Good morning and welcome to bad sandwich chronicles, thanksgiving edition. I just went over last year’s thanksgiving entry, and if I’m not mistaken, this place has really gone to hell in a handbasket since this time last year. Hey, don’t get me wrong, I’m still cranking out extremely high quality shit here on a daily basis, but I used to rant and spit hyperbolic vitriol, and that shit’s fun to read. Ever read the middle page of the AV club in the Onion (for those of you who don’t know what that is A) look it up online, I promise it’s worth it and B) Move to a better town) where it’s just that one bitch constantly hating everything? I believe her name is Amile, and she’s got an acerbic wit and razor tongue and blah blah blah, wocka wocka wocka and it is, on occasion very, very funny. But here’s the thing: punditry, punditry regarding everything on earth is now such public domain that there’s nothing inherently interesting about just hating on shit because you (any dildo with a keyboard) now has a platform (badsandwichchronicles.blogspot.com) to relay your various witty remarks about how stupid the (for example) battle between DVD and blu ray has become, or the problems with Clerks II or whatever the fuck your problem is, to a bunch of bored assholes who have nothing better to do than go to dumb free opinion bulletin boards between trips to porn sites while they’re pretending to be working while they’re stuck at their offices (you turds).
There’s nothing really interesting about just hating EVERYTHING, and I’ve tried, oh, dogs of war, how I’ve tried to avoid just rambling on and on about my disgust with this fetid shithole of an existence we’re all stuck in. You might even say it’s been something of an unspoken resolution-turned-mission-statement, that I’m not just gonna sit here and talk shit about Kanye or Taylor Swift (team Kanye, just by the way…kidding. They’re both the worst things to happen to my television since the screen cracked during a drunken beer bottle tossing contest) or about how much I can’t stand the mongaloids at the grocery store, or how basketball has sunken from the best televised sport to almost unwatchable or how that shit where they get Faith Hill or whoever the fuck it is to sing about Monday night football to the tune of an old Joan Jett song makes me want to barf blood, or how that transformer HumVee that turns into a football player thing (also on Monday night football) is pretty much the artistic sum total of everything that’s wrong with the first world, and MAN oh fucking MAN don’t even get me started on these fucking imbeciles working against their own best interests at these fucking town hall meetings or the dudes that bring guns to see the president because it’s ALLOWED (hey, there’s no law against me specifically sticking my dick in a light socket, but just because it’s allowed doesn’t make it cool. What are you, four?) or this ‘god hates fags’ family…Actually, you know what? I was talking about this with my good buddy Toby the other day, and I gotta say, Fred Phelps is doing some good work. Not because I agree with his stance on anything. In fact, I don’t think there’s a person on this earth I disagree with more, but he’s really, really, really really, really really really really going for it. I mean, that motherfucker is OFFENSIVE to EVERYONE. That’s no easy task, man. Ask GG Allin. Ask Hitler. Ask Sid Viscious or ask Imus. Hard as they try to offend everyone, they’ve still got their fans. Not Phelps, man. He’s got this genius knack for bumming out EVERY SINGLE MOTHERFUCKER ON THIS EARTH. And, okay, let’s make no mistake, the guy is just horrendous, but you gotta give him that. He’s done what no one else has ever been able to do. I mean, there’s dudes in Hindustan eating corpses and shitting into human skulls and then eating it and I’d rather hang out with THEM than the Phelps family. That’s a pretty amazing level of putridity, right? Right. Okay.
Firstly, when it comes to hating gays; like, really, really, really hating gays like dedicate-your-life-to-hating-gays hating gays, there’s only one reason, there’s only one way you get to that point: You’re gay. You’re gay and the lifestyle frightens and intrigues you and there’s nothing you can do to rectify your (foolish) belief that being gay is wrong with your desire to chug random cocks until you’re hoarse. There’s pretty much no way to develop such a crazy hatred without waking up after having somewhere in the neighborhood of 8 dicks on your face at once the night before and feeling the shame of your pretend god and your (supposed) natural but stunted sexual urges just burning you up like a piece of baloney in a juggalo frying pan. Somewhere out there, there’s a basketball team’s worth of guys that have gotten their balls and assholes licked by Fred Phelps, and Fred Phelps is mad as shit about it. I’m not even really gonna go too far into this, because it’s so incredibly self evident that frankly, it’s about as boring as gay-hypocrite scandal can be. Here’s what’s truly great about Fred Phelps:
You get these mongos who see the “god hates fags” signs and think “yeah. Hell yeah. I can get behind that…that’s cool.” BUT THEN these people, these Westboro Baptist people, turn their signs around and they’re protesting some soldier’s funeral with a sign that says “Fag Troops” not because the soldier was gay, but just because he or she gave her life for a country that doesn’t (uh…I don’t even know…Kill? Imprison? Torture? Let’s go with imprison just to give the benefit of the doubt, kay? Kay.) imprison gay people just for being gay. Suddenly, the dumb-dumb that was all for “god hates fags” is in a funny position. Can’t really back the “fag troops” sign, can you? Nope. Actually, kind of pulls back the curtain and exposes ALL the crazy, don’t it? Yeah. Little bit. AND, really, if there’s even one retard out there that was forced to re-think about the craziness of the idea that “god hates fags” because of Fred Phelps’s OTHER crazy signs and ideas, then well, he’s actually probably doing some good in this world, because I don’t think, and I COULD be wrong, but I don’t think there’s really anyone joining that church except for people that he specifically breeds, right? Can’t be.
Whatever. In conclusion, Fred Phelps is gay, and that’s great, because in a strange way, he’s actually fighting the dumb notion of homophobia in this country. Be thankful we live in a place with so many malleable idiots, so many magic markers and so many dumb signs. Without it, that amazing website http://moronswithsigns.blogspot.com/ would be pretty much empty, and that would be a real shame.
Be nice to each other and don’t eat too much tomorrow. You’re already so fat.
XOXOXOXO
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
this one goes out to my one true love, Tbaby
Now my ads are gone. I don’t know what happened. It’s like I offended the gods of revenue or something. My magic search engine is still here, but where are all the fucking TJ maxx ads? That’s what I want to know. My revenue stream is trickling to a halt and there’s no one to talk to over at google. It’s all robots and Indian guys. I’m fucked, people. Totally fucked. Oh well, whatever, right? It’s not like this is the most streamlined swiss watch of a website anyhow. Maybe they’re just trying to figure out some more appropriate ads for this here page. OR (and this would be way better) perhaps I used the term “felch” or ‘Buttfucking’ one too many times and set off some sort of alarm. One can only dream, I suppose.
But you know what? Dreams ARE coming true over here at BSC world HQ. I got a little mention in the juggalog, which is um, if you’ll pardon the pun, too dope (ha!). That puts me in dangerous proximity with the juggalo zeitgeist, which I’m pretty okay with.
