Fist Pumps and Beyond

Two Severed Thumbs Down for Torture Porn

2012-02-09T10:44:00.000-08:00

Apparently Torture Porn is a thing now, and by and large, our culture has accepted that. I had hoped it was but a morbid fad, but I had no such luck on the Torture Porn front. Someday soon, it could easily become a puzzle on Wheel of Fortune. I wouldn't be shocked; hardly anything has that affect on me anymore. Two words, eleven letters, and the category is Thing.

Torture Porn is a genre of film known for its prolonged homicides and bleak outlook on life. The first installments of films such as Saw and Hostel combined to generate almost 200 million dollars at the box office, and both have spawned a number of lucrative sequels.

Torture Porn, people. For entertainment purposes, I suppose, mankind has evolved to pair the notions of torture and porn—and with very successful results.

At some point, it seems, it was determined that both horror and skin-flicks had become tacky and old-fashioned.

The murders committed by the likes of Michael Myers and Jason must have been too sudden to thrive into the new millennium. An ice-pick thrust to the heart? A beheading with a machete? Sure, some horny coeds suffered grizzly deaths due to such heinous assaults, but those kinds of killings are done in five seconds. What's going to fill the lengthy void between sprees of blood-lust? Characters? Plot? Suspense? Lame. Yawn. Booorrring!

Movie-goers demanded—or at least consented to—drawn-out, epic, and wholly excruciating murder scenes. No more of that quick-savagery nonsense would suffice. The public longed for ten-minute murder scenes in which the victim was not only deprived of the fleeting hope of survival but also enfeebled at great length and shown no mercy by a sadist intent on maximizing suffering.

In music terms, this is a bit like bidding good riddance to punk-rock homicides, which are swift and straightforward, and embracing jam-band homicides, which are protracted and prone to noodling. Like gushing hippies (minus the desire for peace), Saw and Hostel aficionodos no doubt exchanged glowing reviews in the wake of their theater experiences.

“Did you get a load of that three-minute sickle solo? That unrelenting shredding of limbs that avoided all major arteries? Massive blood loss, bro, but not enough to kill that helpless naked chick.”

“Agreed. Sickness personified, dude. And that snapping of the collar bone with a monkey-wrench? Crunchy. Bitch was crying all hysterical-like for so long before she finally croaked. So epic!”

I guess porn has become obsolete, too. Good-looking, well-endowed men and women having wild sex on camera? The formula became stale. Porn had to be enhanced...but how? Skimpier thongs? Faker boobs? More Kardashians? No, no, no! Such dull suggestions fail to satisfy the appetites of real 21st century wretches.

Thankfully, somewhere in Beverly Hills, a degenerate pondering the problem at length snapped his fingers with triumphant vigor. His once-weary eyes widened and brightened, for he had been struck by an epiphany.

“I've got it...Torture!” he exclaimed. “We must give porn that much-needed shot in the arm by adding torture! Torture Porn. Boo-ya!”

His idea flourished when put into practice, too. The Saw and Hostel series have jointly grossed nearly a billion dollars worldwide—and keep in mind, a billion dollars is more than a mere “shit-load of money.” A billion dollars marks the threshold of “a super shit-load of money.” Hell, these Torture Porns are on the verge of earning “a mega shit-load of money.” The Torture Porn pioneers could pool their fortunes to buy Greece if they felt like it.

People are making what may soon qualify as a mega shit-load of money by showing people being tortured by people to many, many people across the globe--and I don't like it.

Torture and porn don't belong together. They're ill-matched, like lard and chocolate. Some couples actually get off on Torture Porn. It's repulsive. Imagine the conversations they have.

“Honey, did you get a chance to watch that Saw 23 DVD I ordered from NetFlix?”

“Sure did. Oh, that Torture Porn took my breath away.”

“You said it, Maude. That half-hour lawn-dart massacre. Mmm. Since the children have gone to bed, let me be candid with you: That got me rock hard.”

“Yup! Why, I felt so hot and tingly not long after the opening credits, and that skull-drilling to the brain just about made me want to burst.”

“Mmm-hmm. Indeed. I decided to rub one out at that point in the film.”

“George, you devil! Oh, make love to me, cuddle-bunny.”

End horribly twisted scene.

Now, I'll get to the torture half of this vile pairing later, and be concise about it. As for porn, I will concede that it sometimes demeans women, glorifies sleeping around with just about anyone, and tends to present a certain body-type that other women cannot and should not feel that they have to compete with in order to attract her ideal man. That's true.

On the other hand, to most men, beautiful naked women are pretty much the greatest sight to behold on this planet, immensely pleasing to the body and mind, unsurpassed in beauty by a sunset at the Grand Canyon or a lunar eclipse or whatever inferior fluff you care to compare beautiful naked women to. Admittedly, plan-A is to find one to date and perhaps even marry. Plan-B is porn, though, and strangely enough, the majority of guys with successful plan-A's still resort regularly to plan-B. Porn exists in part because nothing carries as much artistic power as a beautiful naked woman does--and even guys who dismiss that assessment as pretentious bullshit aren't likely to deny that chicks are just so damn hot.

And that's my ambivalent defense of porn.

As for torture, well...torture sucks. If you want to kill someone, be quick about it. Only sadists drag it out. To hell with sadists. They're horrible, subhuman creatures.

I'm a fair-weather fan of Team Jesus, too, and I hate the notion of watching that swell guy get tortured so much that I have never bothered to watch The Passion of the Christ.

I'm OK with my preference of regular porn over Torture Porn. It's natural to have a libido, but I won't say the same about craving depictions of the worst kind of human suffering conceivable.

Torture Porn is a sprawling load of morally toxic bullshit...a mega-load of that God-awful waste, to be more precise.

Hostel Schmostel.

Wait. I can conclude this rant on a stronger note than that...

Don't see Saw; Saw sucks.

That will have to suffice. Oh, and I'll come up with a pithy denouncement of Human Centipede in time for part three.

Cubs Fan's Plea to Nephew

2012-01-17T21:00:00.000-08:00

My nephew was born on the eleventh of January, a time when baseball diamonds across Wisconsin were dormant and buried in snow, hibernating and hardly expectant of fresh grass and prolonged daylight anytime soon. In addition to my sister-in-law and nephew, my mom had a room at the same hospital. She was recovering from a stroke, dutifully reviving her speech and half her body. My family took it as a quirky boon that she required only an elevator and a husbandly chauffeur to wheel her down one floor to see her first grandchild.

Kaden made his grand entrance in fine health, caterwauling hello-greetings loud enough to rouse three inpatients from their comas, and as my mom convalesced, my family rebuffed the daunts and dolors of winter with months of gratitude and relief—not to mention Mickey Mouse-falsetto coos addressed to the newest member of the clan.

Eventually, conflicts resumed, as they always do, but at least the conflict in question was merely a competitive farce. Rather than focus on their mutual love of baseball—their shared awareness of the timelessness, mystique, and gut-wrenching drama of the game—my brother and his wife have instead opted to concentrate on the bothersome fact that they cheer for different teams. (Such a folly is not unique to my brother and his wife, of course.) While she favors our home-state's Milwaukee Brewers, he is a Cubs fan.

A friendly struggle commenced for the boy's baseball team allegiance. Owing to his mother's superior knack for fashion and the 2011 Brewers' dominance in the standings, Kaden was fitted with Crew apparel more regularly than Cubs clothing. (In a gesture of diplomacy, he was, at least, dressed in a Cubs shirt for the Christmas card I received.)

With the Cubs hunkered down in rebuilding mode for at least a season and the Brewers—notwithstanding the likely departure of Prince Fielder and the sore subject of Ryan Braun's suspension—poised to make another playoff run, mom's team looks poised to take a two-to-nothing lead in the series.

That is strictly where wins are concerned, however, and my humble plea to my nephew to support the league's best team in 1908 runs deeper than that.

For starters, there is something petty and feckless about those who, as Bob Dylan put it, “Just want to be on the side that's winning.” True sports fans back their teams in sickness and in health—or in the case of the Cubs, in sickness and in worse sickness. Furthermore, in my estimation, those who strictly root for teams in their home state display both a dire lack of creativity as well as a cowardly instinct to never stray from the herd. Staunch homers are but feeble conformists, and I'd prefer that my nephew feel undaunted by the prospect of being different.

Besides, it's always a mischievous thrill to bear the brunt of criticism from home-state purists too daft to realize how silly it is bicker about free will as it pertains to something as (awesome yet) relatively unimportant as baseball.

Someday I'd love to see my nephew applaud game-winning RBIs in the bottom of the ninth at Wrigley. After all, Cubs-devotion teaches us that a sense of humor and hope are our two most vital attributes when life has us mired in a slump.

I want to tell Kaden about the seventh-inning stretches emceed by a half-tipsy Harry Caray, in the midst of all the late-game deficits, his hearty cries to “score some runs” that, more often than not, went unfulfilled. I want to tell him that one of the funniest men alive, the droll goof-ball from Ghostbusters and Groundhog Day, roots for the Cubs, too. I want to tell him about silly superstitions, the curse of the billy-goat and the poor fan who was scorned for trying to catch a foul-ball, the tragicomedies that ensued and the lessons we can learn from them. And when he's old enough, I want to show him the comedy of errors that is Curb Your Enthusiasm and ask him to consider the parallels between Larry David's life of follies and the plight of the Cubs.

I want him to know that neither life nor the Cubs ever get so dismal that we can't laugh for some reprieve.

In addition to the appeal of laughter, I'd encourage him to extol the Cubs because they coax us to hope against all odds. Skeptics cackle when we assure each other to wait until next year, and with good reason, probably, but they don't understand that hope is a sacred thing to us—as it should be for everyone, regardless of which baseball team, if any, one chooses to endorse. They can call us fools if they wish, but we will force them to acknowledge that we are, at least, fools who never give up.

In my plea, I will relay to Kaden that his grandmother laid weakened on a hospital bed in the E.R. before she was flown on Flight for Life to Milwaukee, that he was still in his mom's tummy when grandma Ruth promised her daughter-in-law and the rest of us that she'd be here for the boy's birth, and that the family had to leave the room a moment later when the EMTs arrived and secured her to a gurney.

She kept her promise and revels adoringly in babysitting duties and holiday visits as I type this. But my nephew should keep in mind that, in the time between stops at hospitals 66 miles apart, our family had no proof that she'd live to see her first grandchild. One of life's misfortunes had made us uncertain and powerless.

I will inform him of these happenings and then conclude my plea to him concerning the Cubs by telling him about the only thing working in his family's favor during that difficult time.

“All we had was hope, kid, but somehow, that was enough.”

The Hindsight Awards

2012-01-15T22:51:00.001-08:00

As an outrageous footnote to the horrid scandal of Jerry Sandusky—the former Penn St. defensive coach accused of sexual abuse by at least ten young men—it should be mentioned that in 2001, the defendant published an autobiography titled Touched: The Jerry Sandusky Story. This means that, creepily enough, one can browse through a Barnes & Noble store or Amazon.com and happen upon a book designated as “Touched by Jerry Sandusky.”

His book concludes with the following sentiment: “...I hope I can add a little touch to others' lives...” The alleged pedophile seemingly intended his title and parting words to reflect the hopes of a noble philanthropist, but a decade later, his literary work serves as rotten and damning evidence against his claim of innocence.

Now, to be clear: I do not think a transgression as heinous and depraved as child-molestation is funny by nature. I do, however, have a fondness for irony, especially the sort of irony that (however belatedly) gives a doomed lowlife his comeuppance. Furthermore, I recognize that tragicomedy exists, even when the ratio of tragedy to comedy is about 99.9% to .1%.

