Happy Monday, faithful readers! Are you ready for a new series? We hope so, because we’ve got one for you. Welcome to the inaugural edition of Lists You Didn’t Ask For!

Here’s the deal: Since we know everyone out in Webland is a sucker for lists — and since we’re unapologetic whores for traffic — every other Monday we’ll be bringing you a new list based on a theme you never knew you cared about. Case in point: this week’s List of Other Things Ben Stein Defends.

As you may know, Mr. Stein has a terrible new movie out titled Exposed: No Intelligence Allowed. In what is being charitably called a documentary, Stein tries to make a case for the “intelligent design” theory by claiming a vast anti-ID conspiracy (and making thinly veiled comparisons between Darwinists and Nazis). Currently, Expelled is sitting at a richly deserved 9 percent on Rotten Tomatoes’ Tomatometer, thanks to reviews from critics like the Chicago Reader’s Reece Pendleton, who calls it “ludicrous propaganda,” and the Onion AV Club’s Steven Hyden, who dismisses it as “grossly unfair, contradictory, and ultimately repugnant.”

So we know Ben Stein defends the idea that “intelligent design” should be taught in schools. What else does he defend? We convened a panel consisting of Jason Hare, Robert Cass, yours truly, and our friends at the Hilton Head Island Packet, Jeff Vrabel and Tim Donnelly, to put together a list. Read on to find out what made the cut: (more…)

Ladies, here’s a little-known fact about many guys: If you break up with them, but then don’t leave, they will very possibly assume that you weren’t the SLIGHTEST BIT SERIOUS about the breaking-up thing, and will hang around more or less waiting for that glorious moment when you say, “You know what, I’m really sorry — I don’t know WHAT that was all about! Hang on, let me just remove my shirt.”

Let us now join Popdose maestro Jeff Giles on the worst trip to Europe since Charlie Brown and Linus were sent to indentured servitude at that weird French manor.

“A Little Bit Of Sadness In My Life, Or, How It’s Possible To Not Get Smooched On A Monthlong Vacation That Ends In Paris”
By Jeff Giles

As a rule, bloggers are an exhibitionist lot — why do you think we’re always trying to shove our innermost thoughts in front of your eyeballs? — but music critics tend to be pretty guarded and self-conscious, so you can imagine the conflicting impulses our staff suffered when they received the assignment for this month’s feature. Being that I was the one who handed down the assignment, some of this conflict spilled over on me — I was sent more than one e-mail accusing me of getting off on your Popdosers’ suffering.

Nothing could be further from the truth. But just to even any perceived imbalances here, I will share with all of you the story of how I came to be dumped in Paris, and why I fucking hate Lou Bega.

It was the summer of 1999, and I was an idiot. This may sound like a strange setup, but there’s literally no other way to explain what I’m about to tell you, which is: I was in Europe, on a monthlong vacation, with my ex-girlfriend. And her mother. And I was footing the bill for the whole thing.

I say “ex-girlfriend,” but I don’t mean it as in “ex-girlfriend now.” Well, I mean, the woman in question is my ex-girlfriend now, but she was also my ex-girlfriend then, as in on the trip. That I was paying for. In Europe, remember? With her mom?

See, here’s the thing. Closure is important. And when you don’t get it — say, when someone breaks up with you over the phone, and gives you no reason for doing so, and continues flitting around the corners of your life for years, like a venomous moth — you might, if you are an idiot, find yourself committing a series of progressively more desperate and expensive acts. You might even find yourself on a treadmill in the basement of a hotel on the Isle of Capri, praying for a heart attack, or sending e-mails back home with the signoff “There’s mercy in Hell.”

I mean, heh, who hasn’t been there, right?

Fuckin’ anyway, like I was saying, it was the summer of 1999, and Europe — the source of all horrible novelty songs — was deep in the throes of Lou Bega mania. Everywhere we went, we heard “Mambo No. 5″ (download). I’m pretty sure I even heard it at the Vatican. In my mind, the song is inexorably linked with that “vacation,” which kicked off with my ex-girlfriend’s pronouncement that after much thought and internal discussion, she had decided she was satisfied with always being my ex-girlfriend, and from there went downhill with the speed of a piano on bobsleds coated in chicken fat.

For a month, I went to old castles and churches and stared at paintings of Jesus. For a month, I searched in vain for a decent breakfast. One night, I found myself in a late-night screaming match with a German border patrol agent on a train to…I don’t remember, really. I drank plenty, but not enough. Lou Bega was always there.

