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

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All Around The World In Little Aleppo

“They say it’s a small world, but you can’t trust ’em. Never listen to what they say! They tell you that you only use ten percent of your brain, and they tell you not to talk to strangers, and they tell you that you can’t be a man cuz’ you doesn’t smoke the came cigarettes they do. They? Nothin’ but trouble, cats and kittens.

“Listen to your pal Frankie Nickels on KHAY–Hey!–cuz you know she ain’t gonna steer you towards the rocks. And if I do, well: you know where I am. When they tell you lies and falsehoods, you got no recourse. I sell you a bill of goods, you can come find me in the Victory Diner after the show.

“So. They say it’s a small world, but that’s a lie. World’s the size of a damn planet. Here’s how big the world is: you can fit Texas inside it.

“25,000 miles. Which, for all you metric system folks out there, is a certain number of kilometers. I don’t know, and I ain’t looking it up, and I resent you even asking ha ha ha. Look down, look at your feet. See where you’re standing? Start walking. Doesn’t matter which direction. Keep walking, and when you are finally back in that same place you started: 25,000 miles.

“This is assuming you are the Lord Christ, of course, since there’s a bit of water in your way.

“So you can’t hoof it. That means for the first 99% of human history and pre-history–all that time we was a-percolating in Africa and a-propagating ourselves outward–nobody did it. Gotta invent boats first, and I mean good ones. We figured out canoes and kayaks and all sorts of little skiffs to go fishing off the coast with, travel up and down the river, but this is open ocean traveling that Frankie Nickels is talking about! There’s krakens and whatnot out there!

“Whole lotta other stuff gotta happen before you cross the ocean. Gotta invent the compass. Chart the stars. Figure out latitude. Longitude ain’t as important. You can get along without longitude, but you’re stuck in the harbor without latitude. Gotta invent sails. Can’t row across the Atlantic.

“A boat’s just a floating pile of other people’s discoveries, ha ha ha.

“So now you got a boat. Now you can cross an ocean.

“But why would anyone want to?

“The spice, cats and kittens. Ginger and cinnamon and tumeric and pepper. Nothing had any damn flavor back then, cats and kittens, least not in Europe! Rabbit, goat, couple different kinds of birds. I suppose you got beets. Celery. Not much to arouse the palate, you get me? But there were spices, wild and exotic flavors, and they was growing like weeds in Asia. He who controls the spice, controls the universe. And he who controlled the spice was the Arabs.

“It mostly came overland, but there were some sea routes. From Java and Maluku and India. The spice came in via the Byzantine Empire, which was really just the remnants of the Eastern Roman Empire, and it landed in Venice, which was really just the remnants of the Western Roman Empire.

“Easy-peasy.

“Until 1452, when the Ottomans took Constantinople. Suddenly, life got a lot more complicated for all the good Christian merchants and businessmen in Europe. What we gotta do, they thought, is find a way around the Middle East. Go directly to the source. Hit up those heathens on the Spice Islands our ownselves, ‘stead of being end users.

“Portuguese were leading the pack. They always were a seafaring people. First Europeans to sail to India. Take a left at the Cape of Good Hope, can’t miss it, ha ha ha. Then they sailed around India, too. Made it to China and the Philippines. Got all the way to Japan. Africa financed all their adventures. Portuguese found gold. Sugarcane. Portuguese found Africans. Healthy market for all three commodities, and the caravels spread all across the globe.

“In 1511, they took a port city on the Malay peninsula called Malacca. It’s all strategic and whatnot. That’s not important. I’m just setting up the context of what I’m talking about here. Can’t play the game ’til someone paints a field, right?

“Malacca was controlled by a Sultan, but 1200 men and 8 ships firing their cannons at you’ll put an end to that Sultan nonsense toot sweet. Now Malacca belongs to the Portuguese, one of whom was a fellow you learned about in grade school named Ferdinand Magellan, ‘cept he wasn’t named that cuz he was Portuguese so his name was Fernão de Magalhães, but I can’t pronounce that right so we’ll just call him Magellan.

“Anyway, the winners plundered the city. As winners often do, ha ha ha. Magellan got himself some titles and a whole hunk of gold and jewels and finery, but the important bit is this: Magellan got himself a slave.

“Who is the hero of our story.

“This fellow’s actual name is lost to history. Dunno what his mother called him, but Magellan called him Enrique. He might have been from Sumatra, which is the next island over from Malacca. No one’s ever gonna know. Magellan baptized him, but the record does not show whether it took.