To elaborate some on that .1%, then, I have to offer a rough sketch of a ceremony I think the general public should hold on an annual basis. The event would acknowledge the awful happenings from the past that were unknown but now seem dreadfully obvious. And since the disgrace in question relates to athletics, it's only fitting that two sports-announcers should host this segment:

The Hindsight Awards

Clutching microphones, broadcasters Al Michaels and Bob Costas sit at a desk. Behind them, spectators abuzz with anticipation fill out a vast auditorium. Spotlights flicker across the vast stage pictured in the background.

Al Michaels: Hello and welcome to the sports portion of this year's Hindsight Awards—recognizing the horrible things we should have seen coming but somehow didn't. It's been a prolific year for hindsight, hasn't it, Bob?

Bob Costas: You said it, Al. So many travesties that should have been put to a halt years ago but sadly weren't. The hindsight judges have singled out the three worst offenders, though, and presently, the favorite will be Touched by Jerry Sandusky.

Al Michaels: Or perhaps Bernie Fine.

Bob Costas: Yes, quite the tragedy in its own right. Hindsight voters can't overlook the grim truth that Syracuse basketball was, for years, the only program that traveled its ball boy to games on the road.

Al Michaels: To satisfy the depraved lust of a lecherous coach. Chilling.

Bob Costas: Yes. Chilling and painfully obvious, looking back. But let's not forget about the third nominee for this year's award, four-time defending champ O.J. Simpson.

Al Michaels: Author of If I Did It, a proposal outlining the ways in which O.J. would have gone about killing his ex-wife and her lover had he actually been guilty of the crime.

Bob Costas: Which he most certainly was.

Al Michaels: In hindsight, yes, Bob—that's exactly right. Along with our other nominees, O.J. has been sequestered in a heavily guarded dressing room for tonight's festivities.

Bob Costas: Truly, a hellish den of unrepentant monsters. What are your thoughts on the front-runner for this year's Hindsighty?

Al Michaels: O.J. is still a force to be reckoned with, but it can't be overstated that for two long and intense weeks, the front-runner has been Touched by Jerry Sandusky.

Bob Costas: And Barney Fine?

Al Michaels: He's a worthy nominee, but bare in mind, Sandusky has the edge over Fine where allegations are concerned.

Bob Costas: Absolutely repulsive. (He pauses.) Now, for the bettors in our viewing audience, let's send it to Joe Buck, live from Las Vegas.

Inside a tense betting room, anxious gamblers huddle in front of TV sets behind Joe Buck.

Joe Buck: Here in Vegas, the prevailing sentiment seems to be that double-murder, and years later, assault with a deadly weapon may be even worse than touching a child. That means the odds have once again tilted in O.J.'s favor. Right now, insiders believe that the underdog is going to be Touched by Jerry Sandusky. Back to you, Bob.

Coverage returns to Costas and Michaels. Behind them, a figure dressed in a tuxedo approaches the podium.

Bob Costas: Wow. I did not see that coming.

Al Michaels: How apropos.

The two indulge in a fit of jovial laughter complete with knee-slapping.

Bob Costas: With no further analysis, then, we take you to Cris Collinsworth for the unveiling of the 2011 Hindsighty.

Self-assured and proudly postured, a dapper Cris Collinsworth addresses the audience. He taps an envelope against the podium and begins his speech.

Cris Collinsworth: Not since almost winning a Super Bowl have I been bestowed with such a remarkable yet appalling honor. Google's Synonym-Finder cites “retrospect” as another term for “hindsight,” and since I don't know what that word word means, either, I asked my son, who gave me a rough definition that I could wrap my brain around. (He chuckles.) Now, the votes have already been counted, but I have to confess that I'm biased. You see, my son is a full-on, Touched by Jerry Sandusky supporter.

The camera-view switches to show Costas and Michaels slapping hands against faces and shaking heads in bewildered unison.

Cris Collinsworth: (Still chuckling.) He wants it to be Touched by Jerry Sandusky in a bad way, but we'll see about that. OK. Now, let's find out this year's Hindsighty winner in sports. The nominees are Touched by Jerry Sandusky...and Bernie Fine. And last but certainly not least, author of If I Did It, the reigning champ, O.J. Simpson!

Everyone in the arena applauds while booing. Collinsworth opens the envelope in his hand.

Cris Collinsworth: And the winner is...Touched by Jerry Sandusky! Let's go to the dressing room of the nominees, where an armed police officer is poised to give that awful degenerate his award.

Grinning boyishly, equipped with a statuette and a shotgun, a cop waves hello. He nudges the door open to the dressing room, only to recoil and gasp. He shakes his head dismally, shuts the door in slow increments, and signs the beheading hand-gesture to the camera.

On-set, Costas and Michaels are shown, both intently pressing their earpieces as they receive new information from the producers.

Al Michaels: Good God. I don't believe it. Folks, in a sick and bizarre twist at this year's ceremonies, we have reports that both Sandusky and Fine have been found dead in the dressing room they shared with O.J. Simpson.

Bob Costas: Yes. They're apparent victims of self-strangulation.

Al Michaels: Sickening. Let's throw it to former NBC commentator O.J. Simpson for his analysis. Juice?

Swarmed by gun-toting cops and clad in orange prison garb, O.J. grips a microphone outside the scene of the crime. Sweat drips from his forehead but he manages a warm smile.

O.J. Simpson: Thanks, Al. And congratulations to the deceased. Now, I just want to make one thing clear: I don't know who or what killed those two men...but I'm determined to write a book on the mystery, titled If I Killed Jerry Sandusky and Bernie Fine, Here's How I'd Do It. I'll see you at next year's Hindsightys, guys!

The view returns to Michaels and Costas, both tickled and awestruck. Michaels shrugs deliberately.

Al Michaels: That's our O.J.!

Bob Costas: Such a rascal.

Ueck Tribute

2012-01-09T17:19:00.001-08:00

I was asked the following question by a piece of paper that I printed from my computer.

Tell us (The MLB Fan Cave) which MLB star you want to meet most, why, and describe the video idea you would want to film with this player.

Here is my response.

The MLB star I'd most like to meet is not an active player. In the '60s, he earned some scratch as a backup catcher in the show, but his career stats are, by his own admission, downright laughable. Don't hold that against him, though, because in the grand scheme of things, being laughable was and remains the supreme intent of Bob Uecker.

In regard to his stand-up comedy endeavors, Uecker stated, “I just recited the highlights of my career and the audience thought it was hilarious.” With dry and mordant self-deprecation, the Brewers' radioman has a knack for transforming failure into redemption and bliss. Like most every great humorist (baseball or otherwise), Uecker's mockery extends from internal to external. He endears audiences with his humility and his value of truth over ego before demonstrating that we're all part of the immense, cosmic joke--and therefore subject to ridicule. Uecker reminds us that to err is human, but more importantly, that the follies encoded in our beings are the source of hilarious material.

Perhaps my favorite Uecker quip was delivered on Milwaukee's WTMJ wavelength last season. Puzzled by the surge of “Tony Plush” t-shirts and signs around Miller Park, Uecker asked his co-announcer Cory Provus for an explanation of the trend. Provus dutifully informed him that Tony Plush is the alias of Nyjer Morgan, the Brewers' feisty and eccentric center-fielder. Ueck (aka Mr. Baseball) vaguely understood, but seemed nonplussed. Provus followed up with an inquiry of which name the voice of the Crew would choose as his alter-ego. With the swiftness of a Nolan Ryan fastball, Uecker replied, “Betty Davis.” And for the ensuing 30 seconds, the only soul dialed in to the broadcast who refrained from busting a gut was Bob Uecker.

As a mid-essay plot-twist, I'm not a Brewers fan. Since kindergarten, I have lent my support to the lovable losers due south of Wisconsin, the Chicago Cubs. (For some odd reason, I gush over excellence in comedy more so than in baseball.) I mention that because, should I be fortunate enough to shoot a promo alongside of Ueck, my Cubbie-allegiance could be brought up and lampooned.

What follows is a rough outline of my exchange with Bob Uecker.

Bob: So, this year's Fan Cave guy is a Cubs fan from Wisconsin. What's the story?

Nick: Relax, Ueck. It all boils down to freedom of choice.

Bob: Benedict Arnold said the same thing. That's some philosophy, kid.

Nick: Hey, come on. I seem to remember you calling games for the Cleveland Indians years ago.

Bob: Oh, not this again...

Nick: Hear me out. This year's Cubbies could be a lot like that Tribe team from the early '90s. We've got a roster full of misfits and under-achievers, low expectations, and an unproven rookie manager.

Bob: If I have to explain to yet another yahoo that that movie was not based on a true story...

Nick: Both Cerrano and Soriano are Dominican-born outfielders who can mash fastballs, yet struggle to hit the off-speed stuff. Cerrano, Soriano—the names sound eerily similar. Connect the dots, Ueck. I think the Cubbies are bound for the World Series.

Bob: That Indians team got swept in the ALCS! Didn't you ever see the sequel?! (Shakes head in dismay.) Moron.

End scene.

I'd be honored to be called a moron by Bob Uecker.

The Mario 2 Outlook

2011-12-20T15:32:00.001-08:00

I hope I didn't lose you with that title—and by and large, I am addressing women. Admittedly, this essay does in fact discuss video games, but my intent is not to bore you with bluster about Blaster Master or Bionic Commando or some other garage-sale relic that means nothing to you. For good or ill, the fact remains that if you were born after 1970, video games were a part of your upbringing. And like it or not, a select few Nintendo titles have become iconic in our culture, and nothing short of a genocide waged against nerds like me is going to erase that.

The three Super Mario Bros. games, for instance, transcend obscure and geeky limitations. If someone were to show you a picture of Super Mario and ask you to name him, failing to do so does not mean that you're remarkably refined and mature. It means that you're probably Amish.

So, allow me to reverse my tactics from defensive to offensive. If you're unwilling to accept that Super Mario has made a mark on our culture, if it seems silly to construe deeper meanings from something that is so widespread and familiar to us, then by all means, don't read another word and find something better to do. Somewhere, no doubt, there is a barn that needs to be raised and butter that is not going to churn itself.

Now that we're off and running: It is vastly accepted by people of my ilk that Super Mario Bros. 3 is the finest of the trio in question. (Regardless of whether or not you care to know, 3 has been voted the absolute greatest Nintendo game by numerous websites devoted to critiques of interactive button-mashers.) The original Super Mario—the one bundled along with Duck Hunt and a Nintendo system that enthralled so many children of the '80s on Christmas mornings—is commonly rewarded the silver medal. The guiding force of this essay, Super Mario Bros. 2, is still considered very good by critics, yet by no means a match for its odd-numbered counterparts.

But 2 is the true standout in my opinion that is due for a humbling any day now. Let me tell you why.

Saluting 2 is a fine way to buck conventional thought. If we concede that dimwits outnumber sages on this planet—and that one of the downfalls of the consensus is that its masses are more prone to human error—then it's not at all absurd to recognize 2 as Mario's premier 8-bit adventure. Now, if you still consider 2 the runty black sheep of the litter, that doesn't mean you're part of a consensus dumber than the Earth-is-flat believers of centuries past, nor wickeder than the generations of Americans who had no big qualms with slavery. All I'm trying to convey is that the majority have been known to embrace faulty convictions.

