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

Month: November 2016 (Page 5 of 14)

All I Said Was, “Come On In”

http://https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vKOb-kmOgpI

It’s a powerful segment—and not only because it’s intimately informed by things SNL’s writers likely know very well: the cultural and commercial habits of a very particular, and very stereotypical, cross-section of young progressives. “The Bubble” is Brooklyn, essentially, presented at once as geography and as a very precise set of political assumptions. SNL, with “The Bubble,” is making fun of that, and of itself—of its own generally progressive viewers, of its own generally progressive writers. It is having fun with, but also giving credence to, one of the criticisms most commonly lobbed against progressives: that they are smug. And that they are, in their way, just as narrow-minded as the people they condemn for their provincialism. – Megan Garber, The Atlantic – 11/21/16

How dare you judge what’s become of the Right? To label a movement as fascist or racist simply on the basis of their stated beliefs and unambiguous writings makes you a bigot. It wouldn’t have a few years ago, but words no longer have any set meaning, so now you’re a bigot.

And the little joke about how they don’t see color in the bubble, and then the actress does a take? Hilarious, and cutting: bubbleheaded thinking is surely the same as government registries. Smug is the worst thing someone could be, the worst thing at all.

Stop overreacting.

There was a victory party in DC this weekend. Balloons, booze. Speeches.

soencer

Don’t be close-minded. Let’s wait and see.

The bullet will come from the Right, but we’ll be led to the wall from the Left.

Box Office Blues

marquees-5

“Welcome to The Tahitian.”

“Oh, God, you’re working the box office now?”

“I’m not allowed to work the snack bar any more. I ate some food.”

“How much?”

“It’s a movie theater, so it was like thirty grand worth.”

“Pricey place for peckishness.”

“Okay.”

“Is Gussy making you pay her back?”

“Miss Incarnation-Potpourri–”

“No.”

“–already took it out of my check.”

“She took thirty grand out of your check?”

“No! I don’t get paid that much. I wish. That would be awesome. No, uh, she charged me her cost for the food.”

“Which was?”

“Eleven dollars. We really mark stuff up here.”

“You’re not supposed to tell the customers that.”

“Ah, dammit. Shit. Fuck, I’m not supposed to curse, either. Shit, but I just–”

“Stop talking.”

“Please don’t tell Miss–”

“Oh, of course I’m not going to tell on you, you gibbering nitwit.”

“Cool. You’re awesome, Mr. Vegetable. Are you here for the 2:30 showing of The Meerkats of Firenze?”

“Why? Is it sold out?”

“Oh, no. The opposite.”

“It sounds ghastly. What is it?”

“It is an art nature documentary.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“The animals eat each other, but derive no joy from it.”

“I still don’t know what that is. No, I don’t want to see that at all. I just want the schedule for this month, please.”

“I have totally memorized it. Quiz me.”

“What?”

“Quiz me. Any date.”

“Julio, I will reach through this glass poke you in your eyeballs. Give me the schedule.”

“Just one date? Please!?”

“Is this how you got your little girlfriend?”

“Things are going really well with us. The other night–”

“If I quiz you about the schedule, will you not talk about your filthy teen hormones?”

“Sure.”

“The 14th.”

“Renny Harlin retrospective.”

“Good heavens, why?”

“We’re fumigating.”

“Ah.”

“Boss said that it was the only way to keep the place empty.”

“Yes, the tents tend to attract circus folk. What about the 21st?”

Temporo! The Four-Dimensional Monster! That’s gonna be shown in 4D.”

“What is 4D?”

“The movie’s in 3D, and as you watch it you move forward in time 87 minutes.”

“Sounds like I can skip it. 27th?”

“Lost films night. Dune by that guy with the name. Oh, dude: Arnold in a movie about the Crusades. Then, Kubrick’s Napoleon.”

“Save me a seat for that.”

“We don’t currently have assigned seats at The Tahitian.”

“It was a euphemistic expression of interest.”

“Oh. Then I didn’t understand. And also I don’t understand the thing you said explaining the thing I didn’t understand.”

“The future of Little Aleppo. What’s playing tonight?”

“This evening, The Tahitian will be featuring two movies.”

“There’s only one theater.”

“We’re using the front and the back of the screen.”

“Ah. And what are the two features?”

“They’re both about Kandinski.”

“Just give me a schedule, please.”

“Would you like to contribute to the March of Dimes?”

“No.”

“The Parade of Pennies?”

“That is a fake charity started by your boss.”

“How do you know that?”

“The conversation she and I had regarding it.”

“No one gives to it, anyway.”

“That was the point. Give me a schedule.”

“You could get on our mailing list.”

“I live two hundred feet away. Monthly, I take a constitutional from that literary dungeon my sins in this and former lives have sentenced me to. I drink coffee and walk down to the Verdance to heckle the lunatics at Shrieker’s Corner. On the way back, I pick up the monthly program for The Tahitian. It makes me happy. Why do you take from me my happiness? Give it back! Give back my momentary happiness!”

“How?”

“It is in the shape of a schedule.”

“We’re out.”