“Either way, Enrique follows Magellan back to Europe and here’s where you gotta start thinking about what kind of man this Enrique fellow is. Couple years they’re together, in a whole lotta locations. Morroco being one of them. Now: Enrique was working in Malacca, which was controlled by the Arabs. We’re assuming he wasn’t just some dude Magellan picked up off the street. Meaning Enrique probably spoke a little Arabic, but he didn’t ditch out on Magellan while they were in Casablanca.

“Maybe it was a beautiful friendship, ha ha ha.

“Long story short, Magellan’s working for the Spanish. Wore out his welcome back home. You know how that goes, cats and kittens. Happens to the best of us.

“Portuguese went east? The Spanish are gonna go west. They know the Americas are there, and they knew the Pacific was there, but they didn’t know how much Pacific there was.

“Five ships set out from Seville in August of 1519. The Trinidad, San Antonio, Concepcion, Santiago, and VictoriaTrinidad was the flagship, and that’s the one Magellan and Enrique were on. You know those boats they got nowadays with the ice skating rinks and comedy clubs in ’em? Yeah, well, these weren’t those. Three masts and hardtack and buggery.

“Took ’em until December to reach Brazil, and once they got there half the damn crew started mutinizing. Magellan had the captains who led it crucified.

“Remember, we’re talking about the old days here.

Santiago gets wrecked. Through Tierra del Fuego to the this giant blue forevermore before them, and Magellan calls it Mar Pacifico. We been calling it that ever since. The San Antonio sees this immense bit of nothing in front of it and decides to desert.

“Three ships set out for Asia. How far could it be?

“They left South America in November and landed in the Philippines in March. There ain’t nothing in between those two addresses, cats and kittens, at least nothing that Magellan and his crew came upon. Just that ocean paying you no mind day after day. Gives me the shivers.

“Anyway, they get to the Philippines and Enrique can kinda speak the language. He’s translating the best he can when Magellan gets himself into some dopey intertribal warfare, and wouldn’t you know: that man got himself killed. This is a place called Cebu. Now, Magellan had left a will and in that will, he had freed Enrique, but the next in command didn’t quite see it that way. Guy named John Serrano. Said Enrique was too valuable to the mission, and that Enrique belonged to him now.

“And Enrique said, ‘Yes, boss. Sure, boss. What’s the plan, boss?’

“So this John Serrano fellow sends Enrique to go make peace with the natives who killed Magellan.

“Enrique says, ‘Sure, boss. Whatever you say, boss.’ Goes ashore, talks to the natives for a bit, comes back to the boat with great news. ‘They want to apologize. They want to throw you a banquet, boss.’

“This fellow John Serrano takes a whole bunch of the crew and goes ashore.

“Bad idea, boss.

“The ships hoist sail and skeedaddle, but there’s so many dead that they don’t have enough crew for all three ships. The Concepcion gets burned and left behind. Trinidad gets wrecked off Africa. Only the Victoria makes it home, three years after it left. But who cares about them? We’re talking about Enrique.

“Cebu, you see, is only about 1,500 miles from Malacca. Enrique started in Malacca. Went west to Portugal. West to South America. West to the Philippines. He went west for 23,500 miles and talked some strangers into shooting the bastards who caught him up in the first place.

“You think he couldn’t find his way another 1,500 miles?

“I think he did. I bet Enrique had a bit of gold secreted away. He spoke a whole bunch of languages. There was trading going on all over the area. Quick hop from Cebu to Brunei to Singapore to Malacca. And then maybe even back to Sumatra. I bet Enrique got to hear his momma call him by his real name at the end of his adventure.

“And that’s all the way around, cats and kittens. Circumnavigation, your grade school teacher called it. Can’t be proven, but it’s as good a story as any you’re gonna hear for free, ha ha ha .

“You wanna hear some music?

“Yeah?

“Me, too. Let’s get some rock and roll music going on the Frankie Nickels Show on KHAY–Hey!–where it don’t matter where you came from, but where you end up.”

So You’ve Got No Government

Dear America,

Hi. How are you? I’m fine. Are you still on fire? Large swathes of the country were on fire this year; is that still happening? What about the floods? I also recall that there were floods. Oh, and something called a “bomb cyclone.” If I were a pattern-seeking mammal, I’d be standing as far away from you as possible right now, America. And now this: you have no government.

First off: did you check everywhere for it? Look in the car. Maybe you accidentally placed your government in the fridge while you were putting away the banana guacamole. Did your meth-addicted son steal it? What about your opioid-addicted daughter? Have you asked Alexa? (Assuming neither your son nor daughter have stolen her, too.)

If not, and your government is truly gone, then here are some tips, America.

