One million, forty-two thousand, five hundred and sixty-one persons were aware that Jimmy Page is a "Dazed and Confused" bigamist. I was not. It feels like a betrayal. I'm on vacation (as far as you know) and was made aware of this clip by the erstwhile Chuck Klosterman, writing in his new capacity as the zeitgeist-toucher-in-charge over there at Grantland. (I'm not douchey enough to throw a footnote at you, so you get this parenthetical. Klosterman knocked it out of the park on his VORM column, a singular dissection of the asinine math that defines some of our contemporaries, while maintaining a firm tongue in his cheek. At some point, Kevin and I will write ten thousand words on the VORM of our favorite artists, managing to simultaneously prove Chuck's point about the irrelevance of quantification and relish in that lack of consequence. If that dude can produce that level of work on a consistent basis, I'll be a happy cat. (Also, if you happen to be Bill Simmons and you're also interested in elevating another "music blogger" to worldwide-leader sort of fame, feel free to drop me a line. I am currently accepting offers; also, Bill, if you're reading (which would be fucking crazy), your columnists overuse the link feature made so popular by the "HTML." It makes their work seem riddled with "air quotes." In mostly related news, the only modern writer qualified for footnotes recently topped himself. You folks are writing about the NBA draft and summer movies, neither of which have quite risen to (even) the level of that lobster essay, let alone our generation's singular statement on depression and addiction and, perhaps, everything (which Kevin still hasn't finished (oh snap)). Just saying.)
All that to say that I hope Robert Plant still loves me, cause Jimmy is messing about with a homewrecker named Keith Relf.