2 is distinct and versatile. There are four characters to choose from with unique strengths and weaknesses. Whereas the first and third games are, at best, partnerships, 2 has to offer a full-fledged democracy. In 1 and 3, Mario & Luigi represent Simon & Garfunkel in that it's clear who meant more to the duo and therefore had richer success in his solo career. 2, by contrast, has to offer a quartet that is as dynamic as the Beatles.

Just like Paul, Mario is an affable and steadfast front-man, a consummate leader. With his wild and eccentric leaps of creativity (and jealousy of Paul/ Mario's prestige), John functions as Luigi. George is like Peach; both can levitate with meditative Zen. Toad has the beefy build of a drummer, and much like Ringo, his contribution to the group is indelible, but you'd never want to buy one of his solo projects.

You're still free to favor the odd-numbered Marios, of course, but be warned: doing so may lead to debates with nut-bars who will counter that that's like saying Simon & Garfunkel are better than the Beatles.

2 transforms Toad from a bystander into a crusader, enlivens eternal victim Princess Peach into an ass-kicker of vile creatures. 2 stands as proof that David Bowie was not full of bollocks when he declared, “We can be heroes/ Just for one day.”

2-lovers are imaginative. We're daydreamers who dig up bottles of potion and smash them so that a door to another dimension appears. We seek prizes and power-ups in that shadowy otherworld before returning with a rueful sigh to the chaos and villainy of reality.

We're not altogether kooky, though. We reject the silly notion that it's cool to morph into a flying raccoon or an aquatic frog. Star-power is enough for us; we get that short-lived jolt of invincibility from drinks, laughter, and sex. We are, after all, only human—not raccoons or frogs.

A monstrous frog is, in fact, the archenemy in 2. His name is King Wart and he's a dead-ringer for Ndomakung Suh—the beastly thug of Detroit's ruthless defensive line. In 2, Bowser and his minions are nowhere to be found. 2-believers know that pure evil can take on more than just one form.

My favorite virtue of 2 is its timelessness. Granted, all three Super Mario games for Nintendo are timeless in a figurative sense, but 2 stands out because it is literally timeless. Fans of 1 and 3 gaze to the sky and see the seconds ticking down to oblivion. 2-lovers don't share that bleak outlook. Clocks are unnecessary bothers to us. We realize that the hour-glass is one of man's most oppressive inventions—for life is not a race but rather an exploration. We'd much rather roam at our own pace than abide by the deadlines imposed on us. For us, there is no warning sound at the 100-second mark to incite panic. The delightful soundtrack doesn't speed up to a frantic tempo. We don't rush into the game-changers of life like marriage and parenthood simply because we feel old (or old enough). 1 and 3 advocates can scoff and retort with stern warnings of inevitable tombstones and “biological clocks,” but those scare-tactics don't work on us. We roll our eyes and gag when we hear a sourpuss grumble the cliché: “Life is short.” The greater truth is that our souls are without expiration dates. And sure, it requires a leap of faith to cross that wide chasm of spiritual doubt, but remember: We've got Peach in our repertoire to conquer such a challenge.

Can your favorite Mario game justify such a leap of faith?

In closing, it should be noted that after the last vegetable has been hurled into King Wart's gaping mouth to choke and croak that amphibious fiend, the credits soon roll and players see Mario asleep in bed. We learn that he dreamed the events of Super Mario Bros. 2.

It's funny to dwell on the immature implications of the Mario 2 outlook, of an adult musing about video games in the first place. I doubt it's a coincidence, though, that the other day, when I babysat my nephew, I sang to him “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” And I wound up telling him that—much like 2—life is but a dream.

The Survivals and Death of Sean Connery

2011-12-11T01:11:00.000-08:00

My friend had his tuft of black locks pulled and bobbed in the back. I thought his hairdo made him resemble Steven Seagal, and as he sought the bartender's attention, I nudged him and told him so. He grinned and took no offense and that was the intent. In no time he got me to agree that the Seagal-look was at least better than having a receding hairline. We took a minute out of our night to discuss Seagal-classics like Undersiege and Marked for Death. That alloted minute extended when we couldn't recall the name of the action flick in which Seagal dies within the first twenty minutes. We remembered that it took place on an airplane that had been hijacked by terrorists, and while an American special forces unit covertly boards the plane to rescue the passengers, some sort of a mechanical mishap spells death for Seagal's character. From the thin air of the stratosphere, he plunges to the ground. We're left to imagine the gruesome impact of his body going splat and then the movie—whatever it's called—goes on without him.

The next morning, when I logged on to the Internet to get the answer, three things occurred to me. 1.) The movie is Executive Decision. 2.) Although this film was received fairly well by audiences and critics, it Marked for Death the clout of Seagal as a lead-actor in action flicks. The year after ED hit theaters, 1997, saw the release of Fire Down Below, and by then, it became pretty clear that Seagal had devolved into a farce. In the following decade, most of his action flicks were shipped straight to rental racks. Then Seagal decided he was tired of pretending and wanted to kick some ass for real. Decades after he graduated from police academy, Seagal became a Reserve Deputy Chief in Louisiana. As of late 2008, a camera crew has followed him around on the job because it would be wasteful for Seagal to tackle and shackle a meth-cook without broadcasting his heroics. 3.) I can think of one actor who can't at all relate to Seagal's plight; his career was never marred by an ignoble death on-screen. His premier roles signify more about survival and death than any other actor. His name is Sean Connery.

As the original James Bond, Connery set the mold for action heroes who defy death against all odds in a flurry of punches, bullets, explosions, and charisma. Most of the actors who followed in Connery as Bond's wake emphasized the first three parts of the action-movie equation in order to compensate for their lack of charisma. Connery as Bond didn't have that problem. Arnold outlasted the Predator because of he was the strongest one in his squad. Neo killed dozens of digital-henchmen because he had an unlimited supply of guns and ammo. John McLean prevailed in Die Hard 2 because in the end he (cleverly) blew up the bad guys' plane. James Bond is different. Punches, bullets, and explosions are constant in Bond flicks, but somehow they are marginalized. It's more engaging to time how long it takes Bond to bed his next vixen and then guess which sexual innuendo he'll quip afterward. Bond employs fisticuffs, guns, and gadgets to survive, but the primary reason why he seems so impossible to kill is because he's such a ruthless charmer.

In Casino Royale, Ian Fleming's first novel in the Bond series, the author describes 007 as the spy nods off for the night on a hotel bed.

“...With the warmth and humour of his eyes extinguished, his features relapsed into a taciturn mask, ironical, brutal, and cold.” Fleming hints that—beneath a veneer of good manners and chivalry—chilled irony is one of Bond's core, unconscious traits. Bond is wont to express the opposite of what he means in his actions and speech. That is why, in Goldfinger, for instance, he seems smooth rather than silly while he swims toward the shore of the harbor of a bad-guy stronghold with a fake-duck helmet strapped to his head. It's a farcical trick that is more befitting of Inspector Clouseau, and yet Bond lends the impression of a shrewd expert because of his capacity for irony. Later on, in the calamitous wake of the detonation of the bomb that he plants to combat evil forces, Connery as Bond gallivants into the dressing room of the belly-dancer in a nearby tavern. They smooch, of course, but when she objects to the presence of a pistol carried in his shoulder-strap, Bond mock-apologetically says, “I have a slight inferiority complex.” (Even though he clearly doesn't.) Obligingly, he sets the holstered gun aside to allow further kissing. Facing the bathtub that his latest lust-interest emerged from, Bond has his back turned to an advancing henchman armed with a club. A trusting and romantic lover would likely keep his eyes shut during this stage of foreplay; Bond, however, opens his lids to gaze warily into the eyes of the belly-dancer. He detects the ghostly glimmer of the advancing henchmen in her deceitful peepers, and whirls her around so that the club crashes down on the back of her skull. Following a prolonged tussle, Bond launches his attacker into the filled bathtub. He then swipes a plugged-in fan into the porcelain pond and electrocutes the man. As the treacherous woman rubs her swollen head, Bond readies his escape, but not before he quips, “Shocking. Positively shocking.”

Only, he wasn't really shocked by the belly-dancer's treachery. Casino Royale is rare in that Bond doesn't kill a soul nor bed a woman until his tale of genesis is almost finished. More surprising still, he tells his main squeeze--a fellow spy with stunning curves and dark secrets—that he intends to marry her. The woman, named Vesper Lind, panics, balks, makes love to him, and begs to study his face intently before he retires to his own quarters. He finds her dead the next morning, having overdosed on sleeping pills. Her suicide note reads...

“...This is the last moment that your love will last...I am a double agent for the Russians.”

Vesper was blackmailed into deceit by SMERSH, a cutthroat counter-intelligence group founded by Stalin, but nevertheless, the gash in Bond's heart has never mended. “He saw her now only as a spy,” Fleming writes. When Bond phones London to inform his bureau he tartly reports: “(Vesper) was a double, working for Redland...Yes, dammit, I said was. The bitch is dead now.”

Although Casino Royale wasn't adapted into a film until long after Connery's tenure as Bond had run its course, the novel must have been vital to Connery's understanding of 007. Accordingly, his brisk and bold seduction of Goldfinger's gorgeous accomplice Jill gets her killed and coated from bare head-to-toe in gold paint, but Bond never sheds a tear. Later in the film, Oddjob slays Jill's vengeful twin sister with a long-distance toss of his deadly bowler hat, but Bond doesn't waste a minute of screen-time mourning. After that, a rollicking match of Judo-foreplay in a barn begets a roll in the hay with Pussy Galore—another lackey of Goldfinger's whom Bond bangs in spite of (or because of) her cold and brutal disposition. Much of You Only Live Twice takes place in Japan. In addition to confirming another skill of survival, Bond's Christlike power of resurrection, the hero charms and seduces a Japanese ally named Aki. While the two slumber in bed one night, a ninja-assassin poisons and kills her. Again, Bond hardly mourns; the next day, he graduates from ninja academy and—rather than attend Aki's funeral—he weds a different Japanese stunner, Kissy, in a mock-ceremony to (somehow...the plot gets a bit silly) increase his inconspicuous cover and further his mission to thwart the evil Ernst Stavro Blofeld. Aki's murder barely causes a murmur in the plot-line. Upon completion of his mission, just give Bond an exotic siren to ravish on a life-raft or underneath a parachute (Aki, Kissy, Pussy, the busty blond from Dr. No—who cares?) and he's a happy Double-O agent...a happy Double-O agent with a boner.

Bond's aversion to long-term relationships explains why his constant flirting with Miss Moneypenny has never led to intercourse. To Bond, the problem with Moneypenny—secretary to M, his superior—is that she would make the perfect wife. He trusts and admires her. The two believe in and fight for the same global causes. Her wit is a worthy match for his own and she is much smarter than the typical bimbos in Bond's Rolodex. Unfortunately, Bond will have to wait until his retirement to propose to Moneypenny. In the following passage, Fleming explains his protagonist's feelings on love and luck.

“One day, and he accepted the fact, he would be brought to his knees by love or by luck. When that happened he knew that he too would be branded with...the acceptance of fallibility.”

The Bond/ Moneypenny union would equate to 007's surrender to death—and he won't risk that as long as vermin like Dr. No and Goldfinger infect the planet. In the Bond films he starred in, Connery doesn't survive because of love; he survives because he transcends a reliance on love that is far too human and fragile.

