Tomorrow. I’ll do it tomorrow. Tomorrow is tomorrow, so I’m not dealing with tomorrow today; I’ll live through tomorrow tomorrow, but today is today–a day like any other and not special at all–and so I will care about and write about whatever I want to. Tomorrow has an agenda, but today is for us. Today is free. Like birds and shit.
You all right, buddy?
Fuck Cornell.
The school?
Yes, but mostly the holiday. It’s exhausting. I can’t write about that fucking show any more than I already have, and I refuse to do it.
But the nice people will be expecting it.
The nice people were expecting to have gotten used to saying “Madam President” by now. Let ’em keep expecting things and see how happy it makes ’em.
Oh, good. A moody Sunday night raging against the dying of the choogle.
No one appreciates me. Where’s my box set?
…
What now?
I want a box set. I want an expansive collection of my greatest hits and dick jokes in a fancy package, and I want Nicholas von Meriweather to write the liner notes, and then I want to not buy it and download it illegally.
ALL BOBBY DOES IS TOUR, JIMMY JARBLES! Ask him something important, like “Why did you pick the wrong guy to write the Amazon show?” or “Do you agree with The New Yorker that TotD is a genius?”
“Do you remember 1977?”
BOBBY DOESN’T REMEMBER BREAKFAST, JUNIOR JOHNSON! Here’s something interesting you could have done: Word Association. Let’s see how it would go:
Hey, Bobby. I’m gonna say a word, and then you say the first thing that comes to mind.
“Isn’t that how talking usually works?”
…
Yes.
“All right, then.”
But let’s do this, anyway.
“You bet.”
Choogle.
“Hamper.”
Hamper?
“There are no wrong answers in Word Association.”
But it makes no sense.
“When your clothes get all choogled up, you put the in the hamper.”
Where did you learn to speak English?
“One a ranch one summer.”
And so on.
YOU’VE BURIED THE LEDE, JASPER JOHNS! An opportunity wasted to talk about me. My heart breaks for America.
Luckily, the great Jesse Jarnow redeems himself in the Lord’s eye with this article about the Dead’s visits to Minneapolis, which, sadly, does not include a thousand-or-so words describing the imagined hilarity of Craig Finn from the Hold Steady trying to sing Stella Blue. (Short version: not well.)
In my defense, there aren’t four seasons in Florida. There’s six months of “almost too hot.” and six months of “far too fucking hot Jesus Christ my balls are epoxied to my thigh with sweat .” Spring and autumn don’t happen here. Or winter. Florida is just varying degrees of summer.
So what brings about this realization that the civilized world has entered spring?
News reports. Pictures of cherry blossoms. Also, it’s 93 degrees and 50% humidity out there; last week, it was lovely. Something’s changed.
Climate Change?
Did you not hear me when I said “Florida?” Every summer is like this. Remember when all the Avengers were fighting at the airport and Paul Rudd got real big?
Sure.
Like being up his ass. That is what Florida is like from April to October. Hot and so, so, so sticky.
Did you begin this post with a point or is this one of those times you just started typing?
Point.
Yay.
Spring cleaning time, Enthusiasts! I have had–for what seems like weeks now–some tabs open on my desktop that I meant to have something interesting to say about. Failing that, something funny. Failing that, I figured I could half-ass a dialogue or a list or something. (Loyal readers will know that TotD is the reigning champ of half-assing dialogues and lists.)
But, Jesus, I’m beaten. I got nothing. Here we go:
I hate to end this cheery section on a sour note, but I have to upbraid JamBase for burying the lede of this story.
SHAKEY ZIMMERMAN. There’s a name that brings home the bacon and then sexually satisfies the bacon. You lead off the first paragraph with that, JamBase. Maybe that’s your subhead, even: LOCAL MAN HAS AWESOME NAME. I expect more from you, JamBase. Don’t be like Live4LiveMusic.
Rock Scene! was a magazine that came out sporadically in the 70’s; the best I can figure out is that it was New York’s version of Creem. The great Lisa Robinson (whose book There Goes Gravity is one of the better Rock Books ever written) and her husband ran it; he was a producer for Lou Reed and Vladimir Putin’s favorite band, The Flaming Groovies. The covers were colored, and glossy, but the pages instead were newsprint and the pictures–and kids bought these things for the pictures–were black and white. The magazine folded in ’83. It doesn’t even have a Wikipedia page.
Alligators have teeth. Sure, they also have claws, but the claws aren’t the star of the show. Teeth are the headliners. If we were playing a word-association game and I said “alligator,” you would say “teeth.” If you said “claws,” I would be like, “Shit, this motherfucker’s crazy.”
It saddens me to say this, but I now must now take anything the great Jesse Jarnow tells me about reptiles with a grain of salt. 2017 is about losing your innocence.
