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

Tag: frank sinatra (Page 1 of 2)

Three Coins In A Fountain That Was Not Made By The Hands Of Man

“Heard those rooty-toots were here last year.”


“Those scooby-snacker. The dopers, for Christ’s sake! The dopers!”

The Grateful Dead?

“Whatever they call themselves. I call ’em bums. The people pay good money to see you. Y’gotta class it up for ’em. Buy a tuxedo, get a new hairpiece, put some effort into your presentation. Blue jeans! They wear their blue jeans!”

That’s what they’re comfortable in, Mr. Sinatra.

“I’m comfortable with my bird in a hooker! I don’t do it onstage, capice? There’s a time and a place!”

Yes, sir. I see you’re playing the Pyramids.

“We’re doing it for peace. And, uh, Jerry Weintraub set it up, and he’s the best.”


“Big Sally! Pop this prick!”


Ow! Why would you do that?

“That’s what I do!”

Yeah, I guess.



Two-And-A-Half’s A Crowd

“Here’s how the deal goes down, crumb-bum: I’m takin’ your wife and givin’ her the ride of her life. Try to stop me and three guys named Jilly work ya over.”

“Aw, gee, Frank. I dunno why you gotta–”


“Don’t you talk back ta me, Lollipop Guild. C’mon, Ava. Let’s blow this joint.”

“Ah, go fuck yourself, Frank.”



“Hey, you two, let’s not–”



“Aw, Jeez.”



TotD NOTE: Read this book. It’s fucking great.

Acrostic The Rio Grand-ee-oh

W is for water, as in rain, which was dripdripdroppifying all over the scalawags and reprobates and chickies at Woodstock, which is where this photo was taken.

O is for omelettes, which you couldn’t get because there was no food because it was just a fucking field with no amenities.

O is for opera, which is the plural of opus, which just means “work.” When you call something an opera, you’re literally saying “this thing someone made.” Lot less fancy when you know that.

D is for Dirty Dingus Magee. Sinatra was in it. He played a cowboy.

Because when you think “cowboy,” you think “Sinatra.” Blue-eyed Enthusiasts will note the luxurious toupee under the hat; Frank named all his hairpieces, and called that one Husky Boy.

S is for Sly Stone, or perhaps Sha Na Na, (PREDICTION: When the absurd “every single note of every single band” 38-disc Woodstock box set is released, Rock Nerds will all rediscover the Na’s brilliance. Pitchfork is already readying a thinkpiece on Bowser, I guarantee it.)

T is a drink with jam and bread, or crystal meth, or testosterone, or the mohawked muscle of the A-Team, or a square, or one of two events that stop play in a basketball game.

O is pissing me off, honestly. Three appearances in one word is too much, O. Let the other vowels get a chance to play.

C is for Country Joe and his Fish, and I’m gonna pass. Hard pass.

K is allowed to ask me about my business just this once, and also potassium.

Playing Through

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!”


“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.

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