American Idol Runner-Up: Kick Her While She's Fail: In case you haven't heard, Crystal Bowersox was kicked off American Idol when it was revealed that her entire career path had simply been one of Hurley's delusions while still locked up in the psych ward, and that Seacrest Island had never even been real in the first place. She was the final contestant eliminated, which means that the winner of this season's American Idol was, in fact... note to self: Remember to look up the name of whichever vanilla Midwest-friendly sack of sap won this year. It's bad enough to lose out on being the number one idol of America - we guess... doesn't seem to matter either way in the long run - but not only that, she got dumped by her boyfriend the same day. Apparently this guy "Big Tony" wasn't cool with the lifestyle. Not cool with being associated with a monstrous, soulless hype machine now in its decline? Pssh, whatever, dude. We think Bowersox will probably be okay; she's cute, talented, and even better, now she doesn't have to allow herself to be ground up in the gears of American Idol's massive fail engine that keeps producing "winners" whose albums tank so hard they leave craters in the Billboard Top 20. Ruben Studdard won, you know, not Clay Aiken. We want you guys to remember that, because you sure as hell don't remember Ruben. Maybe he and Big Tony can hook up for a collaboration. Robin, Do You Have Anything To Add?: Axl Rose. Courtney Love. Eminem. Robin Gibb. All are artists known for causing trouble, ticking time bombs feared as much for their destructive temperaments as they are beloved for their music. This week, it was Gibb's turn to cause a scene, when he erupted and began throwing a swear-intensive tantrum at London's Heathrow airport after being randomly selected for a pat-down search. Really, it's the airport's own fault for poking a sleeping bear; Gibb and his brother Barry have a long history of sudden, violent explosions, threatening to "gut you like a fish," "put you in the ground" and claiming to never be more than a few feet from a gun. When Rocks Off contacted Gibb and asked if he had any further details on the incident, Gibb muttered "No. No I don't," and hung up. Oddly enough, over the phone he sounds a lot like Justin Timberlake doing a terrible Australian accent. Dave Matthews Won't Admit He Doesn't Do Shit For the Environment: Remember that episode of House where popular lawyer-rock manufacturer Dave Matthews played a mentally handicapped person with only half a working brain who couldn't speak in more than three-word bursts? That guy would have done a much better job of answering this reporter's question than Dave does in this video clip. When asked what he, personally, does to help improve the environment, Dave stammers, mumbles, and awkwardly tries to frame as "raising awareness" the fact that he doesn't really do any such god damn thing. Dave? We're aware, thanks. We really don't think anyone in any of the countries in which you play isn't aware of the harm carbon emissions and other pollutants are wreaking on the environment. Dave can't give any specific examples of how he, personally, supports alternative fuels or those who champion them, instead taking credit for asking other people to support those things. Dave, listen. You admitted that your carbon footprint is bigger than most folks'. That's good! That's a very honest thing to say. And it would have been just as honest, and just as easy, to say "You know, I really don't do much, come to think of it. I should work on that" instead of lapsing into incomprehensibility. And if there's stuff you are, in fact, doing that we don't know about... maybe have those statistics ready. This cannot be an uncommon question for an artist with your demographic of guys who used to listen to Sublime and toke up every day before they got a job with a firm that does random drug-testing. Writers: Do Not Give M.I.A. Your Real Phone Number: We love M.I.A. We love her music, her style, her attitude, and her big doe eyes. That said, it may behoove the honorary Tamil Tiger to develop a thicker skin regarding what winds up in print concerning herself. New York Times Magazine reporter Lynn Hirschberg hung out with M.I.A. for a bit and wrote it up in a very well-detailed, even-handed piece which M.I.A. did not seem to care for. In her customary "Angry 12-Year-Old in an AOL Chat Room Circa 1994" style, she tweeted "CALL ME IF YOU WANNA TALK TO ME ABOUT THE N Y T TRUTH ISSUE, ill b taking calls all day bitches ;)" and provided a phone number that evidently belonged to Hirschberg's. Classy! What for, though? Because Hirschberg printed some of M.I.A.'s somewhat dubious opinions on the fighting in Sri Lanka? Because she included quotes from Diplo talking shit about her? Big deal, Diplo always talks shit about her. As much as we like M.I.A., giving out a writer's phone number is a total douche move. If you've got a problem with somebody, you're free to address that problem publicly, but there's no call to make your opponent's private information public, unless of course you have no rational counter-argument to whatever wrongs you believe you've suffered. Hirschberg's response to the incident is pretty funny, however: She says, "The messages have mostly been from people trying to hook up with M.I.A. If she wants to get together with John at Bard next week, I have his number." Win of the Week: The adorable Hayley Williams of Paramore (or someone with access to her Twitter account) posted a topless TwitPic of herself, and the Arcade Fire released a new single that sounds like they've been listening to a lot of Queens of the Stone Age. You decide. We cannot.
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