Let’s talk juggalos for just a second, can we? I know it’s a pretty well tread topic here, but man, these are dangerous days. Juggalos are everywhere and they seem to be constantly expanding. Soon enough, the smaller, wiry juggalos will be orbiting the really, really massive ones like tiny, greasepainted interplanetary systems. I read in that juggalog that ICP sells 6XL shirts. SIX EX EL!!!!!!!! That’s fucking revolting. I could quite literally live in a 6xl shirt. With my wife, my kid and a separate half bath. What the fuck do you have to be eating in order to plump yourself up to six times an extra large? Cheesecake pizzas? Every fucking day? I mean, good heavens. I’ve seen some fat motherfuckers walking around. I’ve got some fat friends. I’ve even got some fat friends who drink and smoke and never exercise and just eat whatever the fuck they want and they don’t care at all. They’re fat. They’re down with being fat and they like donuts and soda and potato chips and ranch dressing on their pizzas and all that kind of shit and they are, just to put a fine point on it here, as fat as they could possibly get. They can’t be any fatter. AND YET they’re not six XL fat. I can’t even wrap my head around what the fuck is going on over in Shangri-La that these clowns are able to make themselves so humongous. I can’t. Anyway, this isn’t about fat juggalos, or why they’re so fat (although, if you think about it, any sort of cultural phenomenon that centers around people spraying copious amounts of soda on one another definitely appeals to the chunkier side of things). I want to tell you a little story about my friend Sean Nader and his awesome experience the one time he was, for just a fleeting moment, a member of the Dark Carnival.
Okay, full disclosure: I don’t remember the details of this story too well, so I’m gonna do my best to get it right. Nader, I know you’re out there reading this and I’m sorry about the fudged details, but like I said, after the new found alliance that’s been formed between BSC and the Juggalog, I feel compelled to rap juggalos with everyone, so whatever. Deal with it.
Firstly, Nader is from Detroit. Nader is NOT an ICP fan, and Nader is a bit of a local crew carnie type, in that he bartends special events, he sets up and tears down tents and shit for festivals and he’s generally a hired gun for when people doing events or other big shit around Detroit need some spare hands. (And when he’s not doing that he’s a spectacular bartender and a totally kick ass painter. In fact, I’m gonna start linking to his art on here as soon as he gets off his lazy dick and makes a website, and then you all can see firsthand how rad his stuff is, but whatever…I’m digressing like a woman. Forgive me.) Okay, so here’s the scene. St. Andrews hall in Detroit (above the shelter where eminem famously battlerapped his way into the hearts of genuine black people [as made famous in the closing moments of 8 mile]) is hosting ICP and Nader is stationed at the back door of the hall to guard something. I don’t remember what it was. Some boxes of shit, or maybe even just the door itself, but you get the idea. He’s there as a guard. Stationed in his position, a fill in dude just working there for the day as sort of ‘juggalo control’, or what have you. Suddenly a truck screeches up. It’s full of Faygo. Faygo is the off brand soda that juggalos spray on each other for some reason that I don’t think could possibly ever be explained to me in a way that doesn’t result in my saying or thinking “wow, that’s fucking retarded.” This stressed out dude gets out of the truck and looks at Nader and barks “come on, we gotta get this faygo to the stage right away!”
I’d like to pause for a moment to let that sink in. Some guy, a grown man, mind you, is so harried and desperate to get the FAYGO to the STAGE that he’s just barking orders at strangers. What kind of a fucking universe is this, man? Anyway, nader says something to the effect of “nah. Not touching the faygo. I’m here to guard this door/stack of boxes/bag of dildos/whatever the fuck it was.” And kind of just turns around and keeps smoking, at which point the guy gets in nader’s face a bit and says “dude, you don’t understand! This is ICP!” as though that is somehow significant in any way.
I mean, yeah, there’s no other reason that a truck of Faygo would be at the back of St Andrews hall, that’s for sure. But at what moment did this guy think that the bargaining chip would be that “Hey bro! There’s a bunch of fat clowns upstairs and if you don’t help me get this here faygo up there, they’re not gonna have anything to spray on each other, nobody’s gonna go home sticky and well, you’ll have ruined everything”? Could he possibly have imagined that this guy by the back door, smoking, not painted up at all (at least the way Nader tells it) could possibly give a shit about this? Or is this guy so dick deep in his faygo delivery job that he can’t see the forest for the big fat sticky trees? I mean, what a life. I get worried about picking my kid up on time from school, miscounting the money in my cash drawer, neglecting my blog or my songwriting and letting my brain atrophy, taking my wife or best friends for granted, growing old, disease, unstable economy, unstable crazy people, figuring out the future, making peace with the past, the health of everyone I love and the inevitable day that all the great luck I’ve had in this world runs out, but man, fuck me, no KILL me if a concern of mine is EVER getting the fucking faygo to the fucking stage. Good lord.
So, long story short, nader just stood there, told the dude to fuck himself and the dude, furious, told nader that he was gonna get him fired due to insubordination, BUT, can’t fire the temp carnie, man. Can’t be done. Plus, guess who’s not gonna take your side about the lack of Faygo in the venue? The people who run the venue and have to clean up the pink syrupy drool that you and your dumb carnival leave sticking and pooling all over everything.
On the same subject, but at another time, once in Cincinatti, I read some graffiti that the big guy from ICP wrote backstage. It was a bit of an essay about how these sized rooms (it was the Agora, which is about sixteen hundred capacity, I think) are perfect, and if you never let your ambition make you try to go bigger, you’ll have some longevity in this biz. Well, he’s right. I’ve never tried to headline a room bigger than the agora, and here I am, still going strong, my ninjas. Still going strong. Peace, love, faygo, hatchets and murder or whatever dumb shit they say. I gotta go.
XOOXOXOXOX
Oh, and once I read an interview where the same fat one (shaggy?) that wrote the graffiti essay about success in music bragged about how he just boned some chick and she took the rubber off him and ate the jizz out of it. It’s the hands down grossest thing I’ve ever heard. And now you’ve heard it too. Ick. Take it to your graves.
But you know what? Dreams ARE coming true over here at BSC world HQ. I got a little mention in the juggalog, which is um, if you’ll pardon the pun, too dope (ha!). That puts me in dangerous proximity with the juggalo zeitgeist, which I’m pretty okay with.
Let’s talk juggalos for just a second, can we? I know it’s a pretty well tread topic here, but man, these are dangerous days. Juggalos are everywhere and they seem to be constantly expanding. Soon enough, the smaller, wiry juggalos will be orbiting the really, really massive ones like tiny, greasepainted interplanetary systems. I read in that juggalog that ICP sells 6XL shirts. SIX EX EL!!!!!!!! That’s fucking revolting. I could quite literally live in a 6xl shirt. With my wife, my kid and a separate half bath. What the fuck do you have to be eating in order to plump yourself up to six times an extra large? Cheesecake pizzas? Every fucking day? I mean, good heavens. I’ve seen some fat motherfuckers walking around. I’ve got some fat friends. I’ve even got some fat friends who drink and smoke and never exercise and just eat whatever the fuck they want and they don’t care at all. They’re fat. They’re down with being fat and they like donuts and soda and potato chips and ranch dressing on their pizzas and all that kind of shit and they are, just to put a fine point on it here, as fat as they could possibly get. They can’t be any fatter. AND YET they’re not six XL fat. I can’t even wrap my head around what the fuck is going on over in Shangri-La that these clowns are able to make themselves so humongous. I can’t. Anyway, this isn’t about fat juggalos, or why they’re so fat (although, if you think about it, any sort of cultural phenomenon that centers around people spraying copious amounts of soda on one another definitely appeals to the chunkier side of things). I want to tell you a little story about my friend Sean Nader and his awesome experience the one time he was, for just a fleeting moment, a member of the Dark Carnival.