“Julio?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You’re fired. Get out of the booth. I was Gussy’s boss; she’s your boss; I can fire you.”

“She specifically mentioned that you can’t.”

“Really? I just thought of it.”

“She’s pretty smart.”

“I know. I fired her for it on several occasions.”

On Differences

marquee-holzer-boys-and-girls

  • Junk, exterior.
  • Junk, interior.
  • Some other stuff, mostly minor, all physical.

Listen to the marquee. Just a note, though: wolverines should not be raised the same way as boys or girls. They are very different. In fact, a wolverine might not even need raising, and why do you have a baby wolverine, anyway? Goddammit, are you breaking into the zoo again?

You okay?

No.

Me neither, but you’re being weird.

What if we all just went to a place.

You’ll need to be so much more specific.

All the normal humans, and by that I mean the ones who are terrified right now, because I do not consider anyone who is not terrified to be normal.

Good metric.

Thank you. So: all the people who want to be calm and reasonable and not elect madmen, like, gather. We all go the same location.

They’ve got the guns, but we’ve got the numbers.

The Doors? Really?

I thought it was appropriate.

The Doors are never appropriate. And plus: what the fuck are you talking about? These calm and reasonable people we’re talking about are still Americans. There’ll be a shitload of guns.

True.

So we take Mazatlan and give it back to Mexico.

Why not Canada?

Wanting to go to Canada is racist.

Sure.

But, you know: we make a deal with their government, so we’re not Mexico Mexico.

Say no more, say no more.

And then we close it on up behind us. With a physical barrier, probably.

A defensive emplacement designed to keep out intruders and separate “in” from “out?”

Yeah.

Like a fence?

Bigger than a fence.

Goddamn you.

I wanna build that motherfucker his wall. And I wanna be on the other side of it.

Mexico still paying for it?

Fuck, yeah. Far as I’m concerned, they owe us a wall.

I completely agree.

Deaf, Head

mickey-hat-67-onstage

Mickey.

Mickey!

MICKEY!

“Are you talking to me?”

No. I was yelling at you.

“Well, can you wait until the song’s over? It’s very loud.”

Song’s been over for two minutes, Mick.

“What? Stop fucking around. We’re raging, man.”

What does the song sound like? Sing it.

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.”

That’s one of my favorites.

“It’s playing in my head all the time.”

Great. Anything else you want to contribute?

“I dosed my hat.”

Sure.

SG, PRS, PYT

bobby-hottie-73-bw-jpg

Hey, Bobby. Whatcha doing?

“Being the Bobby.”

You are so completely fulfilling your role in the universe at this instance, yeah.

“Peak Bobby. I’d, uh, go so far as to say I’m getting right close in on Peak Rock Star.”

Bob.

“What?”

Bobby.

“Uh-huh?”

Bobbela.

“Bill Graham used to call me that.”

You are so far away from Peak Rock Star. In every metric.

“What about my hair?”

In every metric but one.

“Discovered something the other day, and it’s made a serious difference, hair-wise: any conditioner is a leave-in conditioner if you get distracted.”

Sure.

“Few hours after I got out of the shower, I looked spectacular.”

Your hair looks good.

“It’s found its own bliss. Y’know, I was thinking about starting an artisanal shampoo line, selling it on the internet.”

Why didn’t you?

“It’s 1973. None of that stuff exists yet.”

Ah. Right.

“So, uh, explain how I’m not at Peak Rock Star.”

What are your clothes made out of?

“Cotton.”

Disqualified right there. PRS status requires alternative fabrics.

“Chenille?”

No.

“Tulle?”

What?

“Burlap?”

Stop guessing. Leather, spandex, silk, satin, velvet, leather.

“You said ‘leather’ twice.”

You heard ‘leather’ twice.

“That’s true, I did. Good point.”

And where is Satan?

“I have my demons.”

No, no, no: Satan. PRS cannot be achieved without Satan being involved somehow.

“Clive Davis count?”

Nuh-uh.

“Mickey when he’s drunk?”

Stop it. The Dead was one of the least Satanic bands in history. Half of your songs are about Jesus.

“We didn’t really mean to do that.”

Yeah, but you did. And there’s no pyro, and there’s no stage show, and none of you have any decent rock moves whatsover.

“What about the Lunge?”

I stand by my statement.

“Ah. Well, whatever then. We wear what we wear, we are who we are.”

Well said.

“You think I would look good in those shorts?”

I think you would look memorable in those shorts.

“Something to think about.”

I Agree With Steven Van Zandt

screen-shot-2016-11-19-at-10-17-32-pm

I salute Steven Van Zandt for his restraint, ethics, and compassion in his opinion on today’s controversy. (Not the President-Elect settling a class-action fraud suit for $25 million, the shiny distraction.) I would salute him further for his outspokenness, but Steven has saluted himself for that.

