You Can Tell When An Eschatot Is Lying Because Their Fingers Are Moving - Hate Mail

I don't recall even knowing who Gerry Devine and the Hi-Beams are, not to mention knowing any of their music.  I don't think I ever heard of that song, I've got a pretty good memory for even third-rate music so I think I'd remember pretty much everything dopey brings up.  

It says online  He first achieved notice with a 1989 New York Music Award for Best New Songwriter.   By 1989 it had been well over a decade since I had managed to pretty much avoid hearing pop music of any kind, not to mention being familiar enough with any one person or band to know much about them.  Give or take one of the really big ones like Prince or one whose politics brought them to my notice, like Lady Ga Ga. Disco was the last straw for me.  I stopped going to bars over disco.  That and realizing I didn't really enjoy them.  

So, yeah, like everything else he says, he's lying. 

I see that meathead is supposedly posting comments from Sweden?  Jeesh, going to Sweden and spending your days posting comments to Baby Blue?  It's the intellectual equivalent of going to Florence or Paris and looking for a McDonald's. 

Update:  The Old Ugly American took time out of his Swedish vacation to come here to rage in his senectitude about this.   I wonder how many dollars of his vacation time it's taking for him to do that.  What an idiot. 

Update 2:  The wack-job is still ranting at me from Stockholm for going on three hours. Geesh, he should have stayed home, he could have done that from the comfort of his own play pen for free.   I never friggin' heard of (wait, I've got to scroll up, I can't remember the band name) Gerry Devine and his White Sox or whatever they're called.  I never said anything about their song because I never heard of them before.   I don't know, is Gerry Devine like Divine's little brother or something?  All I can think of is a 300lb female impersonator.  Which is unfortunate because now I've got the theme song for Female Trouble going through my mind.  The curse of a good musical memory.  Sometimes. 

Update 3:  He's still railing at me from Sweden, I'd love to know the per minute cost in vacation dollars he's spending on insisting that I'm lying about not knowing about some pop-group I've never heard of before.  

Dopey, when you get home BG should get you to a geriatric psychiatrist to get you checked out for dementia.  Or maybe you need your meds adjusted.  

Update 4:  So far I'm counting six ranting e-mails from c. 60 degrees North and across the ocean and a couple of seas going on and on about an obscure pop-music act which I've never heard of before.   I think I'll have them bronzed.   Baby boots to geezer pouts.  

The last one contains his ultimate insult, that I'm "a hick".  Well, this hick knows one thing, if I were in Stockholm I wouldn't be spending time in front of a screen screeching at Baby Blue and here blowing smoke.   Though I'd rather be out in the country than in a city.