Okay, full disclosure: I don’t remember the details of this story too well, so I’m gonna do my best to get it right. Nader, I know you’re out there reading this and I’m sorry about the fudged details, but like I said, after the new found alliance that’s been formed between BSC and the Juggalog, I feel compelled to rap juggalos with everyone, so whatever. Deal with it.
Firstly, Nader is from Detroit. Nader is NOT an ICP fan, and Nader is a bit of a local crew carnie type, in that he bartends special events, he sets up and tears down tents and shit for festivals and he’s generally a hired gun for when people doing events or other big shit around Detroit need some spare hands. (And when he’s not doing that he’s a spectacular bartender and a totally kick ass painter. In fact, I’m gonna start linking to his art on here as soon as he gets off his lazy dick and makes a website, and then you all can see firsthand how rad his stuff is, but whatever…I’m digressing like a woman. Forgive me.) Okay, so here’s the scene. St. Andrews hall in Detroit (above the shelter where eminem famously battlerapped his way into the hearts of genuine black people [as made famous in the closing moments of 8 mile]) is hosting ICP and Nader is stationed at the back door of the hall to guard something. I don’t remember what it was. Some boxes of shit, or maybe even just the door itself, but you get the idea. He’s there as a guard. Stationed in his position, a fill in dude just working there for the day as sort of ‘juggalo control’, or what have you. Suddenly a truck screeches up. It’s full of Faygo. Faygo is the off brand soda that juggalos spray on each other for some reason that I don’t think could possibly ever be explained to me in a way that doesn’t result in my saying or thinking “wow, that’s fucking retarded.” This stressed out dude gets out of the truck and looks at Nader and barks “come on, we gotta get this faygo to the stage right away!”
I’d like to pause for a moment to let that sink in. Some guy, a grown man, mind you, is so harried and desperate to get the FAYGO to the STAGE that he’s just barking orders at strangers. What kind of a fucking universe is this, man? Anyway, nader says something to the effect of “nah. Not touching the faygo. I’m here to guard this door/stack of boxes/bag of dildos/whatever the fuck it was.” And kind of just turns around and keeps smoking, at which point the guy gets in nader’s face a bit and says “dude, you don’t understand! This is ICP!” as though that is somehow significant in any way.
I mean, yeah, there’s no other reason that a truck of Faygo would be at the back of St Andrews hall, that’s for sure. But at what moment did this guy think that the bargaining chip would be that “Hey bro! There’s a bunch of fat clowns upstairs and if you don’t help me get this here faygo up there, they’re not gonna have anything to spray on each other, nobody’s gonna go home sticky and well, you’ll have ruined everything”? Could he possibly have imagined that this guy by the back door, smoking, not painted up at all (at least the way Nader tells it) could possibly give a shit about this? Or is this guy so dick deep in his faygo delivery job that he can’t see the forest for the big fat sticky trees? I mean, what a life. I get worried about picking my kid up on time from school, miscounting the money in my cash drawer, neglecting my blog or my songwriting and letting my brain atrophy, taking my wife or best friends for granted, growing old, disease, unstable economy, unstable crazy people, figuring out the future, making peace with the past, the health of everyone I love and the inevitable day that all the great luck I’ve had in this world runs out, but man, fuck me, no KILL me if a concern of mine is EVER getting the fucking faygo to the fucking stage. Good lord.
So, long story short, nader just stood there, told the dude to fuck himself and the dude, furious, told nader that he was gonna get him fired due to insubordination, BUT, can’t fire the temp carnie, man. Can’t be done. Plus, guess who’s not gonna take your side about the lack of Faygo in the venue? The people who run the venue and have to clean up the pink syrupy drool that you and your dumb carnival leave sticking and pooling all over everything.
On the same subject, but at another time, once in Cincinatti, I read some graffiti that the big guy from ICP wrote backstage. It was a bit of an essay about how these sized rooms (it was the Agora, which is about sixteen hundred capacity, I think) are perfect, and if you never let your ambition make you try to go bigger, you’ll have some longevity in this biz. Well, he’s right. I’ve never tried to headline a room bigger than the agora, and here I am, still going strong, my ninjas. Still going strong. Peace, love, faygo, hatchets and murder or whatever dumb shit they say. I gotta go.
XOOXOXOXOX
Oh, and once I read an interview where the same fat one (shaggy?) that wrote the graffiti essay about success in music bragged about how he just boned some chick and she took the rubber off him and ate the jizz out of it. It’s the hands down grossest thing I’ve ever heard. And now you’ve heard it too. Ick. Take it to your graves.
Friday, November 20, 2009
If you're too young to drive, click away now
I am old. I am as old as the hills and the trees and the wind whistling through the distended anuses of women with daddy issues from here to San Fernando to Prague. I’ve got an offspring. My offspring probably has offspring (he’s a good looking kid, after all) and as such, I’m out of touch. Now, I’m aware that the readership of BSC spans generations and I’m hardly the oldest among us, which is precisely why I feel comfortable turning you all onto something that frankly, most of you probably know about, being younger, cooler and more “in the know” than me. I’m talking about my favorite show, Madventures.
Have you seen this show? It’s two crazy dudes from Finland traversing the globe and doing absolutely crazy shit. I mean (adjusting tie nervously) they make the Wildboys look like mama’s boys! HEYOOOOO!!!!!!!! Anyway, it’s just these two guys, both with cameras, filming each other, no security, no producers with them, just the two of them and they get into shit like hanging out and shooting machine guns with coke dealers in the deadly slums of Rio, eating horse dicks in china, doing DMT in the Amazon Rainforest, riding along in the backseat of a car doing illegal Tokyo drift drag racing down a mountainside, doing illegal bungee jumping off the roof of an abandoned St. Petersburg Communist tenement, hanging out INSIDE Chernobyl! The shit is absolutely crazy and it’s hands down the best show about travel on television and probably the best show on tv, period. The guys are named Tunna and Riko for fucks sake. Can’t beat that. Anyway, you gotta watch the show. It’s awesome. I can’t recommend it highly enough. Now, I know, I know. You’ve all already watched it and made your decisions. Didn’t I already tell you I was old and out of the fucking loop? Fucking A. You people are monsters. There. I said it. Absolute monsters.
