Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

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My Angel Is A Centerfold

July 30, 2018 / / 2 Comments

Is that James Toback’s skinny brother?

“I don’t know.”

Has he asked you to let him jerk off on you?

“No.”

Probably no relation, then. That sort of thing runs in families.

“Uh-huh.”

I can almost smell you wanting to talk about your clothes.

“Oh, thanks for asking. God, I wish you could see my shoes.”

Ironically, I am thanking God that I cannot.

“Each sock was made by a separate artisan. One just does left socks, and the other only sews right socks. The specialism at that level is amazing.”

Truly.

“The pant is a Gordon Gartrell piece.”

Oh, is he still designing?

“Just small batch stuff. He keeps his hand in, and we’re all better for it. But you know what the piece de resistance is, right?”

The toppermost?

“Ha! I knew you would think that! This is not a toppermost. See how it only goes to the waist? It’s a toppermore”

Ah. Still made in Japan?

“Of course. This one was handcrafted by Wasabi Godzilla–”

Not an actual Japanese name.

“–on the sacred slopes of Mount Tempura–”

Not a real mountain.

“–using the famed Needle of Nakamura.”

That was the building from Die Hard. John, I think someone is pulling the incredibly expensive, sumptuously soft wool over your eyes.

“Oh, no. I do my research.”

Like with the watches?

“Better than that. I got a guy who does my research for me now. Trust me, this is a genuine toppermore.”

Okee dokee.

KUH-CHICK

“What was that?”

Dunno.

KUH-CHICK

“Take your fucking pants off!”

“That sounds like Billy from 40 years ago.”

“Hey, it’s Billy from 40 years ago! Take your pants off and lemme get a good snap of your nuts.”

“What? No. What? Billy, where did this come from?”

“When I travel forwards in time, I turn gay.”

…

…

…

“What?”

“It’s a long story. Guy from Stanford told me it was called TTH: Temporary Temporal Homosexuality. Doesn’t happen when I go backwards, though. Weird fucking world. Anyway, show me your dick.”

“No! Billy, knock this off.”

“Whip it out, Twink Martindale.”

“Billy, I am not going to…did you call me a twink?”

“I did. You look so young.”

“Well, I guess I could take the shirt off.”

“That’s a boy.”

Religious Liberty Task Force…Assemble!

July 30, 2018 / / 5 Comments

“All right, all right, let’s all settle. Y’all settle down now. F’r ev’ryone who don’t know me, mah name is Jefferson Beauregard Keebler Sesssions, an’ Ah’m gonna be y’all’s Nick Fury. But you know: the ol‘ Nick Fury. Not th’ Affirmative Action one. We gonna do ourselves a little roll call an’ get t’ know each other. Where’s our big man? Where’s Captain America?”

“Right here, sir!”

“Oh, goodie. I like your uniform. But, well, them fellas over at Disney got a whiff o’ what we was doin’ an’ they sent ’bout eve’ry one o’ their Jew lawyers over here, an’ we gonna have to come up with a new name f’r you. Ah was thinkin’ General America. That way, you outrank him.”

“Excellent thinking, sir.”

“Go down to wardrobe and have ’em change up y’r outfit.”

“What were you thinking, sir?”

“Mebbe one o’ them Nudie suits that Porter Wagoner used to wear.”

“With flags and Bibles all over it?”

“General America, you get on up outta mah mind!”

“Hail Victory!”

“Oh, absolutely.”

LARGE MAN WITH SHIELD LEAVING THE ROOM NOISE

“Who all is next?”

“Me, sir!”

“And y’all are?”

“They call me Turban Puncher! I see a Muslim? PUNCHED! A Sikh? PUNCHED! Gloria Swanson? PUNCHED!”

“Oh, that’s just heavenly.”

“I can kick them, too.”

“Oh, sure. Do that, yeah. Mix it up. Wouldn’t want you boys to get bored out there. What about you in the fetching suit?”

“I’m the Respectable Homosexual, sir.”

“Mm.”

“I tell you what, Attorney General: I like it when businesses refuse me service because of my sexuality. It tells me where not to spend my money, and then the Free Market takes care of it.”

“Uh-huh. Why did you capitalize Free Market?”

“That’s me, sir. They call the Free Market. Me and Respectable Homosexual are partners.”

ROOMFUL OF ASSHOLES BECOMING SILENT NOISE

“Well, not that kind of partners. You see, the Free Market is completely neutral, which means heterosexual.”

ROOMFUL OF ASSHOLES CHUCKLING AND NODDING NOISE

“An’ what do you do?”

“I’m gonna fix everything.”

“Do ya?”

“I’m gonna. Real soon, I’m gonna fix all the problems that I myself created.”