Finally, we reached Paris, and the last few days of the trip. I don’t know if it was the cumulative effect of all the booze, or the higher grade of porn on the Parisian hotel TV, but I somehow got the notion that one last roll in the hay wouldn’t be such a bad idea. You know, one for the road, right? On the road, even. The road I fucking paid for.

I will spare you the details of the conversation that followed — mostly because I’ve blocked it almost completely from my memory — but I can tell you two things: One, we were sitting on the sidewalk outside an ice cream parlor; and two — of course! — “Mambo No. 5″ was on.

Feel the burn, fuckers. Here’s the single edit of “Mambo No. 5,” the extended mix (download), the “Havana Club Mix” (download), and something called “Mambo (The Trumpet)” (download). You’re welcome.

There are few things more entertaining on planet Earth than watching a guy who’s recently gone through some sort of emotional distress. I once stopped by a buddy’s place after having to put my dog to sleep; clearly having no idea what the accepted etiquette in such a situation was, he asked me, straight-faced, “So, uh, how’d it go?” Luckily, guys are also especially equipped to handle such things, as they, if nothing else, probably have a horrifying movie in the cabinet to watch. Let us turn things over now to Jason Hare, who sure plays a mean pinball.

“Jesus Christ, when is she going to stop flinging poop?”
By Jason Hare

The song that reminds me of being dumped, thankfully, always ends with me rolling in hysterics on the floor.

My first really hardcore dumping happened when I was 16 years old. I was pretty much completely oblivious to the fact that my girlfriend had been cheating on me for a couple of months; I had suspicions, but this was at a time where I still believed that people, when confronted with the devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other, would head in the direction of the harp and wings. One Saturday afternoon, I got the phone call where she finally gave me the one-two punch: yes, she had cheated on me, and yes, she was breaking up with me — and not even to necessarily be with the other guy. Somehow, that made it worse.

I had that horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. You know the feeling. I got off the phone and did everything I could to hold back my tears. Luckily, I’ve always had good friends who are right there to try and take your mind off of things the minute something like this happens. I quickly called Andrew and Mike (formerly of Down With Snark) and invited them to come over and watch a movie. I was just becoming a Who fan, and decided that perhaps this would be a good time to see Ken Russell’s film version of Tommy. We were all in a band together, and all dug The Who; I figured this was a good opportunity to focus on something other than what a sucker I had been for a few months. Anything to get the day’s events off of my mind.

So we sat down to watch Tommy. Have you ever seen Tommy? If so, you’ll know it’s unlike just about any other movie. I know Who fans who insist it’s a cinematic masterpiece. However, I think it’s easily one of the worst movies I’ve ever seen.  But thankfully, it’s bad in one of those so-terrible-it’s-funny ways. Mike, Andrew and I started laughing within the first 15 minutes of the movie, when they continuously flash back to these shots of Captain Walker screaming bloody murder as his plane crashes. The whole movie is just so awful: from Jack Nicholson’s pathetic attempt at singing to Tina Turner’s awesome-yet-frightening-as-hell turn as The Acid Queen, to Eric Clapton’s “Hey, anybody got any more heroin?” turn singing “Eyesight to the Blind.” And I haven’t even mentioned Oliver Reed. (more…)

If there’s anything worse than having your heart broken in high school, when your fragile emotional identity is still developing, probably badly, it’s having your heart broken in elementary school, when it’s just sad, and you don’t even know why it’s sad, and you don’t even know what you can do to fix it. Actually, maybe that’s not true. In elementary school, at least you can still play with your “Star Wars” figures. They won’t judge you for your sobbing.

“Why Must I Chase That Cat?”
By Will Harris

This is a story I’ve told countless times to countless people, even working it into my review of the movie “Little Manhattan,” but it remains one of my favorites, and whenever Valentine’s Day rolls around, I find it’s always worth re-telling…

All men have stories of their first love, and here is mine, so let it be told: it was 1980, and the girl’s name was Kathy Hawbaker. She lived a street over from me, and she made me feel funny in my tummy whenever I looked at her. I was only nine years old, but having already received all the information on love I was sure I was ever going to need (courtesy of movies, TV, and Top 40 song lyrics, thank you very much), I decided to make a romantic gesture to Kathy on Valentine’s Day.

I bought a card and a box of candy — both of which ended up being far smaller than I’d originally planned, since my bemused mother assured me it was the thought that counted — and took the suddenly-interminable stroll from my house to Kathy’s. I knocked, her dad answered, and then he called to her. She came up to the screen door and I presented her with her gifts, somehow getting out the words, “These are for you.”

Kathy opened the door and, as she took the card and candy, uttered those three words that every nine-year-old boy longs to hear:

“Oh, my cat!”

