“Do I need more mascara?”
No.
“I feel like I need more mascara.”
How old are you?
“55.”
Then you don’t need more mascara.
“Oh, Lord, where are my manners? Can I get you some mascara?”
No, thank you.
“You’d do well with a smoky eye.”
I wouldn’t.
“Do-rag?”
No.
“Royal Air Force soft cap?”
Also no.
“Can I get your clothing embroidered with the names of your loved ones?”
No, Johnny. You don’t have to do anything.
“Well, you know, there’s a lot of rumors going around about me. The spending and whatnot.”
Does “whatnot” include the wife-beating?
“Ah, that. You know, there’s so many sides to a beating. I don’t want to be a ‘both sides’ type here, but you literally cannot beat your wife if you don’t have a wife. So, really, everyone’s to blame. Mostly her. Women don’t understand artists. Hey, you wanna set off some fireworks?”
Maybe later, buddy. Explain what you’re doing here. You playing with your band?
“Oh, yeah. The Hollywood Vampires. We’re rebels.”
Who’s in the band?
“Me, Alice Cooper, Joe Perry, a piss-stained copy of Bukowski’s poetry, and the corpse of Kevin DuBrow.”
From Quiet Riot?
“Underrated. Highly underrated. When he died, I had his spandex trousers sunk in a submarine. Cost me ten million, but that’s the Quiet Riot way.”
Sure.
“Can I offer you some thousand-dollar wine?”
I prefer plonk.
“Yeah, that’s what this is. I wouldn’t give you the good stuff.”
How much is the good stuff?
“Oh, I don’t ask. A couple years ago, I gave the guy at the liquor store my American Express and that was that. Makes life so much easier.”
Uh-huh. Do you know much about wine, Johnny?
“I know I like drinking it.”
Okay.
“It comes in red and white.”
Got it.
“But the white isn’t really white. It’s more yellowish. That’s something you discover along your wine journey. Also: white wine’s for fags,”
Wow. We do not say “fag” anymore, Johnny Depp.
“DON’T PUT LIMITS ON MY ART!”
Jesus. Sorry.
“All of you! You’re all like this! ‘Don’t say fag, Johnny.’ Or ‘You can’t buy Hoover Dam, Johnny.'”
You tried to buy Hoover Dam?
“I did.”
Why?
“I needed it!”
You seem to not know the difference between “need” and “want.”
“I might not, but I have seven or eight chain wallets going simultaneously, so I’m doing pretty well. Can I get you a chain wallet?”
Not unless it comes with a time machine set for 2003.
“Joe Perry told me a great story the other day–”
Oh, God, no.
“–about Steve McQueen. One of my heroes, by the way.”
Are any of your heroes not douchebags?
“See, Steve was at the 24 Hours of Le Mans. He was racing his ’63 Porsche and his daughter had an asthma attack. Do you know what he did?”
Selfishly ignored the child and did whatever the fuck he wanted to do?
“Wow, are a you a McQueen scholar?”
I’m not.
“I’m a better father than that, though. As you can see, I’ve got my kid’s name on my jacket.”
You do. Question.
“Shoot.”
Where are your children right now at this instant? Like, their locations?
“With their nannies.”
They still have nannies?
“They’re barely in their twenties! Of course they have nannies!”
I do not like talking to you.
“Several commentators are recommending I join Dead & Company, so I’ll probably be here for a while.”
Dammit.
“Are you sure I can’t buy you a hastily-decided-on tattoo?”
No.
Price check on the nautical star! Still 39.99?
You can’t hold a guitar pick like that and actually play it worth a shit.