“You might be helpful. How about you in th’ back? The pretty lady in th’ nice dress.”

“I call the police on black people.”

“Oh, Ah am in favor of that. But this is about religious anxiety, not economic anxiety. Wink wink, nudge nudge.”

“I know, sir. But I always invoke the Lord when I call 911. ‘Jesus Christ, the darkies are barbecuing!’ That sort of thing.”

“We’ll workshop it. How ’bout you?”

“My name is The Victim!”

“Mm-hmm. Innerestin’. What’s your superpower?”

“Despite being the majority of the country and government being Christian, I still believe deeply that we’re being persecuted daily.”

“Mah word, that is a superpower.”

“I also believe that the government is deeply incompetent, but also on the verge of declaring martial law and confiscating my guns.”

“How?”

“I don’t know! I just do! And I’m loud as hell about it!”

“Well, good f’r you. You gonna be handy ’round here. Okay, let’s finish up. How ’bout you in th’ collar?”

“I’m the Dog Whistler!”

“What do you do?”

“Nothing. Why, you think I said I did something? All I did was talk about the caravans of disease-ridden illegal immigrants invading our country and changing our culture. If you interpreted that to be racist…well, that’s on you.”

“Mah stars, that was beautiful.”

“You should hear all the ways I can deniably call someone a kike.”

“Ah think you mah new favorite Dog Whistler. All right, all hands in. Not you, Respectable Homosexual. No offense.”

“I’m used to it. It’s what I deserve.”

“‘Merica on three. One, two, three.”

“MERICA!”

John Perry Barlow’s Book, A Non-Review

July 30, 2018 / / 2 Comments

I’m not reviewing Mother American Night. If you want to read a thoughtful analysis of the book, try Chris Jennings’ take in the Wall Street Journal or Jesse Jarnow’s piece in Wired. They got paid to ruminate on this tissue-thin memoir, but Hatchette didn’t even send me a free book, so fuck it. As you might imagine from the venues of their reviews, Chris concentrates on JPB’s politics, which were so shallow it took him a decade to realize Dick Cheney was a fucking monster, and Jesse on his connection to the computer machines, which JPB loved almost as much as when the makers of the computer machines paid him to give speeches and go to parties.

So I won’t talk about those topics, instead relating to you the rhythm of the book. The first half is a series of Mentos commercials.

  • John Perry Barlow finds himself in a wacky and slightly dangerous situation.
  • Through verve and pluck, JPB extricates himself from said situation, often tossing a witty bon mot over his denim-clad shoulder as he exits.
  • The authority figure in the story chuckles, shakes his head, waggles his finger.
  • Repeat.

The second half is a lip-chapping selfsuck about the EFF, the Electronic Finger Fuckers or whatever that stands for, which is a grassroots lobbying group started by Barlow to protect the rights of internet users. You remember the manifesto:

Governments of the Industrial World, you weary giants of flesh and steel, I come from Cyberspace, the new home of Mind. On behalf of the future, I ask you of the past to leave us alone.

That’s the Declaration of Cybertronian Independence or whatnot, and the version you know has been bowdlerized. That quote you just read? Originally, it was longer.

Governments of the Industrial World, you weary giants of flesh and steel, I come from Cyberspace, the new home of Mind. On behalf of the future, I ask you of the past to leave us alone. Leave us to be digitized, monetized, and collateralized by our non-elected betters. The internet industry, unlike every other known to man since time immemorial, will morally and righteously police itself without governmental interference and you can’t tax us, either. I called it. No taxes on the internet, that’s a thing now because I put it in my manifesto. 

Upon learning of the edit, John Perry Barlow fired his pistols indoors and stormed off to Gstaad to ski with Jackie Onassis.

So, anyhoo, read it or don’t. But now I don’t have to feel guilty about not writing about it.

Playing Through

July 30, 2018 / / 3 Comments

See how nice your friend Andy is dressed? Why can’t you dress like that?

“I dress wonderfully.”

You dress like Jonah Hill after a house fire.

“That doesn’t even mean anything.”

You’re aging out of hypebeastdom.

“I am not aging out of anything. ANYTHING!”

Wow.

“I am often mistaken for a man in his twenties.”

By whom? Prosopagnosiacs?

…

…

…

“No! Not by people with face-blindness!”

You had to look that up, didn’t you?

“So did you!”

Just for the spelling. I’m just saying maybe you should let Andy take you shopping. You could go to Barney’s. You could meet a starlet there. Did you call Demi Lovato yet? Your window on that is closing.

“You disgust me.”

I’m trying to help you, dude. But you don’t want to be helped and only one thing can come of that.

Oh, don’t–

“You think you can get a bead on those rooty-toots, Cue Ball?”

