Rudolph Giuliani is dead to me.

In an attempt to curry favor with voters in New Hampshire, that poll-riding hooker switched allegiance from the New York Yankees to the Boston Red Sox.

"I’m rooting for the Red Sox," the Republican presidential contender Tuesday told a Boston audience, just a few T stops from Fenway Park. "I’m an American League fan, and I go with the American League team, maybe with the exception of the Mets. Maybe that would be the one time I wouldn’t because I’m loyal to New York."

Loyal to New York? The only things Rudy Giuliani is only loyal to is his career and, given the amount of wives and mistresses he’s had, his penis. Mets support? Please. And that American League argument is even worse. The league line is reserved for the half-hearted and the bandwagon-jumpers. It’s not for people that claim undying loyalty for sides steeped in history, pride and tradition. The fact that Giuliani is using it is not only foul and fraudulent but also completely insulting.

I can’t even begin to fathom how Giuliani has the audacity to think something like this would ever be acceptable. Duke fans don’t throw on Carolina blue when North Carolina is contending for national championships. Manchester United supporters don’t sport kits of The Mighty Arsenal when we’re riding high in the Champions. Why would anyone ever logically believe that a supposed diehard New York Yankees fan would switch allegiances because of league affiliation?!

Real Yankees and Red Sox fans would rather throw themselves off a bridge before rooting for their rival in ANY situation. It could be Red Sox vs. The Antichrist and I’d be on the sidewalk rocking the sign of the beast and talking smack about how eternal hellfire and damnation rules the school. But not Giuliani. That rat-faced cunt sold us out for an election and what’s worse is it’s not even the main one! It’s a fucking primary!

"Somehow it makes me feel better if the team that was ahead of the Yankees wins the World Series," he told a group of mostly local reporters in explaining his sudden backing of the Red Sox, "because then I feel like, well, we’re not that bad."

Wrong, Judas. The only thing that makes you feel better is knowing you just buttered up 30 pieces of silver, er, electoral votes in Red Sux Nation. Even crack whores have more pride.

Later, at a town hall meeting in Lebanon, N.H., Giuliani yukked it up with a couple of audience members who were wearing Sox caps. "If I keep looking at that hat, I may start crying," he said to chuckles, before adding, "Good luck to the Red Sox!"

All this proves is that Mayor 9/11 was never a real Yankees fan in the first place and for that, he should never show his face in the Bronx again. Frankly, I think he may need to stay out of New York City altogether. For years, Yankee Stadium has been Giuliani Propoganda Stadium, throwing him on the jumbotron more than the score. He’s on before, during and after the game. He has pre-recorded "Go Yankees!" video clips and his traitorous cunt face is all over the place during "God Bless America." Rudy Giuliani needs to transfer his headquarters to Massachusetts, as he should not be permitted to further insult and taint the City of New York with his cowardly suck.

Before I go break something, here’s what I would like to know – how can anyone trust him now? Sure, he’s a politician, which makes him a weasel by default, but if he is so sackless and weak that he cowers on his knees at the feet of Red Sux Nation, how is he going to stand up to Iran? Two years from now, we’ll turn around and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad will be dropping bombs on Israel while Giuliani waits on the sidelines to give him a rimmer.

As far as I’m concerned, Hizzoner can eat a dick. But that’ll be no trouble for him, as I’m sure they’re offering plenty of it with a side of chowda on Yawkey Way.

Suzy Kolber Joins Appalachian Emergency Room

If I had to guess, Suzy Kolber exited the womb squinting and rocking a pixie cut, and, from then on, was compulsively clad in turtlenecks and neck scarves regardless of the temperature. Whether it’s true or not, I kind of enjoy the imagery, so don’t spoil it for me. In any case, I don’t know how long Suzy has been around but the only thing about her that seems to change as an NFL season progresses is how just how many layers of turtlenecks and neck scarves she can wrap herself in as we get nearer to the Super Bowl. Her seemingly pathological nature with wearing those particular items is actually somewhat fascinating.

But while watching Monday Night Football tonight, she popped on the screen not only wearing some type of business suit from JC Penney but also sporting hair that made her look like a patient on Appalachian Emergency Room:

What on earth could have gone wrong? And no, being in Jacksonville is no excuse.

