It’s Paul Anka singing Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” This is wrong for so many reasons and on so many levels that I don’t even know where to begin. I’m still burning incense to get the evil spirits out of my office. I may just throw out this iMac. Kurt, my brother, do not let this frigtardedness bother you. Rest easy, gentle soul. Full disclosure: I found this link when I was reading the WaPo guy’s review of the XO laptop. Also, extra full disclosure: I once partied with Paul Anka. This was a long time ago, in Vegas, during my dark night of the soul after Sculley threw me out of Apple. I was spending a lot of time with Sammy Davis Jr. — long story, but I’d met his wife, Altovise, at some charity event, and then I met Sammy and he was just the sweetest guy, honest to God — and somehow one night we all ended up back at Paul Anka’s house. Next thing I know I’m outside sprawled out on a lawn chair near the pool with Elizabeth Shue, whose boyfriend or husband was inside with the others, and she’s naked, totally drunk, and straddling me and pouring booze over her breasts. Right in the middle of this Paul Anka walks out of the house onto the patio and almost bumps right into us — I mean he’s that close. We’re going at it like monkeys. And here’s the cool part. Paul Anka doesn’t even bat an eyelash. He just says, Oh, hey, there’s some dinner inside if you want to join us. That’s it. He walks back inside, totally cool. We finish up and go inside and Paul Anka just smiles and says, Hey guys, sit down, and so we do, and it’s as if the whole thing never happened. He never mentions it. Even later, when everyone else was gone and it was just me and Anka smoking a doob outside by the pool, he never says a word. That’s just the kind of class act Paul Anka is. Honestly. Namaste, Paul Anka. But please stop singing Nirvana songs.