###

Connery's survival in The Hunt for Red October is simpler to assess. As Captain Marko Ramius, a Lithuanian-born refugee to Russia, Connery plots to exploit his command of the Soviets' prized, top-secret submarine for his own benefit. The Red October's stealth is unmatched. The vessel can't be detected by sonar and it is stocked with nuclear missiles. The captain's intent, however, is not to incinerate Manhattan and incite a toxic heat-wave on the Cold War-front. Instead, he plans to surrender the sub to the U.S., as a gift to declare his defection.

Before the completion of this traitorous deal, the bare hands of Connery as Ramus snuff the life out of a political officer (and loyal Soviet) on the cusp of foiling his scheme. He dupes his own soldiers as well as the entire naval fleet of “Redland.” Later on, a rogue sailor who averted American capture ambushes and shoots his devious captain. Ramus survives the wound, though. He advises agent Jack Ryan to be careful what he shoots at and then relies on the American to retire the assassin for his act of vengeful patriotism. Ryan succeeds, of course, but shortly afterward, the Red October is targeted by a Russian sub. No matter. As he tends with grit to the bothersome bullet-hole in his side, the captain advices his newfound allies of the bold steering techniques required to evade the torpedo-fire of the Konovalov. Another success! The underwater jukes and swoops work so thoroughly that the Russian sub haplessly falls prey to its own torpedo.

While skillfully constructed and engaging, certain aspects of The Hunt for Red October make it seem as though it was adapted to film by the scriptwriting team of Hulk Hogan and the ghost of senator Joe McCarthy. At times, the movie disgraces Russians almost as badly as Birth of a Nation defames African-Americans, but that only serves to emphasize another facet of Connery's survival skills. In Red October, he endures because he chooses to be an American. Connery showcases that such an unnatural patriot of Planet Apple Pie must muster the courage to draw scourges of TRAITOR in order to honor our causes of freedom, capitalism, jingoistic bluster, and granting casinos to those whose ancestors we butchered. He is not a patriot in the truest sense; rather, he is better than a true patriot. In addition to love, Connery transcends loyalty to survive.

###

I never got around to watching much of Highlander, but from what I gather, Sean Connery plays the part of a warrior known as an “Immortal” who is destined to slay others of his own ilk—by decapitation, the only way to truly snuff out those pesky Immortals—until Immortaltown is whittled down to a population of one more than zero. The victor of this fantastical and nerd-approved Super Bowl of eternal warriors is granted omnipotent power over mankind.

At some point, something called “The Quickening” factors into the plot and dialog. The Quickening is a telekinetic state of mental acuity that is even sadder to mention when conversing with women than references of Yoda's Force and Peter Parker's Spider Sense.

But never mind that. In the interest of conciseness, I just want you to know that Sean Connery once played the part of a mythically gifted warrior who never let a sword-plunge through his heart ruin his day.

###

In the third installment of the Indiana Jones trilogy (never you mind the fourth of the bunch), Connery plays the title character's father, Dr. Henry Jones. He instilled in his iconic son a passion for archeology. Father and son differ in ass-kicking prowess; Sr. slyly squirts ink into a Nazi henchman's eyes to gain the upper hand, whereas his son favors a deadly mastery of whips, firearms, fisticuffs, and flag-pole jousting on a motorcycle. (And it's telling that a bewildered Jones Sr. is seated in the side-car throughout the thrilling motorcycle chase.) In a role that is antithetical to the brutal efficiency of Bond, Connery showcases his range (and vulnerability) in The Last Crusade.

We relearn that Sean Connery is vulnerable to gun shots to the stomach. The film's climax takes place in the Canyon of the Crescent Moon,* where a hidden temple was long ago carved into the steep walls of rock. Inside this temple, the Joneses and their two noble pals encounter Nazi scum. Both parties seek the preferred cup of Jesus Christ: the Holy Grail.

Owing to enduring tales of its miraculous healing power, the Holy Grail is kind of a big deal. Of the rival groups questing for the Grail, one believes it belongs in a museum, while the other craves an eternity of tyranny run amok—and it should come as no surprise that the group of Nazis champions the latter cause.

The leader of this evil troop is a man named Donovan. After every one of the lackeys he commands one-by-one to retrieve the Grail is beheaded on the first of three challenges—level 1= The Breath of God, which only the penitent man will pass—Donovan coaxes the fit and resourceful Indy into the cobwebbed and booby-trapped tunnel. He does so by busting a cap in Sr.'s gut. Indy is then forced to risk death for the Grail in order to save his dad.

If you guessed that Indiana Jones succeeded in returning the Holy Grail to his gravely wounded father, you are correct. But before that happens, he kneels (as a sign of penitence) at the right moment to dodge the ambush of a blade sprung at throat-level, then nearly plunges to his death when he forgets that Jehovah begins with an “I” in Latin. Indy recovers and scolds himself, conjures enough faith to walk across thin air, and watches on as that Nazi rube Donovan chugs from a poorly chosen cup and falls victim to a supernaturally heinous fatality that must have inspired the creators Mortal Kombat.

Enfeebled, bloodied, and lying supine, Connery as Jones Sr. sips from the Christ-astic cup offered by his son. Sacred water is poured on his gunshot wound. He grimaces as the lump of newly healed flesh flattens like a bulbous hill leveled out by the compassionate tears of God Almighty. Jones Sr. stands to his feet and buttons his shirt, awestruck and revived.

Even when Connery teeters on the cusp of death, one should never brainstorm phrases for his obituary until a year or so after his burial. He can survive by means of divine miracles, too, because God can't bare to see him die, either.

###

It would be inaccurate to claim that Sean Connery never dies in movies. Aside from the film I'm about to discuss, he dies in at least one of his lesser works, too. That doesn't defy my intent, though, because I have no illusions that the man is immortal in a genuine sense; nobody is. The Grim Reaper is undefeated--and when he notches his win over me, I want the scene to replicate in as many ways as possible Connery's death scene in The Untouchables.

To clarify: I don't want to bid an orgasmic farewell to this life in the throes of bedroom passion. I'm not so naïve to forget that it takes two, you know, and a double-homicide love-making session hardly seems romantic. And if my girlfriend or wife's pulse outlasted me in bed, I'd hate to instill in her a lifetime of recurring nightmares. No self-respecting 80-year-old man would inflict that sort of ghastly drama on his 22-year old girlfriend.

(No death during sex fantasy for me. Sex is supposed to be about the opposite of death.)

I don't want the screen to go black and read “Game Over” while playing the video games I like so damn much, either, nor keel over once the final guitar note from “Yellow Ledbetter” trails past the horizon and slowly vanishes at the conclusion of a Pearl Jam encore. Sure, those are also fairly ideal scenarios in which to parish, but they're tame and gutless compared to the demise of James Malone, the wizened and feisty patrolman turned treasury officer in The Untouchables.

The Prohibition era, which lasted from 1920 until 1933, made criminals of beer and booze drinkers, but because most people didn't mind bending a law that rebukes freedom of choice in the name of absurd puritanism, the masses drank nonetheless--albeit illegally. A moral dilemma arose, however, once it became evident that murderous bootleggers helped to facilitate the availability of liquor—especially in major cities like Chicago, where Al Capone reigned as a criminal tycoon.

In The Untouchables, Kevin Costner as Eliot Ness is chosen by the Treasury Department to exact justice on Robert DeNiro as Al Capone for corrupting the moral fiber and police department of Chicago. The hero's efforts are embarrassing and fruitless until--in a chance encounter--he meets Sean Connery as James Malone.

At first, Malone declines Ness' recruitment efforts, but he regains his dormant gumption when he remembers that “The Lord hates a coward.” In no time, he takes Ness to church and preaches a pithy endorsement of “The Chicago Way”—a method of crime-fighting that entails pulling a gun when enemies pull a knife, sending the bad guys to the morgue after they send a good guy to the hospital.

Two others join the ranks of the Untouchables—a bespectacled accountant who is shockingly deadly with a shotgun and a cool Italian-American marksman—and the quartet successfully raids numerous dealings of Capone-controlled liquor. In response to this pesky yet strengthening thorn in his criminal underbelly, Capone orders hits on the Untouchables. The Rick Moranis-lookalike is the first victim, but never mind that, for minutes later, Sean Connery performs perhaps the most gripping and bad-ass death scene in the history of cinema.

As he awaits a return-call from Ness, Malone strolls tensely around his apartment. He is eager to inform his boss of a helpful tidbit he gained by pummeling an elderly cop: the identity of Capone's bookkeeper—the man who keeps track of the gangster's shady dealings. With his attention seemingly focused on winding a phonograph, Malone has his back turned when a knife-wielding creeps into his place and sneaks up on him with a malicious grin.

Malone is merely playing possum. Before the goon can strike, Malone whirls around and unleashes on his rude intruder a short-barreled shotgun; he insults the homeland of the “dago bastard,” reprises an adage of “The Chicago Way,” and chases him out the back door.

Henchmen seldom carry out solo-missions, though, and so once Malone steps outside, another villain--one hiding in the alleyway—pierces dozens of holes through his torso with an onslaught of Tommy-gun fire that blares and devastates for about ten seconds.

And yes, Sean Connery does eventually meet his cinematic demise, but prior to that, he crawls the distance of an astoundingly long hallway back to the telephone beside his phonograph. He coughs wretchedly and bleeds helplessly, and when a distraught Ness at last arrives, Connery's character does not seek religious rites or a kind farewell from a friend. Instead, he hisses a raspy revelation--the name of Capone's bookkeeper. With his final surge of willpower, as a crimson geyser oozes from his mouth, Connery jolts upward from his soon-to-be chalk-outline and asks Ness the following...

“Now! What are you prepared to do?”

He fights and suffers so that his last words can serve as a fiery pep-talk to good men willing to challenge their nefarious counterparts. He is outraged by his fate, yet resigned to it. Life will, after all, go on without you or me or Sean Connery. We are but replaceable characters in an ongoing saga.

Yet every character has a part in the story we were born into but destined never to see completed. Connery's greatest roles testify that we should fight the acceptance of mortality with all the tactics available in our survival handbook until the time comes to concede that no character means more than the cause he fought for.

Here endeth the lesson.

* Note to self: Conduct a search for the Holy Grail. Begin by locating the Canyon of the Crescent Moon on Google Earth.

Nick Is All Done Listing His Favorite Albums

2011-12-05T21:42:00.001-08:00

The trouble with epitaphs on tombstones is that one can never fully ensure that his outgoing message will be etched faithfully. I could offer no earthly protests, naturally, if that fateful chisel should fall into the hands of someone who wants me remembered as, “A guy who bitched about Phish too much.” It should be stated that I'd very much prefer the following as a parting message exchanged from my burial mark to the lifeforms of the future—until a worthy upgrade occurs to me, at least—and it goes like this: “With fuck-yous to further ados...”

That's an obscene way of stating that my interest in suspenseful wondering and silly distractions has been exhausted, and that—more so than merely the end—I'd like nothing more than to get to the answer.

5.Beastie Boys—Check Your Head (1992): “So What'cha Want?” functions as more than just the most recognizable track from Check Your Head. It also serves as a brash challenge to doubters whack enough to question the versatility of the 3 most bad-ass Trekkies on the planet. You want thumping beats and bass pulsing beneath slick and self-assured rhymes? (“Jimmy James,” “The Maestro”.) Instrumentals that exude funky grooves and prove that white boys know how to honor the likes of George Clinton and Curtis Mayfield? (“POW,” “In 3's”.) Let's switch gears. How about rowdy and infectious skate-punk? (“Time for Livin'” and “Gratitude”.) Mystical and exotic-sounding slow-jams? (“Lighten Up,” “Namesté”.) Are you in the mood for delightfully schizophrenic samples that seem incompatible until DJ Hurricane gets his mitts on the records? (“Stand Together,” “Professor Booty”.) Haters and sucka MCs, seriously, So What'cha Want? Adrock, Mike D., and MCA can deliver just about anything to shut you up.