I know these MNF people like to sample the local flavor – crab cakes in Baltimore, barbeque in Kansas City, buffalo wings in Buffalo, and so on, but rolling down to Appalachia is no excuse to show up on national television looking like two squirrels crawled on your head, built a nest, mated and died. That’s simply unacceptable.

Look Suzy, I know you’re supposed to be pregnant and all but you’ve got to get your act together. You’re on tv. You can’t just be running around looking like you just walked out of a Rush concert. 2 thumbs down.

You Just Failed the World, Cleveland!

Disclaimer/Admission: I have no right to bitch. I am a fairweather fan and, therefore, a complete disgrace.

In the last week, I have become the Cleveland Indians’ biggest "no right to root for them" fan. I threw on my brother’s offensive Chief Wahoo hat and memorized each player’s stats and skills to ensure that I could run my mouth with accuracy and conviction. I bumped my gums to any Sox fan within earshot and as Cleveland racked up wins, I was well on my way to a restoration of playoff happiness.

But then came game 5, where the Indians decided to make a run at the 2004 Yankees’ title for most humiliating and pathetic ALCS collapse. Why? It’s anyone’s guess. The only thing I can figure is that rules of nature are violated if the city of Cleveland isn’t mired in misery and defeat. A proper victory might mean the Indians would have to move to a new city where hope and happiness reign and hey, Denver already has a team. A miracle/storybook/heartwarming/Cinderella/unlikely/more Joe Buck adjectives and phrases team.

But oh well, right? At least Eric Wedge is calm and keeping things in perspective.

"We won three games in a row and they won three in a row," Indians manager Eric Wedge said. "I’m disappointed, obviously, we weren’t able to finish it off."

Yeah, so are we, Eric. I’m not speaking to you as a legit Indians fan but as a Yankees fan that rabidly supports any team that could/should bust the Boston Red Sox in the mouth.

There are rules to this game. There are protocols and policies. If you beat the Yankees in post-season play and the Red Sox are next on the menu, it is your duty to defeat them. It’s not "well, we just wanna play good baseball and we’ll see how it goes." No, "see how it goes" is not how it works. "See how it goes" is loser talk. Once you are in a position to beat the Boston Red Sox into submission, it is incumbent upon you to do so by any means necessary. If nothing else, it’s simply a matter of common decency.

Naturally, there is a strategy to this. When managers find themselves in a potential giant-killer run of Yankees then Sux, they should understand that they can’t use up their entire arsenal on Yankees. It’s pretty obvious to anyone that isn’t completely delusional that we turtle up and die the second Dane Cook shows up on air to obnoxiously proclaim that it’s "Actober." (When is that douchebag’s 15 minutes up???) Yankees in the playoffs is defined by horrendous pitching, dead bats and bad luck. We are never long for the pasting these days. As such, Wedge should have known that he could save some things in his bag of tricks for the ALCS. The 11th Plague of Egypt would have been a little more helpful in, I don’t know, Game 5 of the ALCS, wouldn’t it, Indians fans? Instead, it was wasted on a team that couldn’t produce with runners in scoring position if they were playing against a pitching machine in Central Park.

Nice strategizing, Wedge. You blew your wad too soon and now I have to become the Colorado Rockies’ biggest "no right to root for them" fan. And thanks to a 10-day vacation, which has seen the Rockies’ mojo sucked dry by constant fellating from both the media and women, they will inevitably come out clouded, rusty and overconfident. By the time they come to, the Sux will be up 3-0 in the World Series. Great. Just great.

Brief Departure Into Auditory Delights

If I were a Playboy Playmate instead of a spark plug with nice hair, my turn-ons/interests would be as follows: Andy Pettitte, The Mighty Arsenal, Oakland Raiders, New York Yankees, Jemaine Clement, Bear Grylls, Guinness, buffalo wings, left-handedness, narcissistic sadism and musical elitism.

One of the few interests that we haven’t covered is my musical taste. I could blame it on being too consumed with making psychotic ramblings about teams that don’t care about me, but the truth is, it’s not all that interesting and also proves that I’m a truly horrible person. Most of the time, I prefer to let you reach your own conclusions on that particular issue but not today.