What else? Nothing really. This entry is gonna be short today because, like yesterday, I need to take these precious moments before work to work on my new song. Um…nothing else to say, really. Have a nice weekend and be careful. There’s lots of perverts out there. Oh, and remind me to tell you what a dickhole my boss is. He's such a dickhole. no respect for other people's time. That's his problem. Well, that and he's a total pussy. Yup.
Tooodles!
Have you seen this show? It’s two crazy dudes from Finland traversing the globe and doing absolutely crazy shit. I mean (adjusting tie nervously) they make the Wildboys look like mama’s boys! HEYOOOOO!!!!!!!! Anyway, it’s just these two guys, both with cameras, filming each other, no security, no producers with them, just the two of them and they get into shit like hanging out and shooting machine guns with coke dealers in the deadly slums of Rio, eating horse dicks in china, doing DMT in the Amazon Rainforest, riding along in the backseat of a car doing illegal Tokyo drift drag racing down a mountainside, doing illegal bungee jumping off the roof of an abandoned St. Petersburg Communist tenement, hanging out INSIDE Chernobyl! The shit is absolutely crazy and it’s hands down the best show about travel on television and probably the best show on tv, period. The guys are named Tunna and Riko for fucks sake. Can’t beat that. Anyway, you gotta watch the show. It’s awesome. I can’t recommend it highly enough. Now, I know, I know. You’ve all already watched it and made your decisions. Didn’t I already tell you I was old and out of the fucking loop? Fucking A. You people are monsters. There. I said it. Absolute monsters.
What else? Nothing really. This entry is gonna be short today because, like yesterday, I need to take these precious moments before work to work on my new song. Um…nothing else to say, really. Have a nice weekend and be careful. There’s lots of perverts out there. Oh, and remind me to tell you what a dickhole my boss is. He's such a dickhole. no respect for other people's time. That's his problem. Well, that and he's a total pussy. Yup.
Tooodles!
Thursday, November 19, 2009
AAAAAAAAAAAARGH! Reality blows.
Well, shit. I have to go to work today. I know what you’re thinking: What about all the ad revenue and the blimp and shit? Well, firstly, it’s a zeppelin. Secondly, I checked my account, to see how much I’ve earned so far with the ads that run on the side of this page…about five bucks. I get a check when it rolls over to 100, so MAYBE I’ve over estimated things a bit, eh? Long story short, I gotta work today. What a kick in the balls.
Regardless, let’s say today is the depressing crash back to earth that I’ve probably needed ever since I monetized my blog and went out on my whirlwind world tour/airborne adventure. Also, I haven’t had a single drop of alcohol since my brother’s wedding and let me tell you something: I still feel terrible. Worse. Way, way worse. This “livin clean is the best livin” horseshit might work for some people, but, well, first thing I thought when I woke up this morning was “wow, I’m hung over as shit!” Hardly makes any sense, because all I’ve consumed in the past few days is natural food and tea and water. Fucking hippies and Californians. What a crock of organic toilet paper. Look, I’m done with this. Today is too depressing. I wrote this new song and I’m gonna figure out the end before work. It’s a “Chapter 2” type song for an old song I wrote, a kind of ‘where are they now,’ if you will. Could that be less interesting? “Oooh. Here’s some insight into another dumb song! Again, ooooh.”
Okay, no. I’m staying. You know what drives me up the fucking wall? Listening to artists talk about what they do. It’s fucking irritating beyond belief. Here’s the type of story that I like: Keith Richards, in the midst of a drug induced stupor, wakes up in the night and plays the opening riff to “Satisfaction” into a dictaphone. Next morning, he had no memory of doing it, but he liked the riff and it went on to become the most famous piece of guitar playing, probably ever. THAT’S the kind of thing I’m interested in. I don’t give two fucks what Christian Bale thinks his character in the Machinist might think about modern society at large. I don’t give a fuck what any dumb artist has to say behind the scenes. It should be there in your art. Period. If it’s not, then it’s not there. Again, period.
Yes, I know I just spent this very space talking about what a song I recently released meant to me, and that’s because it’s tempting to do and it’s fun and it fills space and all that. I’m not immune to this dipshit move just because I decry it. Heavens no. Fuck, man. If I never did any of the things that I thought were lame and questionable, I’d be a pretty boring and downright different man. My tastes depend wildly on my own stupid actions and the self congratulatory pride, feelings of inadequacy or self loathing that they produce. Isn’t that how everyone works? Eh, maybe not.
Regardless, people that make art, myself included, tend to think that they’ve got some special gift and that they’re touched and that everyone needs to hear about the process, but the truth is this: People who create fall into one of two categories: They do it compulsively and almost without pleasure, or they’re doing their best to imitate those who do it compulsively and without pleasure. Both methods can produce great work and both methods can produce complete shit, but make no mistake, that’s it. Anyone who gives you an intentionality behind their art as anything other than the above is bullshitting you. I’m not even really counting actors here, because they’re so fucking self important and barely artists that it’s ridiculous and deserves it’s own fucking entry. Acting. They call it a ‘craft’ as though it’s somehow more on the same level as carpentry than with painting. Hey, dildo, news flash! You’re standing up there next to Tom Cruise pretending to be a talking dog. It barely qualifies as anything, much less a fucking craft.
Now, don’t get me wrong, acting isn’t easy. BUT, it’s a ‘you get it or you don’t’ type of things, as with most things. There are tons of people out there who will never be great actors, and there are tons of people out there who will never be great musicians or carpenters or comedians or salesmen or DJ’s or gymnasts or lawyers or dominatrices, but man, lots of people fall right in and they’re good at it INSTANTLY. That’s no craft, Will Smith. That’s just dicking around. If Cuba Gooding Jr. can win an oscar, the shit’s working on a pretty wacky scale. Just saying.
Okay, I gotta play through this song and go to work. I hope they have fucking zeppelin parking on the roof of my bar. Never really checked before. Oh well, the captain will figure it out. Turns out he’s a pretty good guy after all.
Thanks for the translation, by the way.
See you tomorrow.
Sigh.
Regardless, let’s say today is the depressing crash back to earth that I’ve probably needed ever since I monetized my blog and went out on my whirlwind world tour/airborne adventure. Also, I haven’t had a single drop of alcohol since my brother’s wedding and let me tell you something: I still feel terrible. Worse. Way, way worse. This “livin clean is the best livin” horseshit might work for some people, but, well, first thing I thought when I woke up this morning was “wow, I’m hung over as shit!” Hardly makes any sense, because all I’ve consumed in the past few days is natural food and tea and water. Fucking hippies and Californians. What a crock of organic toilet paper. Look, I’m done with this. Today is too depressing. I wrote this new song and I’m gonna figure out the end before work. It’s a “Chapter 2” type song for an old song I wrote, a kind of ‘where are they now,’ if you will. Could that be less interesting? “Oooh. Here’s some insight into another dumb song! Again, ooooh.”