Stop being weird.
He is deliberately emphasizing the wrong part of an alligator!
I swear you only write so you can come up with sentences no one’s said before.
Oh, anyone can do that. The trick’s making them make sense.
You’re stalling because you don’t want to talk about the commercial real estate guys.
Ugh. The first real estate deal ever made in New York was when the Dutch bought the place from the Manhasset. We are told that the price was $24 worth of beads. What is not mentioned are the broker’s fee and hidden charges that brought the real amount up to 40 bucks. Since then, one of New York’s primary economic drivers has been trading parts of itself to itself. Sometimes other countries will come and buy parts of New York–the Japanese in the 1980’s, the Chinese now–but mostly the city sells itself to itself.
Like any business, there is glamour. You could sell a condo to Doctors Oz or Phil. But most of it the dreariest slog you can imagine: negotiating 30-year leases on office buildings in Long Island City; selling warehouses in Bayhurst. Someone has to do the due diligence on a dental building in Staten Island. Not gonna be me.
And, apparently, some of these guys (they’re all guys) listen to the Dead. One of them listens to the Dead and loves Trump, but I don’t think we can blame all commercial real estate guys for the lunatic beliefs of a fringe few. Still, though: maybe we should stop letting them in the country for a while. Just until we know what’s going on.
And now I am clean, reborn; pure again in the eyes of the Christ.
First, many people brought acoustic guitars to the marches the other day; drum circles were evidenced. The great Jesse Jarnow details the cross-country hoedown in Pitchfork, and alerts us to the reassuring fact that the Bread & Puppet Theater are on the case. So, you know: everything will be fine.
Go read this. It’s by Jesse Jarnow, who is great, and it’s about acid and at this point I am confident in making the assertion that Jarnow is the King of Acid. The man has cornered the market; no one is more acidic; Jarnow owns acid.
The article’s an overview of the fifty years since the Dead played a party “celebrating” the illegalization of LSD, though to say that acid was “legal” before that is stretching it: it was more like the authorities hadn’t heard of it yet. The second they did, though: boom. Although in the authorities’ defense: acid is weird and scary, and the negros like to feed it to our daughters.
Plus, it contains a little bit about micro-dosing, which is utter foolishness, but instead of calling it utter foolishness, Jesse does this:
Fadiman argues that 10 micrograms of LSD taken every few days on a careful cycle, with disciplined self-observance, can make one a healthier person. Though none of the scientific research supports Fadiman’s theory, and there is no formal measure of how many have tried, microdosing’s compelling name and concept has given it a viral life of its own.
See? His way is much better.
Plus–and I did not know this and I can foresee myself becoming furious over it–some in the psychedelic community (they used to be called dopesuckers, but now they’re a community) have likened going public about their drug use to coming out of the closet, which is not the dumbest thing I’ve heard this week, but you have to remember what year it is. In any week in a normal annum, that analogy would have been by far the dumbest bullshit I’ve ever heard: insultingly glib and reductive and privileged, and anyone espousing it in public should be mocked, also in public. Unfortunately: 2016, so that’s not even the dumbest thing I’ve heard today.
Thank God, Enthusiasts. You thank Him right the fuck now: get on your knees, or wash your feet, or wrap your forearms in fetish gear; whatever your religion–which is the correct one–tells you to do in order to interface the Most High. Write a card, a tasteful appreciation, to the Lord; use your best pen; not on a legal pad, you classless butt. Thank whichever God does it for you, for I have at last found something to bitch about in this review of Bobby’s new album of cowboy tunes Blue Mountain by the great Jesse Jarnow.
It was tough, I’ll give you that: the review is well-written, and Jobble Jibble–
Stop that.
–knows what he’s talking about, and draws special attention to Bobby’s singing; plus, it’s a glowing, if measured, review for a solo album by a Grateful Dead in Pitchfork. That’s downright subversive. (Don’t worry: The National gets mentioned, because if you write about the Dead in Pitchfork without referencing The National, then someone comes to your house and takes away your new Bon Iver vinyl.)
Go read this. It’s the great Jesse Jarnow on Phosh and how they taught the world to noodle dance, and pay extra for camping. It’s from Pitchfork‘s quarterly (Biennial? Bi-annual? Buy anal?) collection of their fanciest writing, and FoTotD Jesse is included; congrats to him.
If you like that, then go buy his book Heads: A Phrase After The Colon at Amazon. I promise that neither the hardcover nor softcover versions of the tome contain typesetting like this:
You can’t make it out, but the sentence starting at Mike Gordon’s head calls me a genius. True story.
I’m going to try to start reading again–books–and I’m beginning with all the stuff I’ve been sent by such lovely people, to whom I’ve been so rude.