Panic I know that Douglas Adams famously warned us all not to panic, but fuck him. He didn’t panic, and he’s dead now. Panic, and live forever. Don’t weak-sister that pandemonium, either: go full-boat loony. Eat the air conditioner. Wear the neighbors. Dig up George and Gracie. Really put your back into the panic.

Eat Tide Pods Tide Pods are only poisonous because of job-killing Obama-era regulations; without their enforcement, the detergent tastes like chocolate babka.

Shoulder Pads The leader of the post-apocalyptic mutant gang has shoulder pads, preferably with spikes on them. Break into the local high school and steal some football gear. Similarly, you may steal baseball uniforms and bats, but you’re gonna have to go all the way and paint your face with that outfit. Also, you gotta be skinny to pull that off: fat guy in baseball pants is not a scary look.

Some Laws Still Apply! Do not jump from high places. Perpetual motion machines will still not be feasible. Alchemy remains folly. Multiplying mass by acceleration will not result in a cheese plate. That which can go wrong shall continue do so. Judge Dredd should still be listened to.

But Some Don’t! You know how I’m always talking about taking your dick out at Foot Locker? You may. Due to a weird hiccup in the statutes, that specific form of public nudity is not governed by state or local law, but instead falls under the federal code. Hang your shit proudly and without fear. Wave that shit around. Look at your shit in those angled mirrors. You’ve probably never seen your shit from that angle. Now’s your chance, brother.

What About National Parks? Hah! Gotcha! That was a trick question: our national parks were secretly sold last week to a group of Saudi investors. All the female park rangers have been beheaded.

On the bright side, the Hawaiian Office of Emergency Management has been furloughed, so there won’t be any more of those horrible false alarms like last week.

In conclusion, America: enjoy your quick and vicious descent into anarchy.

Sincerely,
Norway

Cold Comfort

Goddamn, that’s an enormous hat.

“I told her that! I said, ‘Woman! You wearin’ a damn tuffet!'”

And what did she say?

“She showed me her muffet.”

Nice.

“You know the ol’ Pig sat down beside her.”

And then?

“We got it on!”

All right.

“It certainly was.”

You know, it’s Janis’ birthday today.

“Where you think she got that bottle from!?”

Makes sense.

“So, tell me: how old she woulda been?”

Today? 74.

“Stop pullin’ the ol’ Pig’s leg!”

I wouldn’t dare, buddy.

“74. Huh. That’s some mileage. My grandma ain’t even that old.”

Getting up there.

“I’m glad I didn’t have to see that. All wrinkly and withered. Bent over and whatnot. Way it all worked out was f’r the best.”

You’re a liar.

“Heh. Yeah. I thought I’d try out fibbin’. How was I at it?”

Terrible.

“Yeah. All right, get on out o’ here. We got some celebratin’ to do.”

How you gonna celebrate?

“We gonna drink and screw all damn night!”

Good plan.

“Course it is.”

Back In Business

“Jenkins!

“Yes, sir?”

“How many fonts can we fit on one poster?”

“Can or should, sir?”

“Dammit, Jenkins, we’re the Grateful Dead. ‘Should’ isn’t our vocabulary! Imagine if someone had asked ‘Should we have two drummers?’ or ‘Should we give the roadies a vote?’ We’re not Bon Jovi.”

“No, sir.”

“For example, we don’t own an arena football team. Or do we?”

“We don’t, sir.”

“Let’s buy one. How much cash do you have on you?”

“Not much.”

“That’s the correct amount. I think Jon Bon bought his with some McDonald’s gift certificates and a used Chevy Tahoe.”

“The sport never caught on, sir.”

“Arena football. Good gravy, what an abomination. Might as well play hockey in your aunt’s vagina.”

“Sir?”

“Wrong venue!”

“Ah. Sir, I believe we were talking about the poster.”

“Poster!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Make ever word a different font!”

“Won’t that make it tough to read, sir?”

“Jenkins, who in God’s name would actually want to read the words ‘Ruoff Home Mortgage Music Center?'”

“It doesn’t have much poetry to it.”

“Sounds like a real shithole.”

“I’m sure it’s a fine place, sir.”

“Balderdash. Go down to the cafeteria, grab a tub full of chicken wings, and dash your balder against them.”

“We don’t have a cafeteria, sir.”

“Then order some wings from that place I like, and dash your balder against them.”

“You just want wings, don’t you?”

“I do, yes.”

“I’ll make the call.”

“Honestly, Jenkins: Ruoff. Say it once, and it sounds like shit. Say it twice, and people will think there’s a dog choking on a sock.”

“No argument here, sir.”

“Now, Dodger Stadium? That’s a name. Evocative. Do you know what I think of when I hear ‘Dodger Stadium,’ Jenkins?”