Okay, no. I’m staying. You know what drives me up the fucking wall? Listening to artists talk about what they do. It’s fucking irritating beyond belief. Here’s the type of story that I like: Keith Richards, in the midst of a drug induced stupor, wakes up in the night and plays the opening riff to “Satisfaction” into a dictaphone. Next morning, he had no memory of doing it, but he liked the riff and it went on to become the most famous piece of guitar playing, probably ever. THAT’S the kind of thing I’m interested in. I don’t give two fucks what Christian Bale thinks his character in the Machinist might think about modern society at large. I don’t give a fuck what any dumb artist has to say behind the scenes. It should be there in your art. Period. If it’s not, then it’s not there. Again, period.
Yes, I know I just spent this very space talking about what a song I recently released meant to me, and that’s because it’s tempting to do and it’s fun and it fills space and all that. I’m not immune to this dipshit move just because I decry it. Heavens no. Fuck, man. If I never did any of the things that I thought were lame and questionable, I’d be a pretty boring and downright different man. My tastes depend wildly on my own stupid actions and the self congratulatory pride, feelings of inadequacy or self loathing that they produce. Isn’t that how everyone works? Eh, maybe not.
Regardless, people that make art, myself included, tend to think that they’ve got some special gift and that they’re touched and that everyone needs to hear about the process, but the truth is this: People who create fall into one of two categories: They do it compulsively and almost without pleasure, or they’re doing their best to imitate those who do it compulsively and without pleasure. Both methods can produce great work and both methods can produce complete shit, but make no mistake, that’s it. Anyone who gives you an intentionality behind their art as anything other than the above is bullshitting you. I’m not even really counting actors here, because they’re so fucking self important and barely artists that it’s ridiculous and deserves it’s own fucking entry. Acting. They call it a ‘craft’ as though it’s somehow more on the same level as carpentry than with painting. Hey, dildo, news flash! You’re standing up there next to Tom Cruise pretending to be a talking dog. It barely qualifies as anything, much less a fucking craft.
Now, don’t get me wrong, acting isn’t easy. BUT, it’s a ‘you get it or you don’t’ type of things, as with most things. There are tons of people out there who will never be great actors, and there are tons of people out there who will never be great musicians or carpenters or comedians or salesmen or DJ’s or gymnasts or lawyers or dominatrices, but man, lots of people fall right in and they’re good at it INSTANTLY. That’s no craft, Will Smith. That’s just dicking around. If Cuba Gooding Jr. can win an oscar, the shit’s working on a pretty wacky scale. Just saying.
Okay, I gotta play through this song and go to work. I hope they have fucking zeppelin parking on the roof of my bar. Never really checked before. Oh well, the captain will figure it out. Turns out he’s a pretty good guy after all.
Thanks for the translation, by the way.
See you tomorrow.
Sigh.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
the horror! The horror! Part 2
How am I supposed to get anything done around here? Without Claudio, my manservant, things have gone into a ridiculous tizzy. I can’t communicate with the captain of the Monitor, as he speaks only Portuguese, and besides that, he’s frankly beneath my social strata, right? Right. The result? We’ve been circling Kilimanjaro for hours on end. It’s fucking vexing is what it is. DAMN YOU GABE SAPORTA!!!! DAMN YOUR THEIVING SIREN SONG!
Sorry. I got carried away. It’s just…you know what it’s like? It’s like suddenly having a one and a half year old running around for sixteen fucking hours every day, but now, it’s too cold to go outside, so you just run around the house chasing this fucking guy who’s trying about as hard as he can to just fuck up everything. He’s like a divining rod for the closest thing to him that will injure or kill him and he knows exactly what to do when he shows up and grabs it. Butcher knife? Put it in your mouth. Light socket? Put it in your mouth. Pot of boiling water? Pull it off the stove. And on and on and on like this. Imagine if you will, that you’re (for example) a rock and roll personality who’s just been living it up in the fecund deltas of southern California and then at a wedding for about fourteen days where you, in the entire span of the two week period, slept less than 48 hours due to important late night business meetings. Now, imagine that you come home to a sick and dangerously active, but grumpy child, weather too cold to take him outside in and a wife who is forced to work (likely story) until midnight every night, forcing you to chase this sick, grumpy child around the house like a lunatic while he wails and screams and tries to pull bookshelves down onto himself. Oh, and then you catch his cold. THAT’S what this is like stuck up in this godforsaken Zeppelin circling this dreadfully boring mountain without Claudio. Almost exactly. Did you know the on-board sushi bar is out of salmon? We might as well be living in a fucking tent city by the sewers of Calcutta up here. It’s depressing. We’re down to our last ten bottles of vodka and we’re dangerously low on mixers. I’m living in a nightmare, if I’m being honest. The prostitutes are getting surly and settling for routine and the furnace men are starting to ask questions about their paychecks. Hey Shovel Man! How am I supposed to collect my fucking ad revenue from above the Serengeti plains? Tell me that! Or is that why I’m the trillionaire and you’re the fucking furnace guy? Mmmmmmhmmmmm. Yeah. Keep shovelin’ pal. You’ll get your check as soon as I can get back to civilization, restock the bar, get a suitable replacement for Claudio and find some decent sushi chefs that aren’t Germans. What a fucking joke. At least lie to me with some Mexicans in headbands, am I right?
Okay, sorry. I’m off topic here. Or rather, I haven’t even introduced the topic yet, have I? Forgive me. It’s the constant circling. It’s making me dizzier than a pregnant lady on a sybian. Okay. Topic at hand: the terrorist freedom fighters in the splinter cel ‘Sock Drawer’ (not to be confused with the benevolently ruled principality beneath each blog post, also called the sock drawer) have openly declared war on both the Monitor and myself, and have announced a planned coup of Bad Sandwich Enterprises LLC, (trademark pending). Gotta say, I’m pretty excited about that. See, there are leaders like Barack Obama, Gordon Brown, Angela Merkel and to a lesser extent Nicolas Sarkozy (who’s dealt with some pretty heavy shit this past term, let’s be honest) who never, ever have to deal with the idea of credible threats of coups. They’re what I call the ‘total pussies’ of world leadership. I’m more like a warlord in some sort of compound surrounded by dust and bones and my most trusted men (damn you Claudio!), just waiting, stroking my gun, eating my monkey brains right out of a human skull and wearing a fez, saying shit like “let them come” while I pet a tiger and watch two women have some sort of cramming contest involving phallic vegetables. In my kingdom, there can be only one ruler, but without a resistance, what will I use to galvanize the hordes? I need a terrorist threat. Without it, I’m no better than Dick Cheney, relying on sound governmental practices and actual leadership, rather than fear mongering, xenophobia, preying on the stupid and shooting everyone in the face that disagrees. And man, I hate Dick Cheney. I don’t want to be anything like him at all. So terrorists, bring it on! And to all the rest of you: these fanatics hate you and your freedom and the free and open forum that is Bad Sandwich. That’s their endgame. To make you sad, repress you and take away your televisions and football. Never mind that there’s no running water in the other sock drawer. Never mind the pestilence. Have you seen them? Savages, to the last. Women baring their breasts! Men, drunk! Uh…um…uh…you get the idea, right?