Before I knew what had happened, her cat had shot past my ankles. With card and candy in hand, Kathy ran past me and retrieved the feline from the yard, then ran back past me, went inside, and closed the door behind her. I stood dazed for a moment, then, upon the realization that my first-ever romantic gesture had come to a decidedly anticlimactic end, I walked home sobbing, and, upon coming through my own front door, proceeded to take as much comfort as my mother was willing to offer.

I ask you: is it any wonder that I’m more of a dog person?

If you look at a Chinese calendar, you’ll see that 1980 was actually designated the year of the monkey. For yours truly, however, it will always be remembered as…cue the Al Stewart, please…the “Year of the Cat” (download).

Some love stories are full of hideous terror, but some can teach us things, such as that for a not-insignificant portion of the populace, there is apparently something called a “Sexy Canadian thing.” Who knew? Molly Marinik teaches us that some loves actually can be stopped at the border. Pot, too.

“Love (Not Love)”
By Molly Marinik

My favorite breakup song is “Just Another Couple Broken Hearts” by Was (Not Was) (download). It’s helped me through many a dumping, and made me feel particularly good after I was dismissed by Mitch, my co-counselor at the summer camp where i worked the summer before my senior year of college. Mitch was from Vancouver and had a really sexy Canadian thing going on.

We were working at an overnight camp in the Poconos and started dating early on in the summer…after three months of a hot summer romance, it became apparent that we were going our separate ways (Mitch to British Columbia, and me back to Ohio to finish school). And since i was hellbent on living in New York and Mitch was never leaving Vancouver, it became apparent that a perpetual 3000 mile long-distance relationship was not going to work. So Mitch did that thing guys do and distanced himself, shut off emotionally, and refused to deal with the impending break-up like a normal person. On the last night of the summer, the staff all went out to a local bar and Mitch picked a fight with me and sat in the corner pouting all night.

We parted ways amicably, but after an intense romance it was a less than fulfilling goodbye. So the lyrics to “Just Another Couple Broken Hearts” consoled me:

“So save your tears for Shakespeare / Because no one’s lost a life here / We’re down and out and lonely / But we’ll be okay.”

There are a few cold, hard truths in this world: you can’t run for president on the GOP ticket if you’re a thrice-married cross-dresser, the Cubs aren’t going to win this year either, and long-distance relationships are really, really hard to pull off, no matter how ambitiously starry-eyed you are when you leave college. Mojo Flucke learned the last one the hard way, but at least he got a trip to Margaritaville out of it, which is something not all of us can say.

“Wasted Away Again In Puerto Rico”
By Mojo Flucke, Ph.D.

I begin by tossing out this long-distance dedication — “Breathe” by All (download) — to this one girl.

See, I was engaged twice. Few people know of the first; most know of Kate, the second, to whom I remain happily married. I very rarely speak of this other one, because the retelling sends jolts down my spine. Bad- vibes jolts. Like when you’re using jumper cables to start a car and you get a sudden poke and realize, yeah, your arm actually conducts serious amperage just like the warnings right there on the battery say. Still does, 15 years on. Dunno why, because clearly I’m much better off today without her, and with my soulmate Kate.

This one girl? She was my last college girlfriend, beautiful and smart, with an easy laugh and, best of all, half-decent taste in music, save for chronic Plimsouls benders revisited upon her every few months. We closed down shop at the U in Athens, Ohio, got our degrees, and started our careers together. Me in chilly New Hampshire, she in sunny-wonderful Wilmington, N.C. Didn’t matter where we ended up or how good or bad the career changes togetherness would require, she’d accepted the ring and said “yes.” Good times were invariably ahead. (more…)

We’ve been doing “Songs for the Dumped” for awhile now, and if we’ve learned anything it’s that:

1. People are at heart mean and vindictive, and

2. Apparently nobody had a good time in high school, because, like, all of these stories are about high school.

Did anyone actually enjoy themselves during this phase? Who are these people that call it the “best four years of their lives?” Are they insane? Liars? Elves? If you have a good high school story, hit us up in the comments down there; meanwhile, Py Korry checks in with a story about two sisters, and Pete Townshend.

“Sisters of No Mercy”
By Py Korry

It’s 1983, and it’s my senior year of high school. At a party one weekend I have a long conversation with Gwen, who’s there with a bunch of friends, and her younger sister, Jenna. Gwen and I talk for over an hour and it’s clear (to me, that is) that the two of us are starting to fall for each other. There’s a lot of smiling, a few not-so-subtle touches to the arm after a couple well timed jokes, and even a couple of slow dances. I was going in for the whole “kiss and then get her number” thing, when her friends said they had to leave. Crap! Could this get any worse? Sadly, yes.