It’s not that I don’t want to read their books. I do. But they are so long, even the short ones, and books ask you to concentrate on one subject for hundreds of pages at a time, instead of reading half-an-article about the lunch habits of a dead dictator, and then enjoying various pornographies, and then looking at pictures of animals doing thing that animals should not be doing. (The cat sits like a person!)
Ahem. The great Jesse Jarnow’s Dongs: A Cultural History of Coke Dick should win-
Stop this.
Again? Was I mistaken a second time?
Everyone sees through you.
Sorry.
Be serious.
You’re right. The great Jesse Jarnow’s Fancy Talkin’ About Shady Fuckers was released–
Excuse me.
…
splish splish
splish splish
spliSHWASHNARFAFRAZZ
NOM
NOM
NOM
shlooooooooshwaaa
…
Did you just play pitty-pat on the water at the edge of the lake until an alligator ate you and then slid quietly back beneath the surface with your remains?
Yes.
Suicide in Florida is cheap.
And tempting. Please continue plugging Jesse’s book.
Everybody should go buy it, unless they only have enough money for either Jesse’s book or the Donate Button, in which case they should choose me over him. Otherwise: it’s a damn good read, and I haven’t hit one sentence that angered me yet. It’s funny and smart and Jesse has way more patience for oogie-boogie spirituality than I do, which is good. My version of his book would contain many more passages accusing people of being fuzzy-headed doodlebugs who’d slept (or not slept) on too many motel mattresses and forgot their skepticism under one of them; Jesse does not do this, and that was probably the more fruitful choice.
Heads is also worth the purchase just for the names: travelers on the Map (I’m not telling you what that means; it’s the central metaphor of the book; buy it yourself if you’re so damned curious; stop asking me questions) often adopted the most ludicrous noms d’ergot and the pages drip with them. There’s Dealer McDope, and Jacaeber Kastor, and the Lord Nose, and Whelming Brine, and Dick FaceBat, and Goa Gil, and the Legendary Marty, and Bilrock 161, and Turk 182, and N. Stan Taneous, and Kosciusko Pulaski, and Big Momma Blurf, and Phreaky Butthole, and Tennessee Dennis the Friendliest Dentist.
(This may be the reason I could not be a mover and shaker in the status game of psychedelia: I would either be unable to play along and just go by TotD, or would get too into the game and start introducing myself as Captain Fuck.)
Anyway, go read the book. Wait, no: fuck that. “Read the book” leaves open the possibility of borrowing it from the library, and libraries are communist scams that teach children that sharing is a good thing. Also, it does not rule out illegally downloading it, or shoplifting it; do not do these things. Just buy the book; what you do with it after that is up to you. Sex stuff is fine, or use it for violence against those weaker than you.
Please don’t use Jesse’s book as a weapon.
You’re right. Just use it for sex stuff.
Tell them about page 212.
Oh, right: tear it out and chew on it ’til the jewels fall out of your eyes.
No such thing. Proclamation and implication are opposites. You proclaim things at the top of your voice in the public square; you imply things by deliberately not saying the thing you’re saying, and hoping the other person will figure out who you want assassinated.
Still: genius.
The New Yorker has a lot to answer for.
SO DOES THE FUCKING WORLD, MAN.
…
Okay, you’re not allowed to watch TV or go on Twitter tonight.
I have been kicking that idea around. Last night, I thought it would be fun to watch a few minutes of the convention, but it turns out you can’t glance at the abyss.
A little is as bad as a lot.
Yeah. So I can’t do that tonight. And plus I don’t even want to hear about it, or read about, or see Just 19 Awesomely Epic Tweets About The RNC. Remember this poor schmuck?
Never had a chance.
I envy this man, whose part was cut was because Harrison Ford had diarrhea; I further envy the character, who got shot and died and didn’t have to live through 2016.
Indiana Jones just flat-out murders that guy in cold blood.
Right, he’s the hero, keep up.
What’s your point?
I have two: first, there must be distraction tonight. I gotta find something to do that occupies my attention, because an idle mind is the devil’s voting bloc. Also, I may or may not be accusing Jesse Jarnow of things.
Don’t.
I may.
You shouldn’t.
I may not.
There you go. Any idea on the distraction?
Thinking a Thoughts on a Thing thing.
…
You okay?
That sentence hurt my brain.
English is awesome. I was gonna do The Last Waltz, but it’s not on Netflix any more.
Disappointing.
I was going to say the meanest things about Robbie Robertson.
That would have been fun. Any other ideas?
Just one, but I’m also open to suggestions. That dopey Batman Punches Superman movie is on the Apple TV for five bucks and if someone hates me, I’ll do that.
You’re such a whore.
If I am, I’m terrible at it. Five bucks is very reasonable.
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