Nah, I dunno. I like those guys, actually. Met a bunch of ‘em on the tour or at our Chicago show . They’re all cool. I don’t want a war, or even an airborne zeppelin battle (though the Monitor IS strapped to the tits) I just need a new manservant. This solitude is going to my head. Sorry. Forgive me, terrorists. I guess you guys win.
Anyway, how do you say “Get me to Belarus immediately you swine” in Portuguese? Does anyone know?
Thanks.
Edit: That article that someone posted a link to in yesterday's sock drawer about the fear of clowns is indeed interesting as shit. Recommended.
Sorry. I got carried away. It’s just…you know what it’s like? It’s like suddenly having a one and a half year old running around for sixteen fucking hours every day, but now, it’s too cold to go outside, so you just run around the house chasing this fucking guy who’s trying about as hard as he can to just fuck up everything. He’s like a divining rod for the closest thing to him that will injure or kill him and he knows exactly what to do when he shows up and grabs it. Butcher knife? Put it in your mouth. Light socket? Put it in your mouth. Pot of boiling water? Pull it off the stove. And on and on and on like this. Imagine if you will, that you’re (for example) a rock and roll personality who’s just been living it up in the fecund deltas of southern California and then at a wedding for about fourteen days where you, in the entire span of the two week period, slept less than 48 hours due to important late night business meetings. Now, imagine that you come home to a sick and dangerously active, but grumpy child, weather too cold to take him outside in and a wife who is forced to work (likely story) until midnight every night, forcing you to chase this sick, grumpy child around the house like a lunatic while he wails and screams and tries to pull bookshelves down onto himself. Oh, and then you catch his cold. THAT’S what this is like stuck up in this godforsaken Zeppelin circling this dreadfully boring mountain without Claudio. Almost exactly. Did you know the on-board sushi bar is out of salmon? We might as well be living in a fucking tent city by the sewers of Calcutta up here. It’s depressing. We’re down to our last ten bottles of vodka and we’re dangerously low on mixers. I’m living in a nightmare, if I’m being honest. The prostitutes are getting surly and settling for routine and the furnace men are starting to ask questions about their paychecks. Hey Shovel Man! How am I supposed to collect my fucking ad revenue from above the Serengeti plains? Tell me that! Or is that why I’m the trillionaire and you’re the fucking furnace guy? Mmmmmmhmmmmm. Yeah. Keep shovelin’ pal. You’ll get your check as soon as I can get back to civilization, restock the bar, get a suitable replacement for Claudio and find some decent sushi chefs that aren’t Germans. What a fucking joke. At least lie to me with some Mexicans in headbands, am I right?
Okay, sorry. I’m off topic here. Or rather, I haven’t even introduced the topic yet, have I? Forgive me. It’s the constant circling. It’s making me dizzier than a pregnant lady on a sybian. Okay. Topic at hand: the terrorist freedom fighters in the splinter cel ‘Sock Drawer’ (not to be confused with the benevolently ruled principality beneath each blog post, also called the sock drawer) have openly declared war on both the Monitor and myself, and have announced a planned coup of Bad Sandwich Enterprises LLC, (trademark pending). Gotta say, I’m pretty excited about that. See, there are leaders like Barack Obama, Gordon Brown, Angela Merkel and to a lesser extent Nicolas Sarkozy (who’s dealt with some pretty heavy shit this past term, let’s be honest) who never, ever have to deal with the idea of credible threats of coups. They’re what I call the ‘total pussies’ of world leadership. I’m more like a warlord in some sort of compound surrounded by dust and bones and my most trusted men (damn you Claudio!), just waiting, stroking my gun, eating my monkey brains right out of a human skull and wearing a fez, saying shit like “let them come” while I pet a tiger and watch two women have some sort of cramming contest involving phallic vegetables. In my kingdom, there can be only one ruler, but without a resistance, what will I use to galvanize the hordes? I need a terrorist threat. Without it, I’m no better than Dick Cheney, relying on sound governmental practices and actual leadership, rather than fear mongering, xenophobia, preying on the stupid and shooting everyone in the face that disagrees. And man, I hate Dick Cheney. I don’t want to be anything like him at all. So terrorists, bring it on! And to all the rest of you: these fanatics hate you and your freedom and the free and open forum that is Bad Sandwich. That’s their endgame. To make you sad, repress you and take away your televisions and football. Never mind that there’s no running water in the other sock drawer. Never mind the pestilence. Have you seen them? Savages, to the last. Women baring their breasts! Men, drunk! Uh…um…uh…you get the idea, right?
Nah, I dunno. I like those guys, actually. Met a bunch of ‘em on the tour or at our Chicago show . They’re all cool. I don’t want a war, or even an airborne zeppelin battle (though the Monitor IS strapped to the tits) I just need a new manservant. This solitude is going to my head. Sorry. Forgive me, terrorists. I guess you guys win.
Anyway, how do you say “Get me to Belarus immediately you swine” in Portuguese? Does anyone know?
Thanks.
Edit: That article that someone posted a link to in yesterday's sock drawer about the fear of clowns is indeed interesting as shit. Recommended.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
send in the clowns...they're already here
Here’s what excites me- genuine insight into things I’m interested in but which occur in locales or within cultures where I fear tread. Have you seen thejuggalog.tumblr.com? One of my many dogs of war posted this link in the sock drawer (which is, for you new folk, the name of the comments section located beneath each post. There is ALSO a radical splinter faction ‘sock drawer’ that’s located elsewhere on the internet, comprised of radical freedom fighters [terrorists?] who felt, perhaps rightly, that the sock drawer that your benevolent dictator [yours truly] provides wasn’t packed with enough mindless bullshit and special buttons) and it (the juggalog, that is) is awesome.
Some poor fucker got it in his head that working for ICP for something like ten or eleven weeks selling tshirts to tubby juggalos and jugalettes would be a great social experiment. Now, I too, would probably think this, and I too, had I not been turned onto the juggalog would probably even consider doing it, just like this poor, poor man ended up doing. But MAN oh man, some of the photos and passages are genuinely haunting and dark. It’s, believe it or not, completely fucked up. This little excerpt from today’s entry may whet your whistle:
“When I look back at the last 10 weeks of my life it’s hard to admit to myself that everything I remember actually happened. Just to put it in perspective for you: The amount of time that I have been protecting myself from (over-generalization) over weight, drug infused, uneducated, mindless, brainwashed, closed minded, soda soaked clowns with the shittiest make-up that I could possibly imagine is just short of the amount of time that it would take for you to complete one semester of photography class at your mid-level art school.”
Yipes, folks. That’s what sometimes happens when you immerse yourself in a strange and depraved culture. You go batshit insane. But this guy and his expose may just be the catalyst that the juggalos need to start a true subcultural civil war where they break out their hatchets and take back what’s theirs; namely the KFC’s, Taco bells, Hot Topics and hockey jersey manufacturing concerns. It could become one of those situations where clowns stop being polite and start getting real. They could call their new country Juggalarica, Or Juggalo-ville, Oooh! Juggalosreal. Oh, yeah. That’s what they should call it. But, nah, they’d probably just call it Shangri-la. Dumb fucking juggalos.