“I will hit the tall one, the short one, etc., etc., etc.”

“I’m sorry. Frank Sinatra and Yul Brynner?”

Well, there are only so many photos of Nixon and Jackie Gleason playing golf. I work with what I have.

“Everything about this is bush league.”

Never denied that, broham.

The Grateful Dead: A Temporal Appreciation

July 29, 2018 / / 10 Comments

Dear The Grateful Dead,

Hi. How are you? Hell of a baseball season, huh? Okay, enough pleasantries.

Thank you, The Grateful Dead, for not existing concurrently with the internet. I know that the internet technically existed when you were around, but there were nine people on it at the time, and two of them were Penn Jillette. (He was much fatter then.) What I mean is…

THE INTERNET

…you know, how we have it nowadays in 2018. The “ruining the world” internet. The “okay, now we hate that guy” internet. The “you should have done it this way” internet. The “hey, remember that shitty thing you said 16 years ago” internet. The instant-feedback web where everyone’s opinion is equally valid and every putz with a camera phone is either Edward Murrow or Ernie Kovacs.

Thank you, The Grateful Dead, for packing it in before #couchtour was a thing. There’s another band just like you, The Grateful Dead, and they’re extant. Extant as fuck, as a matter of fact: playing some of the best shows of their lives, but their fans–basically Deadheads with a higher tolerance for shitty lyrics and fewer options as far as tee-shirt iconography goes–don’t seem to be aware of the fact.

O, the whining (from the gentiles)! Oy, the kvetching (from the Jews)! Hey, I’m Katy Tur (from Katy Tur)! They played this song last week, the fans tweet angrily. They haven’t played this song in years, the other fans post on Facebook. One point oh, two point oh, fuck point off: they won’t stop yelling and, far worse, making the same joke over and over.

So, thank you, The Grateful Dead, for taking place in an era bereft of real-time reviews, next day podcasts, and digital fucking petitions. (Because if you think Deadheads in 1982 wouldn’t have started up a “BRING BACK DARK STAR” petition, then you should go and read someone else’s site; you’re too naive to be here.)

Sincerely,
Rock Star Richard

It’s A Small, Small, Stupid World After All

July 28, 2018 / / 1 Comment

“Hey, Big Rob!”

…

“You have to be kidding me.”

“Sup? I’m Donald Trump, Junior.”

“I know who you are.”

“People call me Junior.”

“People call you a lot of things. I have file cabinets worth of things people call you. Son, this is inappropriate for us to be talking like this.”

“How should we talk, then? Did you mean I should sit down?”

IDIOT SON SITTING DOWN NOISE

“No, I didn’t mean that at all.”

“Dude, do you have a charger? I’m down to, like, five percent. My battery just won’t hold a charge lately, like something’s draining it.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And also sometimes I find Russian folk songs in my Music folder. Do you think the two things are connected?”

“No, not at all.”

“So where you going?”

“I can’t comment on my flight itinerary.”

“I’m going to Idaho to hunt. I bet you didn’t think the son of a billionaire likes to hunt, but I do. See my hat?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Oh. That means it’s broken. See, it’s camouflage, so you’re not supposed to–”

“I know how camouflage works, Junior.”

“Yeah, that’s what everyone calls me. Hey, listen, Big Rob–”

“I’ll snap your neck if you call me that again.”

“–this whole Russia thing? Pssh. I mean: pssh. It’s nothing, bro. But you’re costing a lot of good people serious money. Did you know that Paul Manafort had to sell both of his condos in St. Petersburg?”

“I didn’t know he had condos in St. Petersburg. That’s interesting.”

“C’mon, dude, be cool. You know you can’t use that information. You didn’t read me my Miranda rights.”

“You…you have no idea how the law works, do you?”

“I’m all over it, dude. Just let up on the witch hunting. You’re stopping my dad from making America great again.”

“This is really not the conversation we should be having.”

“You wanna split a Cinnabon?”

“I do not.”

“I can’f finish a whole one. They’re so filling.”

“Pass.”

“It’s wasteful to just eat half.”

“I don’t want a Cinnabon, Junior.

“They have ones with raisins now.”

“No!”

“I’M SORRY, DAD! NOT THE FACE!”

…

“Jesus, kid.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Mueller. Loud noises make me do that. My childhood was kinda my Vietnam. What was your Vietnam?”

“Vietnam.”

“Great job with that, by the way. USA! USA!”

“All right, that’s enough. Go sit on the other side of the waiting area.”

“I don’t wanna. Can I be honest with you?”

“It would be a first for your family, but sure.”

“My Secret Service guy doesn’t like me.”

“I can’t believe such a thing.”