Mike Pence attended the musical Hamilton last night; he was roundly booed, and one of the actors addressed him directly during the curtain call. I do not know whether the short speech was in specific reference to legislation Mike Pence has shepherded and signed legalizing discrimination against homosexuals, nor am I aware if the actor mentioned Governor Pence’s advocacy of using government funds on conversion therapy.*

The theater, according to people who do not work in theater, is a sacred space. It is where Art is made, and capitalized, and must rise above our petty preoccupations; I agree with Steven Van Zandt: mixing politics and Hamilton was a mistake.

What happened last night was bullying, for a certain** definition of the word, and it has no place on the stage. The appropriate response would have been to perform the show as written, then call a bunch of your celebrity buddies, and record a terrible protest song. That’s how we do things in Jersey.

Steven Van Zandt–who has been known as both Little Steven and Miami Steve, which is ironic seeing as how both the little guy and your typical Miami resident will soon be getting fucked by the man he’s defending–believes that the actors should have asked for a meeting with Pence, so that they could say things privately about things he’s done publicly. Van Zandt would also be fine with a letter, but not an open one printed in the paper (bullying); a disapproving look, but not a head shake (also bullying); or giving Mike Pence a weak handshake. (Obviously, refusing to shake the Veep’s hand would be bullying of the lowest variety.)

Would Martin Luther King have appreciated what you did, Hamilton, boldly declaring yourself to be a human being in front of a powerful man who did not agree? Don’t you recall how Christ was respectful to the money changers, waiting until they were all in private to bring up his disagreements? Just because a man builds his career on the persecution of minorities doesn’t give them the right to ask him to stop. Lotta balls you got on you, Hamilton.

Unlike his solo albums, Steven Van Zandt’s words should be listened to. Art must be for everyone, as opposed to civil rights, which are for the people Mike Pence says can have them. Huzzah, Little Steven: I doff my bandana to you.

*Forced therapy, actually. Your parents could sign you up for it if they found your porn stash was not straight porn, which the Lord dislikes but will forgive, or gay porn, which the Lord detests. Large men would come into your bedroom real early in the morning and snatch you up and bring you somewhere. If they couldn’t talk the gay out of you, they’d hook you up to a car battery and burn it out of you. Tax money would pay for it, and if you can reconcile supporting this and the Hyde Amendment simultaneously, then you’re a better man than I, Gunga Din.

**Incorrect.

A Random Encounter With Old Weird America

superbird

The only good thing about Florida–besides never having to shovel snow–is the little car shows that pop up in the winter. The snowbirds come down, hauling trailers with vintage Corvettes and resto-modded Fords, and you’ll be going for a cup of coffee only to park next to an American Beauty like this.

Just like the album, the Plymouth Superbird came out in 1970 and no one knew what the hell to make of it: even in ’70, this sucker was too garish and silly for most humans; the only reason they made it was because of NASCAR, and something called homologation.

The SC in NASCAR stands for Stock Car–I assume that both A’s stand for America–and that’s the main difference between European motorsport and American car racing. Formula One, owing to its heritage as an aristocrat’s hobby, uses bespoke racers that could never be driven on a normal road (practically or legally); NASCAR, which was started by Southern moonshiners, requires that their cars be (obviously tweaked) versions of autos you could buy at the dealership. (Although–just to make everything confusing–F1’s races are often run on city streets, while stock car races only take place on tracks.)

Put simply: if you wanted to race it, you had to sell it. Homologation.

So for the first couple decades of NASCAR, the automakers did just that, take street cars and turn them into racecars by ripping out everything that wasn’t the chassis or the power plant. (There was no safety equipment. In fact, the concept of “safety” was not invented until around 1981.)

The cars looked like this:

1950s

It’s as if Chrysler had ordered too many right angles and had to get rid of them.

There was some hinckery, obviously–the manufacturers jammed in heavy-duty shocks and exhaust systems, saying they were for cop cars–but for the most part you could see the same cars on the track as you could on the road.

By the late Sixties, everyone was burning dope and smoking Vietnam and protesting bras, and someone in Detroit got a rather clever idea: what if we use the race cars as loss leaders for the normal cars, and build something absurdly fast and eyecatching–designed specifically for the track–and if we sell the production units, we do, and if we don’t, we don’t. Thus, the Plymouth Superbird.

It was one of the first cars built using a computer and a wind-tunnel, and the mathematical formula for the wing’s height was a closely-held corporate secret for years. (The official line was that the absurd thing was so tall as to allow the trunk to open, which I can’t believe was ever said with a straight face.) The nose was extended out almost two feet beyond what you’d see on the Roadrunner the car was based on, and there are several pairs of semi-hidden vents for better air flow around the body.

It wasn’t technically cheating, but it was cheating, and almost everything about the Superbird was banned the next year.

But we–the folks living amongst beige Hyundais and grey Hondas–got lucky. As I mentioned, a certain number had to be produced for the public; in 1970, the rules of homologation changed. Whereas you used to have to only make 500, now there was a ratio: one car for every two dealerships. Plymouth–belonging to Chrysler–had quite a few dealerships, and so around 2,000 Superbirds were made. There’s maybe a thousand left.

This is the wing:

fullsizerender-2

When you honk the horn, it goes MEEP MEEP. This one is Limelight Green. I know a guy who’d buy it.

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