The Beasties aren't quite my favorite group, but they just might be the most eclectic, and without equivocation, I consider them the absolute coolest. Now, there's a designation that gets more and more senseless and evasive with age: Coolness. To assume that an objective definition can be applied to such a term is a sign of immaturity. In my opinion that is due for a humbling someday, then: cool people are talented and confident but grounded, compassionate without traces of hypersensitivity (compassion's extreme counterpart), goofy and irreverent but socially conscious and unafraid of activism in the name of peace and equality. The Beasties' dynamic range is the chief reason why they're “as cool as a cucumber in a bowl of hot sauce.” It has indeed been proven that the trio love to see the party people just movin'--regardless of whether such harmony occurs at a sold-out Madison Square Garden, or a dank basement in Brooklyn, or at a concert to protest the Chinese government's senseless brutality against the people of Tibet.

And sure, appearing as un-lockable players in NBA Jam is a fine way to boost one's level of coolness, too. While it's true that such a 16-bit cameo failed to stylize Al Gore so soundly, come on—don't shit yourselves: that stilted sayer of inconvenient truths is never going to “rock a block party 'til your hair turns gray.”

4.The Clash—London Calling (1979): My main issue with punk-rock is that I think its spirit—while feisty and independent—can prohibit musicians from fulfilling their peak potential. Two-minute outbursts of three-chord aggression can provide great catharsis for teenagers in the early stages of learning a fun craft, but after high school, it is wise to stretch out a bit more and seek creative challenges that punk-rock does not always present. Such ambitions are sometimes misconstrued as traitorous and soft by punk-elitists who favor exile in Never-Never Land.

The Clash paid no mind to that prospect of backlash from their peers. If the paramount purpose of punk-rock is to express oneself without caring about the commonly unkind judgments of others, then it follows that its truest followers should have no qualms with expanding beyond the genre's boundaries. No other band understood this catch-22 as soundly as the Clash did.

The band's aim was not to subvert the style they helped to found, however. Many tracks from London Calling bare a resemblance to the brash and straightforward vigor of their debut album. The title track is a mid-tempo march from the toxic shadow of “a nuclear error.” Both apocalyptic and galvanizing, the opener's simple structure yields a doomsday anthem worth treasuring. “Brand New Cadillac” puts a profane and sloppy spin on a rockabilly hit from the
'50s. “Hateful” finds levity in the plight of a frantic drug-addict but pauses to mourn in its concise breakdowns.

I won't kid myself, though. The not-so-punk portions of London Calling account for most of its mastery. New wave balladry is covered on “Lost in the Supermarket,” a lament of the steady replacement of people with consumers that does its part to exalt the partnership of Joe Strummer and Mick Jones to the upper echelon of songwriting duos. With celebratory toots from The Irish Horns, “Rudie Can't Fail” is a ska romp that redeems an irresponsible but idealistic crumb-bum who “drinks booze for breakfast” and “can't live in service.” “Train in Vain” is quite content in its sonic welding of David Bowie and the Beatles. The album's closer packs power-pop abounding with melody and love gone sour.

London Calling and the Clash are easily my favorite punk-band and album, resp., precisely because neither fear to tread outside of the style's rigid parameters. Punk never kept the Clash under its grimy thumb; it was the other way around.

3.The Beatles—the white album (1968): A fun exercise in inciting fidgets in a Beatles fanatic is to ask them to name their favorite album by the group. Inevitably, a handful of candidates will emerge from their quavering lips. They will contemplate and stammer, overcome by awe mixed with consternation. I'm not much different, but at least I have come to a decision—debatable though it may be. It's the one that simply boasts the most great songs: the white album.

True enough, the white album is of the double variety, includes a total of 30 tracks—which is hardly economical—and features (at least) two bona fide Fab Four abominations, namely “Revolution #9” and “Good Night.” In regard to the bigger picture, however, such concessions prove that the Beatles were at times victims of their own excellence. 28 tracks that range from solid to exceptional--delivered without much delay between Sgt. Pepper and Abbey Road—leaves nothing to quibble about, and furthermore, the album's first-half alone rivals every other record in their staggering catalog.

By 1968, turmoil within the band was starting to surface. John had officially been Yoko'd, and his partnership with Paul was functioning more and more in name only as the two were inclined to sojourn on separate holidays to different recording booths. By no stretch of the imagination did listeners suffer from the erosion of the tag-team that gave way to competitive oneupmanship. On the acoustic ode “Blackbird,” Paul serenely tends to a wounded animal, mends its broken wings, and sets it free with a friendly challenge to make the most out of its rejuvenated life. Not to be outdone, John bemoans two lovers in limbo on a sleepless and tortuous night on “I'm So Tired.” Paul gathers us around a desert campfire for a Western ballad about “Rocky Raccoon,” a tragic figure demised by hubris. John counters that fictitious plight of an individual with “Revolution 1,” a slow-groove overview of the strife of the world-at-large that replies to widespread chaos with the promise, “Don't you know it's gonna be all right?”

The white album can't be reduced to a John and Paul showdown, though, as George contributes the soulful and forlorn personification found in “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” (with a little help from his friend Eric Clapton). Even Ringo—yes, RINGO—delivers his finest offering as a rare front-man on “Don't Pass Me By,” a wobbly yet melodic jaunt packed with the penitence and faith that blokes must so routinely express to their mistreated and duly sensitive birds.

Another gross reduction of the white album is to claim that it's a compilation of four solo projects. Pure bullocks. “Back in the USSR” is an airborne travel anthem that nods to Beach Boyish harmonies and adoration of babes worldwide. Its thumping piano twinkles and six-stringed shock-waves rock with timeless fervor. The ethereal rising action of “Dear Prudence” boasts psychedelic stings and resolute beats. Aside from somehow inspiring malice in a creepy cult-leader, “Helter Skelter” is as a four-piece onslaught that marks the closest the Beatles ever got to Black Sabbath.

On the cusp of “The End,” where their epitaph read “Let It Be,” the Beatles' most telling track on the white album is perhaps found in the jovial piano-romp of “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da,” when fussy fanatics are assured that even though All Things Must Pass, “Life goes on, brah.”

2. Radiohead—OK Computer (1997): Thom Yorke is a malcontent. OK Computer opens with the ominous guitar wails of “Airbag,” an entrancing narrative about a car-crash survivor who feels both revived and nonplussed by his brush with death. Elsewhere, not even the heroic salvation Yorke's girlfriend grants him on “Lucky” can make him fitter or happier, but no front-man since Kurt Cobain has been more productive in his transformation of gloom and neurosis into catharsis.

Radiohead's critically worshiped third album offers a few glimpses of levity, too. In “The Tourist,” the group satirizes frenetic travelers too busy snapping photos to truly absorb the scenery as a means to express a common theme of OKC: our forfeiting of visceral sensations to technology. (Ha, ha...ha?!?!) Amidst laser beam chirps and serene keyboard tones, Yorke muses about how misguided and uptight humanity must seem to intelligent life on other planets. (“High up above, aliens hover/ Making home-movies for the folks back home/ Of all these weird creatures who lock up their spirits/ Drill holes and themselves, and live for their secrets.”)

It is, however, the album's disaffection that resonates the strongest. Whether it be the paranoia of persecution waged by the “Karma Police” or the suspicion of politicians who “say the right things when Electioneering” in their quest for power rather than progress, the Oxford scholars realize plenty of reasons to feel “Let Down.”

Let down, indeed, but nonetheless hanging around—as evidenced by another decade-plus of acclaimed music. With no offense intended to subsequent tracks like “Idioteque” or “There There,” I have an unwavering hunch that “Paranoid Android” still stands as the band's most stunning song. Spanning nearly six-and-a-half minutes, OKC's lead single seems to emerge from thick mist like the foreshadowing in a nightmare, lashes out with gallows-humor, and then culminates with a blitz of triple-guitar mayhem.

“Ambition makes you look pretty ugly,” Yorke declares at one point—and perhaps that's true—but the sad adages he unearths are still preferable to the “handshake with carbon monoxide” that he contemplates in “No Surprises.” Rather than diverting listeners from conflict and strife, Radiohead aim to recreate the spooky yet unerring notes owed to life's grim inevitabilities.

Recap: Because one cap simply isn't enough. 20. Jets to Brazil—Orange Rhyming Dictionary...19. Nirvana—Nevermind...18. Elliott Smith—From a Basement on the Hill...17. Cake—Comfort Eagle...16. David Bowie—Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars...15. The Jimi Hendrix Experience—Are You Experienced? 14. The White Stripes—Elephant...13. Weezer—the blue album...12. The Strokes—Is This It...11. Led Zeppelin—Houses of the Holy...10. The Rolling Stones—Exile on Main St. ...9. Bright Eyes—I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning...8. Modest Mouse—The Lonesome Crowded West...7. Spoon—Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga... 6. Pink Floyd—Dark Side of the Moon...5. Beastie Boys—Check Your Head...4. The Clash—London Calling...3. The Beatles—the white album...2. (Sigh.) You just read it. Jesus, how short are your attention spans?!

1.Beck—Odelay (1996): With a precise blend of samples and a hodgepodge of sounds courtesy of a multi-instrumentalist with a mono-syllabic moniker, Beck presents an odyssey of styles on Odelay, a masterpiece of party-friendly poignancy.

“Where It's At” showcases the far-reaching yet minimalist powers of one astronautical cowboy with two turntables and a microphone at his disposal. “Hotwax” discovers a compatible landscape of country-western storytelling, sweetly flowing rhymes, and otherworldly scribbles and cuts of records. On “Jack-ass,” Mr. Hansen does away with ironic witticisms and pop-culture savvy to express his most sincere existential ballad to date. (“I've been drifting along in the same stale shoes/ Loose ends tying a noose in the back of my mind/ If you thought that you were making your way/ To where the puzzles and pagans lay/ Put it together, it's a strange invitation.” Word. For penning such an apt and dreary summation of my life, what can I say other than...thanks??) With a groove that borrows from the Beatles “Taxman,” “The New Pollution” brings to (my) mind the neon luster of casinos and strip-clubs viewed in the rearview mirror of a smoke-filled, pink Cadillac en route to desert-exile beyond the fringe of Vegas. Powered by alt-rock angst, and a raucous riff that serves as Beck's definitive ode to head-banging, “Devil's Haircut” is a cryptic yet vivid denouncement of “the evil of vanity” (as the man himself puts it).

For his treatment of the recording studio as a playground and his superlative wordplay—his ability to snatch choice phrases from grab-bags and enlightened minds alike-- Beck is my favorite musician and this is my favorite of his albums. He has to offer a prolific catalog of zany Zen that I truly hope has nothing to do with the book of Scientology.

Hey...only kidding but only kind of kidding. Ha, ha...No reason to sue, ya bunch of yahoos (excluding Beck).

We're finished?!

Yup. We're finished. Remember the intro about epitaphs?! Well, here's the epitaph to “Favorite Albums”: “Titanic fare-thee-wells, my eyes are turning pink/ Don't call us when the new age gets old enough to drink.”*

* This is a quote from my favorite Scientologist.

