3/31: End of Second Chances

With Weird Al Yankovic and J. Robert Lennon

Here we are, friends, last day of the month, with J. Robert Lennon’s compelling take on Weird Al Yankovic’s “Smells Like Nirvana” as the ur-March Plaidness statement. It was a compelling possibility, we thought then and we still think now, that if JRL and Weird Al had won their first round games, they just might have been able to run the table. This is the case with many of the essays you’ve (re)read this month. That means the first round is the most perilous round, in some ways just like the basketball March Madness tourney: the chances for chaos early are very great indeed, which is often what we’ve seen.

Before we get to the essay, a quick note that we put up a new t-shirt:

A quick reminder that each year all these writers (and the Selection Committee itself) does all this work for you out of the sheer love of the game. So you should 100% pick up J. Robert Lennon’s new novel Buzz Kill. And consider one of our March Xness t-shirts on the threadless or the website. Or pick up one of Ander Monson’s books. Or shop from Megan’s Etsy shop, Bad Cholla Vintage. That is, there are a lot of ways to support your Xness writers and those who help make this happen. Also buy yourself a beer! You’ve earned it! This has been a great month of revisitations. Well done, you.

Now to our last official essay of March Second Chanceness, here’s J. Robert Lennon on Weird Al Yankovic:

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In order to prove to you that the greatest achievement of the grunge era was a parody of the grunge era, I must first explain that there were no grunge bands, and there was no grunge. Just ask the bands. They existed—some of them still do—but they will disavow the association. The term itself was a joke that metastasized into a marketing ploy; its first known use in reference to Seattle music was as a fake denunciation of a nonexistent group. Grunge’s sound—muddled, monotonous, indistinct—was defined by what it wasn’t: not punk, not metal, not indie, not alternative. The way you danced to it was by flinging yourself randomly around. Its uniform was what you were already wearing; its haircut was not getting one. The genre’s entire lexicon—harsh realm, cob nobbler, lamestain—was a hoax, and its standard bearer died because too many people paid attention to him. —J. Robert Lennon

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Thanks for playing and reading along this month with us. Next up: the March Sadness 2026 Lottery. So get in there while ye may.

It’s been a pleasure and privilege,

Ander & Megan