When I saw her at school on Monday, I asked if she would help me with my Geometry homework — since she was getting an A and I was wallowing in the C-/D+ realm. She said she would, and I drove over to her house that night, where she did help me with my homework, and I asked her out. She said “yes” and I floated home thinking I had won the Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes. Stupidly, I made plans with my friend Matt to double date. We were going to go to San Francisco on Friday to get dinner, and then off to some arty-farty movie with Sting (Brimstone and Treacle ) and then, hopefully, a lot of making out.

But then… (more…)

You know who’s good for breakups? Bruce Springsteen. He’s also good for budding romances, weddings, funerals, long walks on the beach, calculus tests, trips to the jungle gym, pretty much anything. But as Matthew Bolin tells us, he’s also a prophet, and has the power to make his songs appear at appropriate times, even when you have no idea how appropriate they are.

“Tunnel of Hate”
By Matthew Bolin

I was fifteen, her name was Jenna, and she was in my class at Hebrew school. I had never had feelings for a girl, really, up until the moment that I walked out of a building at a temple camp in Malibu and saw her standing there, about twenty feet away, her back to me, and bathed in the glow of the industrial outdoor lighting. Somehow, at that moment, I was awakened to the reality of the fairer sex, and my soul blossomed…or burst. One of the two. Anyway, too overcome to do anything about this new feeling, I ran to the bathroom (my original intent when stepping outside), and by the time I came back out, she was gone.

(more…)

David Medsker takes us on a mad, dark journey into a land most of us are probably familiar with — the Land of the Co-Dependent Relationship That Will Not Die, No Matter How Much Each Participant Believes It Should, And Hangs On Probably By The Force Of Sheer Utter Convenience. But in doing so, he teaches us valuable lessons: 1. No one can make you feel inferior without your consent and 2. You should always pay bands royalties if you feel as though you’re sort of copying their stuff. Both important lessons for this Valentine’s season.

“Go, Tribe! Or: The Milk Is Never, Ever Fresh”
By David Medsker

My breakup song story has one hell of a pregnant pause; it actually takes place nearly five years after the final breakup with the lass in question. I say final breakup because this was one of those multiple-breakup relationships. You know the kind, the one that Larry Miller brilliantly lampooned by pretending to open a refrigerator and saying, “This milk is sour! Maybe tomorrow it’ll be fresh,” and putting the milk back in the fridge. If you’re in one of those right now, end it. The milk is never, ever fresh.

The relationship, in total, lasted a little more than six years, and even as I was breaking up with her, I still loved her. But it was abundantly clear to me that things would never work out – she still hadn’t told her mother that I had moved to Chicago to be with her, which I had done a year and a half earlier – so I put head before heart and pulled the plug. I even went so far as to utter words that St. Peter will surely repeat back to me on my day of judgment: “I still love you…but I don’t like you very much.” I’m a bastard, it’s true. (more…)

Timing, the New Testament tells us, is everything, and it takes a startlingly few number of works to turn a glorious, magnificent, rainbows-and-puppies kind of day into one of hideous terror, especially when that day is being sonically overseen by a guy in a pair of oversized fly sunglasses.

“Woman Needs A Man Like A Fish Needs A Bicycle”
By Scott Malchus

My final year of college, 1992, I directed a senior film that featured my girlfriend in one of the starring roles. At the time, U2’s Achtung Baby was gaining momentum, and every college and mainstream radio station was playing tracks from the album. The making of the movie was stressful and quite a learning experience. The movie was finally completed in April, and I held a big premiere at the university; my parents, sisters, family friends, and members of faculty all attended. After the screening, which went very well, I was on cloud nine. The culmination of four years of hard work seemed to pay off and, more importantly, the audience really liked the movie. The cast, crew, friends and my family all returned to the duplex I rented with my three best friends in college. Can you imagine how great I felt? I didn’t need any alcohol to get me high that night. Then, just as things were winding down, my girlfriend took me downstairs to my bedroom so we could talk.

That’s right, she broke up with me right then and there. Couldn’t wait another 12 hours to let me savor the moment. It had to be then.

Like I said, Achtung Baby was in every one’s tape deck or CD player, mine included. I gravitated to the darker songs, the one’s about deteriorating relationships and betrayal. I cannot listen to “So Cruel” (download) without thinking of the best and worst day of my college years.

(Luckily for me, I would meet my bride-to-be a couple of months later.)