“Baseball? Vin Scully?”

“Forcibly relocating Mexicans.”

“Or that.”

“Oh, those were the days, Jenkins. You could rip a a whole familia out of their house and turn it into a dugout.”

“Those days are still here, sir.”

“No, no. Now you have to pretend not to enjoy it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Citi Field again?”

“Yes, sir. Very exciting. Two shows.”

“Well, something happy should go on in that building, I suppose.”

“It’s a rebuilding decade for the Mets, sir.”

“They haven’t been the same since Marvelous Marv left.”

“Marv Throneberry?”

“He could have been the next Roberto Clemente, but he missed the plane.”

“The poster, sir.”

“Poster!”

“Yes, sir. You said something about multiple fonts?”

“Beyond multiple! An orgy. An orgy of fonts, Jenkins.”

“Yes, sir. And the color?”

“All of them.”

“Yes, sir. Skeleton, turtle, or bear?”

“Tell you what: ask the kid who brings the chicken wings.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Summer tour!”

“Whoopee, sir.”

Boys On The Radio

“Oteil Brubridge, welcome back to the Radio Randy Show on SiriusXM’s JamOn channel.”

“Hey, Radio Randy. You look different from last time we talked.”

“I’m an entirely different human being.”

“Huh.”

“‘Radio Randy’ isn’t a name so much as it is a title. Or a curse.”

“Like the Ghost Rider?”

“Oh, my God, yes. Exactly. You’re my first guest to understand that.”

“How many guests have you had so far?”

“You’re the first.”

“Randy, is that going to be the level of the jokes for the whole interview?”

“It is.”

“Awesome.”

“Oteil, you’ve got your own band now. How is it different from playing with Dead & Company?”

“I get a much bigger chunk of a much smaller check.”

“Concisely stated.”

“I’m not a chatterbox, Randy.”

“Why is there a massive picture of you behind yourself?”

“So that bitches can recognize.”

“Great, great. If you had to eat a member of Dead & Company, who would it be?”

“Chimenti.”

“You didn’t even have to think about that.”

“Didn’t have to. Already done all my thinking on that subject. See, John is the youngest, so you’d think he’d be tenderest, but he works out too much. Chimenti’s got a couple years on him, but he never gets off that piano bench. He’s like a veal with good hair. I don’t even think you’d need a knife.”

“Definitely not an original Dead, huh?”

“Oh, no. That meat’s bad. I mean, I would taste some of Bobby just out of respect. Otherwise, no.”

“Oteil, let’s take a call.”

“We can do that?”

“Sure, why not? Caller, you’re on.”

“Uh, hi? Is my dad there?”

“I thought you said we were going camping this weekend, Pop.”

“This isn’t your father, John Mayer.”

“Who is it?”

“Radio Randy.”

“Oh. Is my father there?”

JOHN MAYER’S FATHER AT THE BAR DOING SHOTS AND GRABBING PUSSY NOISE

“No. He’s not.”

“Ah. Do you wanna take me camping?”

“I don’t really have time, buddy. Gotta go.”

“Why won’t my money buy me happi–”

DIAL TONE NOISE EVEN THOUGH PHONES DO NOT DO THAT ANY LONGER

“That was weird, Oteil.”

“He’s so much needier than you’d assume.”

“I see that now.”

“You ever read The Great Gatsby?”

“Sure.”

“The scene where Gatsby’s showing Daisy all his shirts? That’s the vibe from Mayer every minute you’re with him. It’s exhausting.”

“Well, he’s gone now.”

“Okay. Randy?”

“Yes?”

“Are those the lights, or did you vomit bile onto the front of your shirt?”

“The second thing.”

“Okay.”

“My insides are dying.”

“And yet this is still the best interview I’ve ever done with JamOn.”

A Han Solo Story

INT – MILLENNIUM FALCON

YOUNG HAN SOLO (played by ALL THE KIDS FROM STRANGER THINGS EXCEPT THE BLACK ONE) paces around the hold. YOUNG LANDO (played by THE BLACK KID FROM STRANGER THINGS) and YOUNG CHEWBACCA (played by a #TIME’SUP PIN) are also there. Everyone is doing SPACE BULLSHIT.

HAN
Hey, Lando. Guess who sent me a hologram?

LANDO
Young Luke Skywalker?

HAN
Who?

LANDO
Oh, right. We haven’t met any of them yet. Who?

HAN
Bryx Darb

LANDO
That is a very Star Wars name.

HAN
Right? We’re going to a 50’s diner, which exist for some reason.

LANDO
You’re gonna wear that?

Young Han Solo is wearing SPACE OVERALLS.

HAN
What’s wrong with this?

