Tag: miles davis (Page 7 of 8)

“Who’s that?”

It’s me, Mr. Davis.

“Ain’t it Jew Year’s Eve?”

How lovely of you to remember.

“I live in New York, motherfucker. Think I ain’t had a knish before? You people do two things good, and one’s cook.”

Please don’t tell me what the other thing is.

“Fuck.”

…

I was not expecting that.

“Jewish bitch’ll work for you. Do stuff to your balls without telling them to. That’s nice, I like that. Plus, they ain’t got dogs. White bitches always got some little dog wants to bite your black ass while you’re fucking. White people so racist that their dogs hate black folks.”

I don’t know if that’s true.

“What the fuck would you know? Cop ever beat you in front of the club you was headlining at? Your name’s on the fucking sign and you got some soda-cracker motherfucker whacking at you with his billy club?”

No.

“Then shut the fuck up. I ever tell you about the time I went to the White House?”

No, sir.

“Should’ve known from the name I wasn’t supposed to be there. Cecily set it up. Thought I’d like it. All these old white people are there staring at me like I’m some fucking freak. I got a new outfit on, some real clean shit from this Japanese designer I liked at the time. Everyone else is in a tux or some European bullshit. White ladies kept coming up to me to ask about jazz.”

What about?

“Who the fuck knows? They didn’t want to know nothing, and you can’t teach someone like that nothing. They just wanted to look smart in front of their white lady friends. Should’ve seen these bitches. Got real tight faces and loose necks. Old, uptight white people. Looked like a restricted cemetery. You know who was there?”

No.

“Fred MacMurray.”

From My Three Sons?

“That motherfucker, yeah. Drooling on himself. I might’ve liked him the best. Least he couldn’t say no dumb shit to me. This one bitch walks up to me, right in my face, says, ‘And what did you do to get invited to the White House?'”

What did you say?

“I said, ‘I did this, bitch.’ And I took out my dick and pissed on her knee.”

Good answer.

“Cecily was mad, but fuck her.”

This was when Reagan was president, right?

“That simple motherfucker. Shit, I met a lot of white people but that motherfucker was clear. Couldn’t look directly at him.”

Reagan was a pretty white dude.

“And that wife of his. No ass on that bitch. I heard she sucked a mean dick, but bitch got no ass.”

I don’t know why you never write lyrics. You’re a poet.

BANG!

Yeah, I deserved that.

“Next one’s getting aimed at you.”

I’ll deserve that, too.

That’s a nice coat, Mr. Davis.

“Course it is, you dumb hillbilly.”

I’m Jewish.

“Dumb Jew.”

Hey.

“I got nothing against the Jews over what I got against white people. Fuck all y’all.”

Enlightened, I guess.

“Jews always wanna hang out with blacks until there’s trouble. Then, you motherfuckers don’t know us until we pay the retainer.”

Can we talk about anything else?

“I did a lot of those rock festivals in the late 70’s, early 80’s. More money. White bitches everywhere. Most of those rock stars were some no-playing motherfuckers. Knew two chords and one of them was wrong. Played that happy baby shit. Couldn’t stand it.”

Was there anyone you did like?

“Liked the Grateful Dead. Played with them a few times. Spacey white people walking around without shirts on. Good money. Crowd listened. Didn’t mind that shit. Who was the fat Mexican?”

Jerry Garcia.

“Yeah, him. Smelled like a wet dog, but he knew a flat from a sharp. Loved my music. Who was the bitch? Tall with pretty hair.”

That was actually a man named Bob.

“I couldn’t tell. See, all those rock stars were bitches. Didn’t have no masculinity about them. What’s the name of the one in the jeans who talks about his daddy?’

Bruce Springsteen.

“Homosexual.”

I don’t think he is.

“I can spot a homosexual. See, when a man lets his mother tell him what to do, this turns him into a homosexual.”

I don’t think it does.

“Bill Evans dabbled in homosexuality for years, but he gave it up for heroin. Made me proud.”

Mr. Davis, may I ask you a question?

“Depends on if it’s stupid or not.”

How did you get your distinctive voice?

BANG!

WHAT? That was a stupid question!?

“Not that bad. Just hadn’t shot at you in a while. Thought you was getting a little comfortable.”

Sure.

“Had a polyp removed from my larynx. Doctor told me not to raise my voice for a month.”

What happened?

“Ran into a motherfucker needed yelling at.”

How long after the doctor told you not to raise your voice did that happen?

“During the conversation. The motherfucker was the doctor.”

Of course it was.

I thought you didn’t want to be part of this.

“I got more shit to say. Shut the fuck up.”

That’s a very fancy phone.

“I’m a fancy motherfucker. You know I once stabbed Symphony Sid?”

I didn’t.