Nick Is (Almost) All Done Listing His Favorite Albums

2011-11-25T17:48:00.001-08:00

What?! Favorite albums revisited? After months of hibernation and a dozen or so posts in between...it's finished? Almost, but maximum relief will arrive in the near future. Sometimes the short writings so akin to kidney stones hide cunningly in a recess of the urinary tract. That anxious pain of wondering if I'll ever expel another fairly innocuous idea from my system has just about passed. The wait will be over soon enough, and as a brash side-note, I'd like to mention that Stephen King has indeed been dethroned as the master of suspense.

King had a good run. Can you believe he got ousted by such a widely unknown writer? Just like in the film version of The Mist, this story has a twist-ending.

And with that I segue gracefully into gushing over my favorite Rolling Stones' album.

10.The Rolling Stones—Exile on Main St. (1972): The quintessential Saturday night soundtrack, Exile on Main St. is a raunchy celebration of dance-crumpled mini-skirts and lipstick-smeared collars. The album showcases brass-blowing session men in impeccable harmony with their rock superstar overlords; the Stones achieve a broadened and voluminous sound without cutting the contributions of any core members of the group (as the Beatles did on Sgt. Pepper, wherein Ringo was left to idle so constantly that the bloke learned how to play chess when he wasn't needed). On Main St., rocks are gotten off, joints are ripped, and hips are shaken—and that only covers the first three tracks.

Later on, the Stones muse on the dual natures of love and luck, reason and spirituality, but such melodic insights should not be mistaken for a lull in the party; the boys simply need to recharge their long-enduring batteries, and they do so with tranquil resolve, even when scraping the shit off their shoes in “Sweet Virginia.”

“Loving Cup” jumbles sentiment with lust and liquor until the distinctions seem moot—for they are all but things that embody longing and pleasure, the group's primary drives. Powered by gospel-like backup vocals, “Tumbling Dice” is a soulful entreaty that evokes how Abba's “Take a Chance on Me” might sound in Bizarro World. “Stop Breaking Down” is rowdy, blue-infused rock best-suited for strutting trouble-makers with simple but sound advice to offer.

In addition to breaking down: along with many others, I'd be best advised to stop comparing the Rolling Stones to the Beatles. If you favor the pragmatic principles of physical attraction and compatibility to that grand and hokey romantic yarn about soul-mates transcending mortality to go on and on across the universe, you almost certainly prefer the Rolling Stones. If you view pop-sensibilities that duly garner radio play as a gift rather than a demerit, you almost certainly prefer the Beatles.

Exile on Main St. is the Rolling Stones album that most makes me squirm and beg, “Do I really have to choose?”

9.Bright Eyes—I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning (2005): Have you heard the one about the woman who was flying to meet her fiancée over the largest ocean on planet Earth when--quite unexpectedly--the plane went down? Like most of Conor Oberst's narratives, it gets much more captivating once the music cues. In the tradition of singer-songwriters who eschew chops in favor of poetic passion (and inevitably garner comparisons to Bob Dylan), Oberst and his indie-pals craft folksy melodies to serve the boy-genius' visceral storytelling and vivid imagery.

Conor's depth and versatility of sound lift him above derisive accusations of Emo-sympathizing. Sometimes he comes across as snotty, but such petulance is entirely redeemed by his volition, grit, and sincerity. I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning does more than just flourish as a (mostly) folk album released 40 years after Bringing It All Back Home--decades before MTV, Nirvana, and Nine Inch Nails; the album also presses with the right amount of force against the boundaries of what exactly constitutes folk music.

“Lua” and “The First Day of My Life” are boldly romantic acoustic ballads that stand as Oberst's finest musings on heartache and true love, resp. “Another Travelin' Song” channels the grieving swagger of Gram Parsons. One could wear Chuck Taylors or cowboy boots while dancing to it without feeling like a hypocrite either way. It's the sort of song that can be boogied to with perked ears that seek out every note and word.

Whereas the previous entry constitutes an ideal night-album, it's worth savoring I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning shortly after arising from bed for the day. All ten tracks goad a heightened awareness in listeners. Whether somber or fiery, the songs command attention and coax a craving for details. On “Road to Joy,” Oberst concludes his masterpiece with a nod to Beethoven and waylays with his brand of minutely crafted, righteous spunk. “The Sun came up with no conclusions,” he sings. “Flowers sleeping in their beds/ The city cemetery's humming/ I'm wide awake, it's morning.” From the standpoint of a contented night-owl, this album marks one of the premier reasons to toast with coffee the majestic expansion of daylight that comes with every new sunrise.

8.Modest Mouse—The Lonesome Crowded West (1997): Though he seems like a goofy cynic at heart, Modest Mouse front-man Isaac Brock's musical mind tends to gravitate toward dark moods and loathsome squalor—particularly on his group's earlier efforts. On their second LP, the salty Pacific Northwesterner and his two band-mates capture the wry indictments of a hung-over malcontent on a cross-country journey.

“Teeth Like God's Sunshine,” the album's opener, is like an American indie-rock counterpart to “Paranoid Android.” The first track is a jaded and sprawling overview of the downfalls of a lonesome, crowded culture. “Shoeshine” rollicks, plods, rises, and thrashes for nearly 7 minutes without squandering a second. With snide exhaustion, Brock advises us to “Go to the grocery store and buy some new friends” before plaintively asking, “Do you need a lot of what you got to survive?”

“Convenient Parking” comments on the dispassion incited by highway travel to various cities that all pretty much look the same. Brock's musings on monotony culminate in a concise and primal outcry in the chorus that calls to mind the profane tantrum of a sweat-stung, working-class underling stuck in an L.A. traffic jam. His imagery is even more concrete and evocative on the sobering, twang-laden ballad “Trailer Trash.” Descriptions of indigent teenagers “eating snowflakes with plastic forks” and pithy summations of their parents (“Short love with a long divorce”) almost cause too much heartache to be considered beautiful. (Almost.)

In spite of his detection of sinister undertones in mall-walking and Orange Julius stands, his snarls of blasphemy in “Jesus Christ Was an Only Child” and “Cowboy Dan,” Brock's band has to offer a headphones sanctuary that is in no way nihilistic.* No—a more fitting designation of such a sonic hideaway is along the lines of the lonesome, uncrowded bliss.

7.Spoon—Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga (2007): Few bands, in my estimation, have handled the transition from indie darlings to (fringe) mainstream fame with as much nonchalance and integrity as Spoon. It matters little that a fluky teen drama, The O.C., played a significant role in their rise to success. Spoon have outlasted that sort of chic ephemera and established themselves as perhaps the most critically praised band of the naughties on our side of the Atlantic (where Radiohead are deemed foreigners...brilliant and gloomy foreigners).

My favorite of their LPs commences with “Don't Make Me a Target,” a disaffected alt-rock gem that expresses the wariness of peaceful individuals cloaked in the gigantic shadow of nuclear-age tyrants. The baleful bitterness of the opener is surpassed by its virtue and accentuated by a momentous jam of jangled riffs gone haywire and piano keys that sound precisely stomped more so than fingered. “Rhythm and Soul” and “Finer Feelings” are tuneful deep cuts that could easily pass for singles. Former Get-Up Kids bassist Rob Pope plucks the groove that impels the jaunty pop-flourish of “Don't You Evah.” Front-man Britt Daniel's mastery of quirky tinkering in the production booth is evident throughout the album, and his melodic rasp once again employs grit to create smooth textures in the same way that sandpaper refines unseemly bumps and blemishes.

Spoon expand on their minimalist roots on “You Got Yr. Cherry Bomb” and “The Underdog,” a pair of singles boosted by horn-section blasts of gusto. “Cherry Bomb” is somehow at once crystal-clear and enigmatic, joyful and faintly rueful (with lines such as “We lost it all before, you and me”). My savviest stab at its meaning is probably reductive: it serves as a contrite love letter, an infectious message to Daniel's better-half akin to, “Sorry I fucked up, but bare in mind, I wrote this song for you, so please take it easy on me.” “The Underdog”--as a struggling and loopy muser on pop-culture has mentioned before--provides the perfect soundtrack for a muted game of Super Punch-out. The likes of Super Macho Man, you see, represent hulking masses of hubris, bulky meat-heads with steroid-enhanced egos who shun the advice of frail but sagacious water-boys, while Little Mac embodies the righteous jabs of humility that so often (yet somehow unexpectedly) pulverize the undue conceits that fester inside of us.

Delivered with Paul Simonesque wryness and attention to detail, “The Underdog” can also be construed as a fine dismissal of those foolish enough to charge that indie-darlings on the rise are damned if they do (sign to a major label and—shudder—risk accusations of “sell-outs!”) and damned if they don't (cash in on what they could potentially earn because of some misguided attempt at purity). Ga X 5 stands as indelible proof that success is not the enemy of creativity—and that any would-be hipster-derisions mean nothing compared to the pay-raise that a truly great band deserves.

6.Pink Floyd—Dark Side of the Moon (1973): In regard to this undeniable classic, some have a bold theory. Edgar Allan Poe—that dreary pioneer of Gothic horror and mystery who used the word “phantasmagoria” in wise recognition that it would soon go out of style—met up with Jules Vern—the main forefather of science-fiction and author of From the Earth to the Moon—and traveled in a time machine built by H.G. Wells to Abbey Road Studios in London, where they scared the bejesus out of a reefer-stoned Roger Waters as he gazed with sorrowful longing at a photograph of Syd Barrett, the former front-man of Floyd—who had been committed to a mental hospital, owing to the mental havoc wreaked by schizophrenia and way, waaaayyyy too many doses of LSD.

After a fit of hysteria and a frantically snuffed-out joint, Waters' terror was quelled—not by reason, for that had clearly failed him, but rather by the unreasonable nature of creative miracles. The three artists swapped notes, exchanged ideas on psychosis, man's relation to the cosmos, and psychedelic space-rock much closer in tone to Kubrick's 2001 than the Grateful Dead. An epiphany was born, but shortly afterward, Poe raided Floyd's liquor cabinet and began blubbering, “O—the contemptible plight of it all!” Vern affronted Waters' ego with incessant beseachings of "Wishing to revel in the grand acquaintanceship of the transcendent Paul McCartney.” The brainstorming session had precipitated a rather dismal celebration. With a brusque clearing of his throat, Waters thanked his innovative visitors from the past but hinted not so subtly that they had better depart. The writers obliged--ruefully--and boarded the time machine that flashed psychedelic and (dare I say) faintly phantasmagorical beams of light before vanishing in a puff of smoke.

When band-mates David Gilmour, Richard Wright, and Nick Mason returned from their lengthy lunch-break, waving away dense clouds with cheeky grins and commenting on the peculiar odor of Waters' strand of marijuana, they were told to never mind such trivial distractions and report at once to their instruments, for their chief songwriter had made a breakthrough.

As evidenced by much of Floyd's canonized output from the '70s, Waters never forgot that unlikely meeting, and from it he extracted memories whenever he got stuck in his effort to pen a new number. The aforementioned event was freshest in his mind, naturally, when his band recorded Dark Side of the Moon.

Saw it on Behind the Music.

###

Albums Five-to-One, baby, coming soon.

* I cantankerously repeat: Fuckin' nihilists.

Signing Cleavage, Glorious Cleavage

2011-11-19T09:19:00.001-08:00

The man to the left has grown weary of signing cleavage all the time.

Originally printed a long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Na. The college years...dedicated to my old roommates: Screech, Fonzie, and who could forget...oh, the one with the overbite and a collection of model airplanes.