This leads me to something that I find irritating: the fear of clowns. Everyone reveals this phobia like it’s some sort of iconoclastic fear that proves that they see the real essence of terror in this otherwise-thought-to-be-docile-lovable and, you know, for-the-kids incarnation, but listen up dildos: for as long as there have been clowns, they’ve been portrayed as scary. You aren’t outwitting the matrix. You’re in it, man. Ever fucking hear of Pagliacci? Look, my point here is, as long as there’s been the idea of clowns there’s been juggalos, kay? You got it? Great. So, no more bragging about clowns being scary. That’s like saying rapists are scary, or minorities. WOW. What a bold new fear you’ve cooked up there.
Lamos.
Sigh.
Okay, look. I didn’t mean to go off on you guys there. I’ve been having problems with my manservant Claudio for the last hour or two. He took off on the Monitor’s life blimp with that dildo from the Cobra Ships or whatever the fuck they are. Apparently our meeting in Tibet the other day made quite an impression on Claudio, and just this morning he told me that he’d rather listen to children’s dance music than talk about opening NRO accounts, or Hulbert’s Financial Digest. I told him that without that shit, I’ve got ads, no revenue, no Monitor and no money for menservants and you know what he said? Get this. He said “I don’t care, sir. It’s dull.” Then he took off in the life blimp. It was pathetic, really. Just Claudio, floating out there like some sort of chick clasped in the talon of a fat goose, disappearing into the arctic sunset above the ice floes and…excuse me a moment.
…
No, no. I’ll be fine. After all, I still have my trillions and Dick Branson and I are meeting tomorrow at a Stuckeys outside of Oklahoma city to talk global finance over some chicko sticks and milkshakes. Should be a pretty cool time. Maybe I’ll get one of the waiters from the main restaurant on the Monitor (the steakhouse) to fill in for Claudio. Or, maybe Claudio will come back. Who knows anymore? Okay, I’ve got to go. I’m hunting polar bears from up here with some Russian, ahem, businessmen, and I’m up.
Good luck out there. Let’s rap tomorrow.
Some poor fucker got it in his head that working for ICP for something like ten or eleven weeks selling tshirts to tubby juggalos and jugalettes would be a great social experiment. Now, I too, would probably think this, and I too, had I not been turned onto the juggalog would probably even consider doing it, just like this poor, poor man ended up doing. But MAN oh man, some of the photos and passages are genuinely haunting and dark. It’s, believe it or not, completely fucked up. This little excerpt from today’s entry may whet your whistle:
“When I look back at the last 10 weeks of my life it’s hard to admit to myself that everything I remember actually happened. Just to put it in perspective for you: The amount of time that I have been protecting myself from (over-generalization) over weight, drug infused, uneducated, mindless, brainwashed, closed minded, soda soaked clowns with the shittiest make-up that I could possibly imagine is just short of the amount of time that it would take for you to complete one semester of photography class at your mid-level art school.”
Yipes, folks. That’s what sometimes happens when you immerse yourself in a strange and depraved culture. You go batshit insane. But this guy and his expose may just be the catalyst that the juggalos need to start a true subcultural civil war where they break out their hatchets and take back what’s theirs; namely the KFC’s, Taco bells, Hot Topics and hockey jersey manufacturing concerns. It could become one of those situations where clowns stop being polite and start getting real. They could call their new country Juggalarica, Or Juggalo-ville, Oooh! Juggalosreal. Oh, yeah. That’s what they should call it. But, nah, they’d probably just call it Shangri-la. Dumb fucking juggalos.
This leads me to something that I find irritating: the fear of clowns. Everyone reveals this phobia like it’s some sort of iconoclastic fear that proves that they see the real essence of terror in this otherwise-thought-to-be-docile-lovable and, you know, for-the-kids incarnation, but listen up dildos: for as long as there have been clowns, they’ve been portrayed as scary. You aren’t outwitting the matrix. You’re in it, man. Ever fucking hear of Pagliacci? Look, my point here is, as long as there’s been the idea of clowns there’s been juggalos, kay? You got it? Great. So, no more bragging about clowns being scary. That’s like saying rapists are scary, or minorities. WOW. What a bold new fear you’ve cooked up there.
Lamos.
Sigh.
Okay, look. I didn’t mean to go off on you guys there. I’ve been having problems with my manservant Claudio for the last hour or two. He took off on the Monitor’s life blimp with that dildo from the Cobra Ships or whatever the fuck they are. Apparently our meeting in Tibet the other day made quite an impression on Claudio, and just this morning he told me that he’d rather listen to children’s dance music than talk about opening NRO accounts, or Hulbert’s Financial Digest. I told him that without that shit, I’ve got ads, no revenue, no Monitor and no money for menservants and you know what he said? Get this. He said “I don’t care, sir. It’s dull.” Then he took off in the life blimp. It was pathetic, really. Just Claudio, floating out there like some sort of chick clasped in the talon of a fat goose, disappearing into the arctic sunset above the ice floes and…excuse me a moment.
…
No, no. I’ll be fine. After all, I still have my trillions and Dick Branson and I are meeting tomorrow at a Stuckeys outside of Oklahoma city to talk global finance over some chicko sticks and milkshakes. Should be a pretty cool time. Maybe I’ll get one of the waiters from the main restaurant on the Monitor (the steakhouse) to fill in for Claudio. Or, maybe Claudio will come back. Who knows anymore? Okay, I’ve got to go. I’m hunting polar bears from up here with some Russian, ahem, businessmen, and I’m up.
Good luck out there. Let’s rap tomorrow.
Monday, November 16, 2009
and like a phoenix rising from the asses, I've returned
What’s that you say? You’ve missed me? Well, that’s nice to hear. Sure it is. It’s always nice to be missed. Where have I been? Oh, thanks for asking. As some of you may recall, two weeks ago I monetized this blog and since then I’ve been traveling the world, funding the trip with my new source of revenue. It’s been wonderful. For the ten days it’s been just my manservant Claudio and I in my new solid gold, private zeppelin, the Monitor. Of course, it’s fully staffed with waiters, busboys and prostitutes, but I don’t deal directly with them. Claudio handles all my transactions now. Dealing with money is so tacky, you know? Of course you don’t. Listen, when you get to a certain level of fiduciary excess, you learn these things. It’s like when your dick gets to be thirteen inches long, you learn that you need to make sure it doesn’t drop into the toilet water while you’re dumping. But, most of you wouldn’t know about that either, and that’s fine. There’s no need to concern yourselves with the trivialities of the elite few, right? Right. Good. Glad that’s settled.
My DJ on the Monitor, a german fellow with whimsical hair and endless colorful suits of leather clothing, turned me onto a new sound while we were over Aburiria scattering Krugerands down on the villages in hopes of causing riots for our amusement. It was a song called “good girls go bad” by an artist known as Cobra Starship. Man, shit. Man. Wowzers. That shit’s pretty fucking catchy, innit?