“White motherfucker can’t play a note. Comes out and says his bullshit, and he’s getting a grand a  night. This is ’52, so that ain’t bullshit. Band gets $250 between us. This motherfucker got his radio show from Birdland so all the white people know who he is. We’re the ones playing the music. Not right.”

So you stabbed him?

“As little as possible.”

Kind of you.

“People want to get cute with money. Lost track of the motherfuckers thinking my money is their money.  I been broke, but I never stole nothing like people steal from me.”

You were broke?

“Shit. First couple years in New York. Didn’t have a dollar to my name. Clothes looking ragged, and I’m a vain motherfucker. Always have been. Looked so bad that Duke gave me a couple hundred bucks in front of Birdland one night.”

Was this when you were a junkie?

“Didn’t say there wasn’t no reason I was broke.”

True.

“I got through it. Kicked the junk a couple times. Women would give me money. Kept playing my horn, just playing music.”

Wait. What about the women?

“Women would give me money.”

Why?

“They liked me, motherfucker.”

And what if they didn’t give you money?

“That’s between me and them.”

You’re talking about being a pimp, Miles.

BANG!

You’re talking about being a pimp, Mr. Davis.

“White man’s got all sorts of words for all sorts of bullshit. Bitch want to give me money, I ain’t stopping her.”

The pimp thing does explain the phone, though.

“Phone cost six grand.”

My phone has a teevee and encyclopedia in it.

BANG!

Yeah, okay, yours is cooler!

“I know.”

…

God?

BANG!

Put the gun away! You’re Miles!

BANGBANG!

MR. DAVIS! Mr. Davis! Sorry, I met someone who looked like you.

“Handsome motherfucker, must have been.”

Sure was.

“Bird once stole my bed to pawn for heroin, and I was in the motherfucker at the time. That’s how slick he was. I woke up, my black ass is on the floor and I ain’t got drawers on. Bird also stole my drawers.”

He sounds like a terrible friend.

“Shit, only thing Bird could do was play that fucking horn. Motherfucker used to get into car accidents from the back seat. Liked to ride around in cabs getting his dick sucked while he ate chicken. Bitch’d have her ass all up in the air getting freaky with herself. Driver gets distracted and hits a police horse.”

And what would Bird do?

“Hail another fucking cab if he still had chicken. Or a hard-on. He’d be yelling the whole time, ‘Keep sucking, bitch.’ Never got arrested. Maybe the cops just couldn’t believe their motherfucking eyes. This was ’51. Black man couldn’t act that way in ’51.”

I don’t think anyone could act like that ever.

“Dizzy could. Man got away with anything. Used to grab on white ladies’ nipples in automats and say, ‘Sorry, I thought that was the button for the ham sandwich.’ Then he’d stick a nickel in her nose. White bitches loved that shit.”

Dizzy had a lovely smile, though. That’ll take you far in this world.

“White people always telling me that shit. ‘Smile more, Miles. People like you more when you smile, Miles.’ Dumb motherfuckers. I smile when I’m happy. Maybe not even then. Depends on my mood. I smile when I ride my horses.”

Oh, you ride horses?

“Black man can’t ride a fucking horse?”

I didn’t say that.

“Been riding horses all my damn life. Grew up in the west. We got horses and shit there. See, that’s what the writers never understood about me. I’m a western black man, but they always thinking I’m a southern black. There’s a difference.”

Which is?

“You’re too fucking dumb to understand.”

Why do you have to be so belligerent?

“I made Kind of Blue.”

No, I’m not asking why you get away with being so belligerent; I’m asking why you choose to be.

BANG!

SORRY! Sorry!

“Don’t be thinking about turning me into no regular motherfucker around here. This shit’s beneath me.”

The readers love you.

BANG!

OKAY! Okay.

Are you there, God? It’s me, TotD.

“I AM THAT I AM.”

I never quite understood what that–

“SILENCE! I AM THE ALPHA AND OMEGA. I AM THE MORNING STAR AND THE EVENHACH HACH HACH…Listen, kid, I’m not gonna do the voice.”

Cool by me. You sounded like Wally, anyway.

“Or a less-Southern Elvis.”

Sure.

“What do you want? I’m busy.”

Because it’s the Sabbath?

“No. College football. Just lost a bundle on Nebraska.”

Didn’t you know how it was going to turn out?

“Of course. I just didn’t believe it. I mean, c’mon. The Northern Illinois Huskies?”

True. I won’t take up too much of your time.

“Ahem.”

…

Sorry, sorry. I won’t take up too much of Your time.

“Put some respect on my pronouns.”

I apologize.

“You are forgiven.”

Okay, real quick. Um, here goes: why me?

“Why not you?”

Well, what did I ever do to You?

“What did you have for lunch?”

Cuban sandwich.

“So good.”