Let me preface this post by establishing some facts:

1. I have neither the time nor the inclination to sit here for hours listing the multitude of obscure bands and artists whose styles suit my snobbish yet inconsistent fancy.
2. If we’re really friends, I’ve already recommended more music to you than you can possibly handle. Music – like the sweet ganjah – should be free and shared with the masses… Music finds its way into the secret places of your heart and becomes an outburst of the soul, expressing your thoughts, fears and desires when words cannot do them justice. Life without music is one that is not worth living.
3. I will judge you on your music collection. I broke up with a boy once for suggesting that we attend a John Mayer concert. I’m not messing around. Look, we all have our weaknesses, guilty pleasures and shameful moments. I know every word to “Crazy In Love” by Beyonce – even Jay Z’s parts. I can’t begin to rock out enough to Bon Jovi when I’m in my car. I was caught dancing to Christina Aguilera’s “Ain’t No Other Man” on my desk in my office. But I don’t care – there’s a lot of brainless pop out there that’s just damn fun. Besides, I love to dance and you can’t do that to Dispatch.

That said, there is a distinct difference between shaking your ass at the club and singing along in the car and considering Top-40/TRL shite as quality, choice music. If it can be heard during an episode of “The Hills,” “Laguna Beach,” anything on E! or one of those terrible VH-1 “Best Of Shows,” it is unacceptable. And if you’re one of the people that disagrees with me, it is very likely that I don’t want you in my life. I have found that 9 times out of 10, people who listen to this mindless, Studio Magic schlock inevitably have personality and lifestyle traits that I find reprehensible. I call them “Radio People.”

Radio People must go. Every once in a while, I start liking someone before they reveal their true nature and I’m stuck, but on the whole, I can sniff them out from 8 miles away. I do my best to save souls from the pits of hell but some cannot be helped. At times, people get on my case for being an anti-Top 40-ite but in response, I ask you this – if a person has so little self-respect that he or she considers Jason Mraz, Fall Out Boy, Avril Lavigne, Nelly and Nickelback worthwhile, why should I give them the time of day? Why should I afford them the respect they won’t give themselves? If you think “I’m hot because I’m hot, I’m fly because you not” is a lyrical and even musical marvel, you need to kill yourself. Seriously.

With that out of the way, I should reveal that I am a Radiohead fan. A fanatic, really. I’m one of those sanctimonious tools that considers Radiohead to be art. I’m one of the affected millions that considers OK Computer to be the greatest album ever made. I’m one of those losers that hears “Exit Music (For a Film),” “Paranoid Android” or “Fake Plastic Trees” and breaks down in tears before claiming to have had a spiritual awakening. And yes, I’ve honestly done that. Make fun of me if you want to but if a song or a band hasn’t done that to you at some point, then music just isn’t doing its job. In any case, one thing I have never done is pull the preachy Radiohead fan routine — until today.

Musical taste is subjective and unless you are a Radio Person, you should not be judged. The same goes for Radiohead — it’s not for everyone. It’s not even for most. Not liking them doesn’t mean you lose your membership to the hip club. It doesn’t make you a loser or somehow less knowledgeable about music. It is a band, like many, that some people just “get” and others don’t. It is a band that through its evolution and continued pursuit of innovation, has lost many fans and turned away even more at the gate. But through it all, from the first time I heard Pablo Honey and The Bends to the present, Radiohead hits me in a place that no other band can. It’s not because I’m one of the enlightened ones in a tragic world. Their lyrics and style have simply always spoken to me. There have been bumps in the road (Amnesiac) and holding patters (Hail to the Thief) but with each new album, they give me a little something I never even knew I wanted. And with yesterday’s release of “In Rainbows,” they did it again.

In a fuck you bitch slap to the music industry, Radiohead released their newest album as a digital download available only through their website and are allowing listeners to pick their own price for the album. Pay $0, pay $10 (I paid $20). As the website so kindly instructs, “It’s up to you.”

In Rainbows is a beautifully balanced mix of the melodic and meloncholic, electronic and acoustic. It took two or three listens before each track took hold but, multiple repeats later, it continues to surprise and captivate with both its imagination and deceptive simplicity. From Pablo Honey to Hail to the Thief, elements of each album are felt on “In Rainbows” but are more focused and polished, making it, by far, the most accessible album to new fans since OK Computer.

I won’t go track by track here because this is not a review, but download “In Rainbows” and take it through a couple spins. Maybe you end up liking its quiet, understated beauty and seek out more Radiohead albums or maybe you drag it directly to your trash bin. But either way, you’ll have exposed yourself to something new and that’s not something the music industry often gives us the chance to do these days.