Saturday is the last day, the ugly day, when every pore pops open at first light and never closes again, and the grand-finale parties demand the sort of passionate dedication to duty that would make you eat a sled dog just to get your strength back. Bloc Party was everywhere this year, looking scared and lost, and they're at the closing party, too—hopefully someone there will have mercy and spot 'em some gentle tranquilizers. Otherwise, it's always a little sad around this time. The shit just gets to you. A lack of passion and dedication, perhaps—you wouldn't mind an industry slime if they were passionate about their sliminess (Kim Fowley, where were you?), but even the sliminess seems insincere, a pose to be dropped at a point when the dramatic revelation of something deep and true is somehow advantageous. Plus there's so much shit—so many bad ideas rolled out and rewarded. Just imagine: walking past a wall sagging with band stickers and realizing that half of them are just references to TheSimpsons.The human brain was once used to make beautiful things, you dicks. Don't spill your seed so casually.