The best.

“It’s just ethnic ham and cheese, but still. Yummo. Buuuuuut can’t be mixing the meat and dairy.”

Really? I’m being punished because I didn’t keep kosher?

“Nah, I’m just fucking with you. Go nuts on the shrimp and wash it down with chocolate milk for all I care.”

Phew. So, why?

“Because you’re a fucking moron, and you constantly act against your self-interest.”

What about the hurricane?

“The hurricane that I provided you with shelter from?”

…

Yeah.

“Uh-huh. And besides, I didn’t send the hurricane. I spun the roulette wheel a few billion years ago and the ball lands where it wants. I don’t send weather at people. You’re thinking of Poseidon.”

Oh.

“Furthermore, if I was going to send a storm, it wouldn’t be named Irma. It would be something awesome.”

Like?

“Ronnie James Dio.”

That is a pretty awesome name.

“I truly don’t need your approval.”

Sorry. What about my computer?

“The one you took your eyes off in a crowd of strangers?”

…

Yes?

“Wait, you don’t have a computer? So what are you writing this on?”

Someone sent me their old one.

“Uh-huh. For free?”

Yeah.

“Did they, in fact, eat the shipping?”

They did.

“Overnighted the sucker across an entire continent just so you could write your little stories?”

Yeah.

“Wanna shut the fuck up?”

I should, but I don’t want to.

“There you go, kid. Everything bad that’s ever happened to you–fucking EVER–has been your own fault. I’ve been looking out for you. Sometimes I look like family members; sometimes I look like strangers on the internet. Hell, sometimes I look like cops who didn’t want to be bothered with paperwork. You ought to be thanking me, but instead you whine and cast blame. You remember the story of Job?”

Yes.

“Well, you didn’t fucking understand it, did you?”

God, in all honesty, You don’t come off too well in that story.

“Huh. Really? Watch out for the lightning.”

What light–

SHWAKATHOOM!

–ningJESUS!

“Yes?”

“He wasn’t talking to you, dumbass!”

“Don’t call me dumbass, Dad!”

“Did you take the garbage out?”

“I SAID I’D DO IT!”

DOOR SLAMMING NOISE

Kids, huh?

“I tell ya. Just hangs around the house all day.”

That’s rough.

“You have no idea how many job interviews I’ve gotten for Him. I think He gave up somewhere along the way.”

I can relate.

“Course you can. You’re a whiny little momma’s boy like He is. Now, um, ahem.”

…

“GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER.”

Yes, sir.

“Last fucking warning.”

Yes, sir.

“Or I’ll give you a reason to ask ‘Why me?'”

Yes, sir.

“I pulled your ass out of the fire on several occasions this week. That’s over. From now on, I’m only helping you if you help yourself.”

Yes, sir.

“Now fuck off.”

Yes, sir.

…

God?

“Whaaaaaat?”

One more question.

“Getting on my last nerve, kid.”

Quick one.

“Go.”

Can I see Your face?

“Sure.”

Huh.

“Surprised?”

Not really, no.

“No one is.”

SHWAKATHOOM!

FUCK! What was that for!?

“Reminder. This is your last last chance, asshole.”

Yes, sir.

Get off the innertubes, shut it down and the teevee, too–though why you’d be watching, still, is a riddle–and go find a chair or a couch, some abnormal wonder of comfort produced by a society of luxury that is oh so fragile, and hunker. Just a temporary hunker. A hunk o’ hunker. Before you do, though, roll yourself three doobies, fat as your preference, and you can rip the matchbook cover off and make a dinky holder, or just slobber on it: do what you like.

You’ll need three doobies for In A Silent Way; it’s 38 minutes long and–for this relaxation technique to work–you must not stop smoking the doobies: I would advise lighting the second and third doobies from the dying roach of the previous doobie, but that only works with cigarettes made by a machine.

I must repeat: do not stop smoking the doobies.

And put on In A Silent Way. You’ve heard it before, or maybe you know every note, or perhaps you have no idea what I’m talking about: no matter. In A Silent Way doesn’t care, and neither do the doobies. It doesn’t need to be too loud, but it’s not the type of music you can play too loud; I don’t know if you could ever play In A Silent Way loud enough. Isn’t it ironic?

If you do it right, you’ll cry when the drums kick in at the end, but don’t panic: that’s supposed to happen.

Cops are gonna kick your ass for this, Mr. Davis.

“Worry about yourself.”

I’m not worried. I’m stating a fact. The cops kick your ass for this. I mean, not this exact thing, but you know what I mean.

“Am I wrong?”

No.

“Are the cops right?’

No.

“Because they won’t stop being wrong, I gotta stop being right?”

…

That was some deep shit.

“I’m Miles fucking Davis, motherfucker.”

You totally are.