Lando and Chewie look at each other and shake their heads. Chewie makes ONE OF THE NOISES THAT MAKES NERDS CUM. They both GET UP and walk into the COCKPIT, where Chewie HITS HIS HEAD on a PAIR OF DICE HANGING FROM THE REARVIEW and all the NERDS CUM AGAIN.

INT – THE SPACE MALL

Wacky ALIENS and THAT SORT OF BULLSHIT walk around the FOOD COURT where SPACE TEENS are SPACE FLIRTING.

HAN
Guys, I don’t know about this.

LANDO
Han, old pal, we’re gonna make you look groovy.

CHEWIE
<Wookiee sound.>

They enter a store: HOLO-CHESS KING.

SOUND CUE: WALKING ON SUNSHINE BY KATRINA AND THE WAVES

Lando and Chewie sit outside a DRESSING ROOM. A retail CLERK played by Kevin Spacey Christopher Plummer is with them.

Han emerges in a COMICAL OUTFIT. Lando, Chewie, and the clerk SHAKE THEIR HEADS. He REENTERS the dressing room.

Han comes back out in a WHITE BLOUSE AND BEIGE LEGGINGS. The nerds CUM. The clerk DOES, TOO. Lando and Chewie are UNIMPRESSED. BACK IN the dressing room.

Han re-emerges wearing a COAT MADE OUT OF WOOKIEE FUR. Chewie does that thing where he SHAKES HIS SPACE MONKEY ARMS OVER HIS HEAD. Lando attempts to hold Chewie down, but is THROWN OUT THE WINDOW TO HIS DEATH.

The clerk pulls a weapon.

HAN
No blasters! No blasters!

Chewie EATS the clerk.

Han takes off the coat.

HAN
Okay, okay. No need to get nuts. It’s fake!

Chewie examines the coat. They have a BIG LAUGH.

HAN
What about this?

Han pulls a BLACK VEST and WHITE SHIRT off of a hanger. Chewie approves.

INT – DEATH STAR

A CREEPY CGI MOFF TARKIN and a DARTH VADER THAT DOESN’T LOOK RIGHT stand at a monitor looking at the SPACE MALL.

TARKIN
You may fire when ready.

VADER
I’ll teach you to ban me from Sears!

TARKIN
You were hitting on teenagers, Darth.

VADER
The Force wants what the Force wants.

SHZWAM!

The Rock Doc Drinking Game

Whither the Rock Doc? Hither? Thither? What about yon?

Don’t be weird this early.

The Rock Doc! 45 minutes of content padded out with an hour of interviews, long sweeping pans over photographs everyone’s seen before, and (depending on the budget) some kickin’ tunes, man. From acts that never made it to semi-defunct choogly-type bands, from venerated clubs to iconic studios, there’s enough Rock Docs to fill an entire app in your Apple TV menu. (I think it’s called Qello or something.)

And, of course, 90 percent of them are unwatchable shit. (That number comes from something called Sturgeon’s Law, which postulates that 90% of everything is shit, and was first set forth by Scottish politician Nicola Sturgeon.) Unless, of course, you turn the whole scenario into a drinking game.

Print this out for next time you give up and hit PLAY at random on something, anything, with a Stratocaster on the icon.

TAKE A SIP

  • A man in his 50’s is dressed like a man in his 20’s.
  • Slow pan across a mixing board.
  • “Artistic” shot of a jumble of cables.
  • Bad plastic surgery.
  • Sunglasses indoors.
  • Story about a person ends with a sad picture of said person and a chyron reading “1956-1992”.
  • Footage from another, better Rock Doc.
  • Johnny Depp appearance.
  • Obvious hairpiece.
  • It’s clear from the first five minutes who the pain-in-the-ass in the band was.
  • Skull ring.
  • Dismissive Brit with posh accent.

TAKE A SWIG

  • Rick Rubin, barefoot.
  • “And that’s when I got sober.”
  • Two lanky white men sit on a couch with their legs crossed in opposing directions and leaning away from one another.
  • Black-and-white Super 8 footage of a tense recording session.
  • Someone goes back to first rehearsal space/apartment/etc., and says “This is where it all started,” and then chuckles.

TAKE A GULP

  • Don Was, barefoot.
  • Woman is allowed to speak.
  • Cigarette smoking. (Modern Rock Doc only. All vintage Rock Docs feature wall-to-wall nicotine consumption.)
  • Story you’ve heard so many times you know it by heart.

DRINK THE REST OF YOUR GLASS

  • Story you’ve heard so many times you know it by heart is told incorrectly because the teller’s new wife is sitting next to him.
  • John Fogerty isn’t a dick.
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