When I gaze out into the vast crowd of Advance-Titan readers before me—it's astounding—there are no uglies in the entire bunch. I see some new faces, mostly freshmen, that have never toured my Wacky Factory. Due to woeful MTV programming such as Baby's First Cell Phone and Sluts on a Bus, these youngsters may very well be burdened by attention spans shorter than a Sally Struthers hunger strike. I've got to win over the freshmen immediately if I expect them to read on. The following joke ought to do the trick.

I was at the grocery store the other day.* By the entrance I saw one of those funneled coin deposits with a sign above it that read, “Your donations will help to feed animals at the local petting zoo.” I gladly donated all the change in my wallet. Let me tell you, it’s a great feeling to know that some adorable little bunny is going to choke on the quarters I donated.

Holy Ka-blamo! You've just been bit by the silly snake, freshmen. Its venom is now coursing through your veins and you won't be relieved by the antidote until I start running out of ideas in a few weeks.

Now that we're all on the winning team—aside from that prudish PETA advocate who didn't laugh—let it be stated that the following column may test your tolerance of deadpan delusions of grandeur. It features some boastful fibbing, some bawdy bluster about boobs (or hooters, to be more refined). For the record, I don't advocate sexism, but I do advocate jokes. OK?

I am frequently asked (no...begged) by my female fans to sign their cleavage with a Sharpie marker. Is the request flattering and deliciously appealing? Oh, you bet. Get right out of town if you thought I was going to say no. Truly, signing cleavage gets me closer to God. Anyone who claims that God is a man has obviously never signed 40 eager chests in one night outside of an IHOP.

But ladies, please understand, as of now, I will only sign cleavage in moderation. If you approach me and request a cleavage-signing—Golly, as awful as this seems—I may have to turn you down. And furthermore, your chances diminish when you ask me to sign the words, “BREAST wishes—Nick Olig.” This pun has become trite and it cheapens what is already a fairly cheap practice.

Now, I don't want to be branded as “unkind” or “uptight” or “latently homosexual.” It's just that I have to scale back in order to save my sanity. Sometimes it takes me half-an-hour to walk a short distance—from Reeve Union to the library, for instance—because I'm constantly getting swarmed by screeching ladies with Sharpies. For God's sake, it's like an R-rated version of A Hard Day's Night. And when I'm backed against the wall, surrounded by fawning females, it takes a great deal of will power to declare, “No, I will NOT sign your cleavages! Now please allow me safe passage to my destination.”

When I say no, I feel like a pizza boy snubbing a small village of starving Ethiopians. Yes, cleavage-signing is to horny fans as pizza is to Ethiopians. It's what the pros call an airtight analogy, freshmen.

Those throngs of Sharpie-waving women will always tempt me, but they have become stoplights that impede my busy schedule. It won't be easy, but there comes a time in every handsome celebrity's life when he must ask himself, “Which is more important: signing cleavage or punctuality?”

I'm also cutting back because I believe in the virtues of fidelity. My heart belongs to just one lady, and signing random breast—however thrilling it may be—is an act of false advertising. You're no doubt thinking, “Who is this lucky lady who basks in reciprocated love with this undersized weirdo we have all grown to tolerate from time-to-time?” Bombshell revelation: It's Scarlett Johansson—the poster, not the actual woman. But once the actual Scarlett sees how much I adore her wall-adorning counterpart, she will become wooed past the point of brain damage. As testament to my adoration for MISS (unmarried, jackpot on the horizon) Johansson's poster, I sign the image of her deceptively flat cleavage with an erasable marker every night.

Outside flirting occurs in just about every relationship, and so the occasional cleavage-signing can be tolerated. But true commitment to a poster entails sacrifice. Therefore, my strict policy is as follows: Two cleavage-signings per week is my new limit. If this policy causes some petty heartaches, that is unfortunate, but ladies, I won't apologize.

Just to clarify, the two cleavage-signings per week excludes the ones I contribute to charity. If such philanthropy strikes you as objectionable, relax, it's not like I donate cleavage-signings to the Boys and Girls' Club. I am a devout contributor to “Cleavage-Signings for a Less-Sucky Tomorrow.” On behalf of this noble group, I routinely write inspiring messages on swooning bosoms. (Editor's note: Did you just use the word “bosoms”?) These messages include include: “Nobody likes a tattletale,” “Imagination Is Worthy of 69 Fist Pumps,” and “Help Stop Sexism.” The autographed women then carouse about town to spread the word, one tavern at a time.

But enough about one of the many ways I help to make a difference. It's embarrassing!

In closing, I'd like to avow the continuation of my ass-signing policy. I still do that without restrictions.

* Even the setup is a laugh riot!

Hacked by Hank

2011-11-18T15:16:00.001-08:00

I received the following bug of spam recently. It has been quite a nuisance, and again, I'd like to express fake-apologies to those with e-mail accounts that I may have unwittingly infected with this virus.

From: Hank Williams Jr.
thesouthshallcomeagainonyourmom@hotmail.com
To: Nicholas Olig
KL5nick.olig@gmail.com
Date: 11/09/11
Subject: Be my rowdy friend!

Dear Mr. Sucker,

Hooooo-Weeeee! You've just been hacked by none other than Hank Williams Jr. Bet y'all had no idea I had so much computer know-how, but sure as hell, old Hanky-Panky's chalk full of surprises...plus I got some help from a Harvard boy I done kidnapped.

I gotta have your un-subtracted attention 'cause I got an important message for y'all. Focus them eyeballs, will ya? This hack-job ain't got nothing to do with stiffy pills or phony princes from Nigeria. I'm preachin' about the big picture stuff—the brass tacks, people.

You best be ready for some FOOTBALL!

That's right. It's no longer a question of whether or not you're ready for some football. Since I got canned by ESPN, I play by my own rules. I command you to get ready for some football. On Monday nights.

My rowdy friends, if you don't watch football on Monday nights, the terrorists win. Plain and simple. God help us, if we waver in our love of American football, we'll have a rampaging zombie Bin Laden on our hands, and Zombin Laden is gonna jabber on about Infidels and soccer right before he neck-chomps you to death. Trust me—old Hank the Tank had a graphic nightmare about it last night.

A Monday night shindig!

Damn straight. Real men throw shindigs, not parties. Couple seasons ago, yours truly got the creative urge to tweak his rowdy lyrics. Well, ESPN put the kibosh on that.

“Shindig? Why, that word is old hat. Nobody says 'shindig' anymore. Hanks but no Hanks on that idea.” That's what them ivory tower elitists done told me.

Well, now I get to call my own plays in the huddle. Good riddance, ESPN. Y'all just wanted to toss screen-passes during the two-minute drill, but old Citizens First Hank is about slingin' some bombs for big chunks of rowdy yardage. Everybody start sayin' 'shindig' in place of 'party,' will ya? Otherwise, the terrorists win. Screen-passes... Bah! The new Hank spits at that kind of a conservative offense.

Shoot. Now, don't that just beat all? Man finds himself in hot water for bashin' liberal scum, then badmouths a conservative frame of mind. Ain't that ironic? Yup, the Harvard boy just agreed with me. It's irony, all right.

Now, hold your horses if you got the audacity to consider me some kind of inhuman Gore-voter. It's only on the pigskin field that I knock conservatism. (Throw it deep, ya pansies! OK, that's enough.) Outside of the arena, liberal sympathizers are killin' this great nation. Noble countrymen like Jefferson Davis are rollin' over in their southern-dug graves pukin' and a-cussin' on account of Barack HUSSEIN Obama bein' elected commander-and-chief. And not for the reason some of you Yankees probably expect. It's not 'cause he hails from the north, all right? It's 'cause he's black.

I stand by the righteous comments I made on Fox and Friends. Because he played a two-on-two golf match with Republicans, you best believe Obama is like Hitler. That comparison is totally legit, my Hankamaniacs. For your information, my would-be doubters, during WW2, Hitler routinely paired with FDR—another lousy democrat—in golf games against the likes of that filthy Brit Churchill and Mussolini. Trust me. It happened. Old “You Hank My Battleship” had a dream about that, too. Then Hitler chipped in a birdie on a par-5 and it turned into another nightmare.

Folks who criticize me for what I done said on FOX News are no better than the yahoos who cheered on the nut-job that shot a hole in Ronald Reagan. “Shoot him a new one, Hinckley!” they shouted, those left-wing bottom-feeders.

Now that I'm flying solo, I can snitch 'bout some of Monday Night Football's darkest secrets. I'll bet you didn't know ESPN let old Hankonia pick the sleight of games for this season. Most of the time, I chose the match-ups based on the rhyme scheme offered by the two teams. If they tripped the trigger of my inner artist, hell, I ran with it.

Welcome to the grand-daddy of Monday night shams/ Get ready and rowdy for the Seahawks and Rams!

Those lyrics just seemed to pour out of my pen when I gazed upon the pairings of week 14. Since ESPN kicked me off the team, though, y'all are doomed to watch two rosters of human garbage struggle to kick more field-goals than their equally chump-plagued opponents, and your rowdy friend here won't even be on TV beforehand to give those eardrums a sonic shot of Jim Beam. What a pity.

We got Hank, and Harvard boy, and a gun...We're gonna get it kick-started!

Oh, yeah. No more kowtowin' to those pinhead announcers in my epic intro to Monday Night Football. No more “shout-outs,” as the urban street-toughs call it. No one can stop me from yappin' to y'all 'bout the time I walked in on Ron Jaworski diddlin' himself in the film room as he ogled that fella Rodgers pickin' apart the Steelers' defense in the Super Bowl. Heh, heh. As such, my new single, “Starin' at Aaron” will be released on the I-Tunes doodad later this month.

Don't wander far from your computer in the following weeks, Hankamaniacs, 'cause Bocephus here will be keepin' y'all abreast of a crap-ton of dirt on Hussein Obama and ESPN, as well as Bill Clinton's covert plans to install the frozen-brains of deceased Kennedys into massive, steel constructs known as “Liberalbots.”

And bare this in mind, y'all, if you report me to the authorities, so help me God, the terrorists win.

Two Orphans

2011-11-15T00:19:00.001-08:00

A line from one of my favorite episodes of The Simpsons goes like this: “A town with money is a lot like a mule with a spinning wheel; no one knows how he got it, and danged if he knows how to use it.” A slick charlatan voiced by Phil (R.I.P) Hartman says it to commence his appeal to the people of Springfield; Lanley beseeches the residents to construct a monorail in their town. The same cryptic simile applies to those who write song-lyrics without a shred of musical talent. I might as well be Lyle Lanley, the shady monorail magnate, and consider my friends who play instruments (gullible?) Springfieldianites.

I haven't had much luck getting notes and chords and beats to accompany “The New Twist and Shout” and “Nation of Two.” My hunch is that, if the ensuing verses and choruses were to be fully realized as real sonic entities, the results would be less disastrous than the fate of Springfield's monorail...but hell, you know me. It's quite a chore to clear out a path of objective reason for someone so shamelessly lost in the dense thickets of his own rather biased imagination.

An English professor whom I will always admire once told our class to please—please, she reiterated—avoid rhyme schemes when writing poetry, lest our work be reduced to outdated gimmickry sure to induce groans from the pros. Fair enough, Pam. These are not poems that I am posting. Rather, they are musical orphans.

1. (Esoteric guidelines I jotted down: The percussive, weirdly exotic pulse and rap-like flow of Beck's “Elevator Music” meets the critique of a modernly superficial couple found in the words to “Italian Leather Sofa” by Cake. The first few lines were written during my only visit to New York, after my friends and I trekked to Times Square, where I witnessed some chic and shady teenagers oozing sleaze inside of the Hard Rock Café.)

