There's an article in the Marketplace section of yesterday's Wall Street Journal about how The Arctic Monkeys, England's newest and greatest hype, has failed to meet any American crossover expectations. Ostensibly, this came as a shock to radio producers on both sides of the Atlantic, particularly after months of cloying reviews from one British (and American) paper after another. One magazine even had the cajones to claim that the new Arctic Monkey's record was more important than the Clash's "London Calling."

Their debut album, "Whatever People Say I am, That's What I'm Not"--clearly not directed at the editors at Mojo—only sold 34,000 copies stateside—less than 10% of the 360,000 unloaded on our salivating British brethren. Although the Wall Street Journal focused primarily on the business-side of the deal, this is the Wall Street Journal after all, the article did cite cultural and linguistic barriers as determents to state side success. After all, who in the United States wants to listen to some Limey brat warble about "tracky bottoms?" Please. We Yanks need something we can relate to, like 50 Cent.

And let's not forget how grating that whiny English accent becomes after fifteen minutes. Don't these kids know that in order to obtain real success in America they need to lose the ol' "nippa & chippa"? Look at folks like Elvis Costello, Manfred Man and Graham Parker. Hell, listen to "Yesterday" and find me any trace of Liverpool inflection. It's all but non-existent.

Maybe it's just me, but it's that damned accent that keeps me from watching Kiera Knigthly films. That and the fact that she's always calling me at 2 in the morning for a booty call. Kiera, seriously. It's over. Move on, sister.

To be quite honest, I don't understand why all this cross-cultural confusion has come as such of a shock to studio heads. With the exception of the two British invasions—the one from the 60's being very much American inspired, as John Lennon himself has pointed out—British music has never translated well here. Case in point: The Smiths. Here's a band that practically ruled England for a couple years during the mid-80's but a quick Google search indicates that they never even broke the top 40 here. Why?

Now I like the Smiths so I'm not sure I can answer that, but a few reasons do pop to mind. They paraded their Britishness so gratingly, and so explicitly that it often carried the weight of jingoism. Despite Morrisey's anti-nationalist rhetoric, this does tend to turn people off.  Ask Toby Kieth why his albums don't sell in Manchester. Or maybe it's because so many Smiths songs sounds like they're streaming from an old Zenith television set somewhere below a CTA Brown-Line station. Whatever the reason may be, The Smiths and their Arctic offspring lack the Gravitas needed to make it here in America. And let's be honest, that's where the money is.

But with a lackluster American debut already in the bank, industry questions about the Arctic Monkey's future—whether they should focus on the UK or give America another shot—will almost certainly grow. How can it not? Who knows, maybe they can come back with an album that doesn't sound like a reject from the "Trainspotting" soundtrack. Good luck to them on that.

Oh, and good luck on Saturday Night Live, mates.

I didn't catch most of the Oscars but I liked what I saw.

John Stewart was funny enough, I suppose. The musical numbers were only moderately tedious, and Michael Moore wasn't there, so at least we could all watch without waiting for the other shoe to drop. There's something to be said for that.

Not that it matters by now anyhow because no one I know can recall any of the winners, save of course for that "Hard Out Here for a Pimp" group. What's their name? Whatever.

Oh, and it only had the second lowest ratings ever. Whew!

But here's what bugs me: why are winners rushed off the stage three seconds after they pick up their award? Not to give Hollywood any more credit than it's due, but the Oscars is its night after all, so why shouldn't they be allowed to incoherently ramble for a bit? Is it so that those of we in the Midwest can watch the news at 10:30 instead of 11? Give me a break. Reese Witherspoon worked hard to get that pretty. At least give her a few minutes to make a fool of herself.

And besides, does it really matter whether the Oscars are three hours and twenty minutes or three hours and fifty minutes? After the 3-hour mark it all becomes an LSD hallucination anyway.

Since when is throwing a Muppet into a commercial clever advertising?

It now appears that Kermit and the gang have become the puppets of last resort when fresh, young advertising executives who haven't done enough coke yet, run out of ideas.

Boss: What can we say about Pizza Hut, Jenkins?

Jenkins: Gee, I don't know boss. That it doesn't taste like cardboard?

Boss: Right. But how do we sell that to consumers?

Jenkins: Hmmm…That's a tough one boss.

Both:  MISS PIGGY!

Jenkins: And if that doesn't work, my two-month old daughter is available!

Boss: Jenkins, you're a genius.