Okay, look. I know what you’re thinking. Something like this, probably: “Cobra fucking starship, dude? Seriously? Seriously? Listen, man, I put up with your lil wayne bullshit and your crap about Britney Spears and all that but this is TOO FAR. You don’t like Cobra Starship. That shit’s garbage. Period. End of story. Move on. You mentioned earlier that there were whores on your zeppelin. Expand on that.” Well, firstly, sure. I’ll get to the whores, but secondly. Nope. You’re wrong. The german knows what I like, and man, fuck me if I don’t like that song. That bitch from whatever that show is has a pretty radical and sexy vocal delivery (only in that song…The german played me a song from her album which was unlistenable jazzy, late 80’s crap that sounds like the inoffensive grossness that moms put on before they masturbate in the tub) and sure, overall, the song’s got a VERY Bloodhound Gang quality. AND the weird sample is highly reminiscent of the Pee Wee Herman sample in “Just Lose It” by Eminem, and yeah, the song is childish, but really, honestly none of that matters. When the German puts it on, I start tapping my foot. When my bathers wake me up in the night for my midnight penis cleansing it’s stuck in my head. You get the idea. And I don’t feel guilty. Nope. It’s not a guilty pleasure, because, as of course you don’t know, money removes the need for guilt. It’s like when you get a dog and you can throw out the mop and broom. Or how when you get a television you can throw away all your books. So therefore, I’d classify the song as a pleasure, a guilt-free pleasure.
Now, the german also played me another song by the same artist, called Hot Mess. This song. Man. Fuck. Shit, man. Wow. Okay, it’s not as good as the first song, given. But man. It’s tapped into the zeitgeist of what’s popular right now in a way I can NOT believe. This Saporta guy is some sort of super genius. I had Claudio schedule us a meeting. I flew him, via luxury airboat to meet us in Tibet where we dined on the endangered flesh of tigers among the clouds. Turns out, I know this fucking guy. I’ve known him forever. I met him when I was sixteen or seventeen and he was in a band called Humble Beginnings. How far we’ve both come since those days in those various gymnasiums and VFW’s in New Jersey. He’s a megastar with a number one song and I’m an advertising genius with hordes of devoted slaves and followers. Man, humble beginnings indeed.
See, the thing that’s blowing my mind here, when I listen to this pair of Cobra Starship songs is the following: This dude is my age. How the FUCK can a dude my age write songs like this? I’m not hating on it. Sincerely, I’m impressed as shit. I mean, “You’re a hot mess and I’m falling for you and I’m all, ‘hot damn, I’ma make you my boo.”????? DUDE! That shit’s hilarious. And timely. And yes. Yes yes yes yes, it’s gonna age poorly and the whole thing’s kind of a joke and all that, but at the end of the day that shit don’t matter because that dude’s sitting on a pile of money the size of the furnace that powers the Monitor. And money, everyone, alleviates the need for everything else, as we’ve mentioned before. So, Good on ya, Gabe. Seriously. Seriously. That shit’s impressive as hell.
Okay, I’m being telegraphed to let me know that the Monitor is waiting on the roof to take me to Panama City for lunch, so I have to bow out. Good to see you all again. See you tomorrow.
Xoxoxxox
Oh, and thanks for coming out to the shows. They were a blast. And finally, congratulations to Ryan and Anne Kelly on what’s sure to be an unbelievably happy and successful marriage. Love you both.
My DJ on the Monitor, a german fellow with whimsical hair and endless colorful suits of leather clothing, turned me onto a new sound while we were over Aburiria scattering Krugerands down on the villages in hopes of causing riots for our amusement. It was a song called “good girls go bad” by an artist known as Cobra Starship. Man, shit. Man. Wowzers. That shit’s pretty fucking catchy, innit?
Okay, look. I know what you’re thinking. Something like this, probably: “Cobra fucking starship, dude? Seriously? Seriously? Listen, man, I put up with your lil wayne bullshit and your crap about Britney Spears and all that but this is TOO FAR. You don’t like Cobra Starship. That shit’s garbage. Period. End of story. Move on. You mentioned earlier that there were whores on your zeppelin. Expand on that.” Well, firstly, sure. I’ll get to the whores, but secondly. Nope. You’re wrong. The german knows what I like, and man, fuck me if I don’t like that song. That bitch from whatever that show is has a pretty radical and sexy vocal delivery (only in that song…The german played me a song from her album which was unlistenable jazzy, late 80’s crap that sounds like the inoffensive grossness that moms put on before they masturbate in the tub) and sure, overall, the song’s got a VERY Bloodhound Gang quality. AND the weird sample is highly reminiscent of the Pee Wee Herman sample in “Just Lose It” by Eminem, and yeah, the song is childish, but really, honestly none of that matters. When the German puts it on, I start tapping my foot. When my bathers wake me up in the night for my midnight penis cleansing it’s stuck in my head. You get the idea. And I don’t feel guilty. Nope. It’s not a guilty pleasure, because, as of course you don’t know, money removes the need for guilt. It’s like when you get a dog and you can throw out the mop and broom. Or how when you get a television you can throw away all your books. So therefore, I’d classify the song as a pleasure, a guilt-free pleasure.
Now, the german also played me another song by the same artist, called Hot Mess. This song. Man. Fuck. Shit, man. Wow. Okay, it’s not as good as the first song, given. But man. It’s tapped into the zeitgeist of what’s popular right now in a way I can NOT believe. This Saporta guy is some sort of super genius. I had Claudio schedule us a meeting. I flew him, via luxury airboat to meet us in Tibet where we dined on the endangered flesh of tigers among the clouds. Turns out, I know this fucking guy. I’ve known him forever. I met him when I was sixteen or seventeen and he was in a band called Humble Beginnings. How far we’ve both come since those days in those various gymnasiums and VFW’s in New Jersey. He’s a megastar with a number one song and I’m an advertising genius with hordes of devoted slaves and followers. Man, humble beginnings indeed.
See, the thing that’s blowing my mind here, when I listen to this pair of Cobra Starship songs is the following: This dude is my age. How the FUCK can a dude my age write songs like this? I’m not hating on it. Sincerely, I’m impressed as shit. I mean, “You’re a hot mess and I’m falling for you and I’m all, ‘hot damn, I’ma make you my boo.”????? DUDE! That shit’s hilarious. And timely. And yes. Yes yes yes yes, it’s gonna age poorly and the whole thing’s kind of a joke and all that, but at the end of the day that shit don’t matter because that dude’s sitting on a pile of money the size of the furnace that powers the Monitor. And money, everyone, alleviates the need for everything else, as we’ve mentioned before. So, Good on ya, Gabe. Seriously. Seriously. That shit’s impressive as hell.
Okay, I’m being telegraphed to let me know that the Monitor is waiting on the roof to take me to Panama City for lunch, so I have to bow out. Good to see you all again. See you tomorrow.
Xoxoxxox
Oh, and thanks for coming out to the shows. They were a blast. And finally, congratulations to Ryan and Anne Kelly on what’s sure to be an unbelievably happy and successful marriage. Love you both.
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