“He calls me Poo-nior. Like Junior, but with ‘poo.’ That’s not cool.”

“It’s not. He should call you by your Secret Service code name. What is it?”

“Scapegoat. What does that mean?”

“I means the person who gave out the code names is perceptive when it comes to family dynamics.”

“Eric’s code name is Eric.”

“Okay, Junior. That’s it. Go away.”

“Okay.”

…

…

…

“Am I allowed to fire you?”

“GO!”

Which One’s Turtle?

July 27, 2018 / / 2 Comments

Oh, they’re not rebooting Entourage, are they?

“No.”

Ryan Adams looks like Patton Oswalt cosplaying as Butthead.

“Leave my friends alone.”

Who’s the rando?

“I have no idea. I assume he’s with Dave.”

Racist.

“You assumed the same thing.”

I did, but my intentions were pure. How’s Saget doing?

“He’s been making child rape jokes, snorting coke, and throwing hookers down the stairs all afternoon.”

Classic Saget.

“The negros, Mr. President. I’ll take them out first.”

“Mm. Good thinking, Gleason. They’re athletic.”

“I thought I was gonna miss Nixon, but you’re the greatest, President Ford.”

LEGENDARY FUNNYMAN DRIVING NOISE

“Fore!”

KONK!

“Got him!”

“Nice shot, Gleason.”

“Holy shit, Dave Chapelle’s friend!”

“My turn.”

UNELECTED PRESIDENT DRIVING NOISE

“Fore.”

KONK!

“Holy shit, Dave Chapelle! HEY! Jackass!”

Me?

“Obviously. Stop this!”

I don’t wanna. At least not until Ryan Adams gets it.

KONK!

“Holy shit, Ryan Adams!”

Okay, we’re done.

“Hate you.”

Have fun with Saget.

Memories Of The Riot

July 27, 2018 / / 5 Comments

Hey, Oteil. Whatcha doing?

“The thing I love best.”

You’re a positive force in this universe, and I love you for it.

“I hear you’ve been doing a little dip into my old stomping grounds.”

Huh?

“Hair Metal.”

Don’t do this.

“That was my 20’s. Your boy O wasn’t always a family man. When I was with the Riot, man, I tore it up.”

Oteil, you were not in Quiet Riot.

“I was. It’s just that I was named Rudy Sarzo at the time.”

And you were white?

“Ever see that David Lynch movie Mulholland Drive? That whole idea of doubles? It was like that.”

But that movie made no sense.

“And yet it’s a classic. Bill Pullman is Balthazar Getty, and I was Rudy Sarzo. I can’t explain this any more clearly.”

You probably couldn’t, no.

“Me and my band moved out to Los Angeles in the spring of ’77. We were called John Dillinger’s Penis. We’d been playing around South Florida but there was nowhere to go from there, so we got in the van and then we were on the coast. It was me and Jim-Jim and Shushy and TK. Our first week in town, the three of them were molested to death by Rodney Bingenheimer.”

To death?

“The Bing goes hard. Between him and Kim Fowley, there’s at least two dozen corpses.”

I wouldn’t doubt that.

“Luckily, I met Kevin Dubrow the next day and my life changed. I mean, my life didn’t change that day. Took us a couple years to get a record deal, but they were fun years. Girls would bring us groceries, and we would take dookies on their chests. We were not held responsible for our actions.”

I get that.

“Life got even crazier when I joined up with Ozzy. Oh, man. I don’t like to talk about it. Wow. Are you drinking something?”

I have a Crystal Gayle.

“An Arnold Palmer made with Crystal Lite?”

Yes.

“Nice. Pour some out for Randy.”

I am not pouring anything out for Randy Rhodes. Stop this. You didn’t know him.

“That man was a brother to me.”

It’s official: you’re as crazy as the rest of ’em. Congratulations.

Same Old Song And Dance

July 27, 2018 / / 3 Comments

Oh, God.

I may have been listening to Hair Metal all day.

You’re as predictable as a one-sided coin.

There’s no such thing as a one-sided coin.

Sure there is. Moldania. Their banknotes are Möbius strips, and their coins are Klein bottles.

Not true.

Oh, yeah. Makes the coin toss at the beginning of football games kinda complicated.

Am I through being chastised and lied to?

Depends. Are you going to bother the nice people?

In what way? Because I am going to bother them. I’m gonna concentrate on the most pointless topics, and specifically on the irrelevant details of those pointless topics, and I’m gonna do it in long, windy sentences packed with neologistic buffoonery and self-referentializing, such as remarking that the word “windy” works with both pronunciations. I’m bothersome, brother.

You’re the worst.

Bill Simmons is the worst.

You’re the second-worst.

Fine.

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