“The New Twist and Shout”

Verse:

Whippin' out the plastic at the tourist stop
Put your wedding dress on 'cause it's time to shop
Life is a breeze and the cafés be rockin' harder
She demands half-off 'cause she's somebody's daughter

Memoirs that read like a letter to Penthouse
With money to spend as a bribe for your doubts
Dialog exchange from a smut-pic pen
Put the fake love on pause and get busy again

Chorus:

The newest low diggin' a hole
You're losing points for too much soul
Islands lost to Lord of the Flies
Sinking feelings are on the rise

Verse:

Spin the bottle 'round just like you did as a kid
And go in for the kiss with every new bid
I-phones and hormones, that's what it's all about
'Cause bump and grind is the new twist and shout

(repeat?)

2. (Behind the music that doesn't yet exist: In my mind, it sounds a bit like a track from the first Strokes album-- “The Modern Age”--but that probably means nothing. During a 2/3-month span a while back, I read a few books that deal with Armageddon in some capacity. The Road, The Mist, Cat's Cradle. Call it a morbid fixation if fiction based on a cataclysmic loss of human life fails to trip your trigger. Pouring over these tales of devastation somehow led to a comical spin on the premise of near-extinction. I wrote “Everybody be Cool and Listen Up” accordingly. Months after that, I watched Zombieland, and it struck me that there should be more post-apocalyptic love songs in this world. Sadism confirmed? No, no. Let me spin it this way: It's simply vital to seek laughs and romance no matter what.)

“Nation of Two” *

Verse:

No more excuses and just one need
No broken heart, it's just atrophied
I got the urge if you got the fuss
Divide the pain for the both of us
Fearful hearts know 'bout Revelations
The End of Days, pressing stimulations

Chorus:

This ain't no time to be alone
There's locusts and they're swarming in droves
This ain't no time to be apart
There's vampires loose, so aim for the heart
This ain't no time for loneliness
Just hold my hand, don't get so stressed

Verse:

Feel so alive among the undead
Between the eyes, pump 'em full of lead
You ran 'em down but you wrecked my car
Hell, 15 miles can't be that far
It's time to walk without heed to blisters
Nation of two in the nuclear winter

Chorus

Coda:

Nude in a hot-tub, in the bunker
We don't fret much about this latest blunder

*The title is taken from Kurt Vonnegut's novel Mother Night. The main character is a German playwright. William Campbell Jr. (that's his name, mind you) gains clout as a Nazi propagandist while revealing, in code, the Third Reich's secrets and battle-plans to the Allied army in his broadcasts on the radio. Campbell Jr. loathes patriotism and prefers political dispassion, but he consents to the requests of an American spy in tired recognition of that cliché about choosing Evil #Eins over Evil #Zwei. “Nation of Two” is the title of his sprawling ode to his wife; it's a sporadically excerpted book within the book that tends to expound on the couple's heavenly sex-life. Great read.

The Simpsons Script 3

2011-11-10T21:32:00.001-08:00

ACT THREE

FADE IN:

EXT. PHONE BOOTH

The conversation resumes. Homer concludes his appeal to Krusty.

HOMER: So, how 'bout it, Krusty? I need this date real bad.

INT. KRUSTY'S MANSION

The harlequin pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head.

KRUSTY: Look, pal. Tinsel-town broads ain't all they're cracked up to be. Aside from their pretty faces, gaudy mansions, irresistible perfumes, flawless figures, supple curves, (GETTING AMOROUS) velvet panties as smooth as scotch-on-the-rocks...

He convulses out of his lusty stupor and regains his intent.

KRUSTY (CONT'D): OK, let me put it this way: last night you said that you and the old ball-and-chain had something special. Do you really want to risk that just to boost your lousy lifetime total with dames?

EXT. PHONE BOOTH

Homer: What? No, I'd never cheat on Marge. I just want to stage a mock date with some big-shot strangers so I can put the guy who deflowered my wife in his place. Is that so hard to understand?

INT. KRUSTY'S MANSION

A consternated Krusty lunges forward on his seat.

KRUSTY: Yes—I barely know you! Forget it, tubs. I'm not doing it.

EXT. PHONE BOOTH

With determined ire, Homer points a finger at the phone-receiver as he retaliates.

HOMER: Oh, yes you are! Otherwise, the tabloids are going to hear about your “weird close call with David Bowie.”

INT. KRUSTY'S MANSION

Embarrassed, blackmailed and well-aware of it, KRUSTY slaps his palm against his forehead.

KRUSTY: Aw, come on—don't let that haunt me! It was a hazy night; let's just say I had way too much of the Ziggy Stardust.

EXT. PHONE BOOTH

Homer's eyes narrow like that of a hunter one trigger-squeeze away from the kill.

HOMER: Are you going to do it or not?

INT. KRUSTY'S MANSION

Waylaid by treachery, Krusty's bones seem to turn to jelly as he slouches deep into his expensive couch.

KRUSTY: All right. Fine. I'm trying to squirm out of a prior engagement, anyway.

HOMER: (OVER THE PHONE) Woo-hoo!

Krusty slams the receiver back onto its perch.

KRUSTY: Ah...”woo-hoo” yourself, ya yutz.

With embattled resolve, he picks up the phone and dials.

KRUSTY: (CONT'D) Hey, hey. It's Krusty. Now, I know the show starts in a few hours, but I gotta cancel, all right? (BEAT TO LISTEN) Aw, lighten up, will ya? I got someone to cover for me.

INT. SOLD-OUT ARENA – EVENING

With frenetic splendor, spotlights scroll across an expansive stage. A thunderous and captivating drum-roll cues.

ANNOUNCER: (O.S.) Live from Radio City Music Hall, it's the Tony Awards! And now, tonight's host: Kruuussstttyyy the Klooowwwnnn...'s obscure sidekick, Sideshow Mel!

The distinguished look of Mel's tuxedo is offset by the bone protruding through his hairdo. The crowd grovels haughtily at the sight of him.

SIDESHOW MEL: Friends, Romans, and countrymen, I wish to regale you with a one-man rendition of the entire third act from Shakespeare's Othello.

INSERT:

OFF-STAGE

The show's DIRECTOR eyes a nearby STAGEHAND and swipes his hand across his neck in a cutting gesture. The stagehand nods and grabs a bucket labeled “Weasel Guts.”

INT. SIMPSONS' BEDROOM

Hours after his foray to Stu's Disco and the Casa Nova, Homer stands and fidgets in front of the dresser-mirror, adjusting his tie without poise or precision.

MARGE: Hi, Homey.

HOMER: Marge.

MARGE: (BEAT) Are you still upset?

HOMER: (WOODEN) I'll feel better about the whole thing soon.

Marge advances with a mix of hesitance and love. She wraps her arms around Homer's robust waist and forces affection.

MARGE: Where are you going dressed up looking so handsome?

HOMER: Uh, I'll be heading out with the guys to a...seedy gentleman's club—er, to protest the...objectionizing of...you know, female sex objects.

MARGE: (WARY) Ah-ha. Well. Are you sure you don't want to stay in tonight? I rented your favorite movie, The Apes of Wrath. And afterward, I could blare some Grand Funk so the kids won't hear us--

HOMER: (FLUSTERED) Eh, I gotta go.

He shuffles past his wife and ignobly exits the room.

CLOSE-UP

MARGE: (SIGHS RESIGNEDLY) Goodbye, Homer.

EXT. PLANET HYPE PARKING LOT

Beneath a behemoth sign, the slogan of the restaurant reads: “Where the food is as expensive as the memorabilia!” Homer parks his car and walks toward the entrance. He spots a nerve-addled Krusty puffing on a cigarette beside his Bentley.

HOMER: Hey, Krusty. Thanks for doing this for me.

KRUSTY: Sure. And all it took was the threat of public disgrace and a derailed career. That's what friends are for, I guess. Anyway, I'll level with you: my networking skills ain't what they used to be. A lot of the famous broads in the old Rolodex are either too uppity all of a sudden or married to Kurt Russell.

HOMER: So, what exactly are you saying?

The entrance to the restaurant swings open and two classless, haggard bimbos—D'arcy and Chandra—stagger outside.

CHANDRA: Krusty, what gives? We've already purged our salads and we'd like to have some dinner tonight!

KRUSTY: (MUSTERING TACT) Ladies, I'd like you to meet my dear friend Honus.

HOMER: Homer.

KRUSTY: If you say so, guy. Now, say hello to Chandra and D'arcy. They'll be our dates tonight, barring a well-timed fire alarm or apocalypse. We'll be inside in a second, babe.

CHANDRA: All right. (TO D'ARCY) Come on, let's go schmooze with Keanu Reeves some more.

KRUSTY: Aw, for the last time, that's just a freakin' wax sculpture!

Oblivious, the two women reenter the restaurant. Krusty viciously snares Homer by the necktie.

KRUSTY: I got dibs on the one with fewer cold sores!

Homer nods cowardly.

INT. PLANET HYPE

Chandra and D'arcy linger in front of what appears to be a replica of Neo from The Matrix. Feigning a thoughtless mishap, D'arcy drops her purse.

D'ARCY: Oops. Clumsy me. I dropped my purse again.

She bends over to pick it up and brandishes her backside to the motionless figure.

Homer and Krusty enter the lobby.

KRUSTY: All right. Let's get a stinkin' table already.

As Homer drudges past the (apparent) sculpture, on accident, he steps stomps on its leather shoes. The figure flinches with a jolt of pain.

KEANU: Ouch! Watch where you're stepping, dude.

Krusty walks by and quips.

KRUSTY: Well, I'll be damned.

Keanu Reeves resumes his stoic pose and the quartet moves off-screen.

INT. PLANET HYPE – A SHORT TIME LATER

The unlikely quartet sit at a table. D'arcy and Chandra fawn and lean longingly toward Krusty as they ignore Homer.

CHANDRA: So, Krusty, can you still get me that guest spot on Mr. Belvedere that you promised a while ago?

KRUSTY: Uh...maybe I could pull some strings. (EAGER TO CHANGE THE SUBJECT) Hey ladies, did you know my buddy Homer over here once supplied the voice of some talking dog on Itchy & Scratchy? Not too shabby, eh?

Nonplussed, D'arcy and Chandra gaze at Homer; he forces a wide grin and meekly offers two turned-up thumbs.

D'ARCY: Voice actor on a cartoon? Oh, my dear—how low can one go? Could be worse, I guess; you could be one of the writers.

Following a terse shudder, she cackles along with Chandra. Homer hangs his head as Disco Stu struts up to their table.

STU: How may Disco Stu serve you?

HOMER: (REVIVED) Well, if it isn't the waiter—the humble servant who scrapes by on minimum wage in a field dominated by women. I'm Homer Simpson, the swinging husband of a blue-haired woman named Marge that you may or may not know. Say bonjour to my acquaintances, D'arcy and Chandra, and mind you, they're actresses.

With tentative vigor, Homer throws his arm around D'arcy. She promptly rebuffs his gesture.

STU: Actresses, eh? That's nice. What have I seen you in?

CHANDRA: Benny Hill chased me around a tree back in '79.

D'ARCY: I made an appearance on Cops just last week.

Stu points to D'arcy, cocking his head in recognition.

STU: Meth bust, right?

D'ARCY: You know it!

STU: Out of sight. Hey, that cop had no right to search you like that, doll-face. And if you don't mind me sayin', you looked pretty chic in that grass-stained tank-top.

D'ARCY: Well, aren't you a sweetheart? Handsome, too. I wish all men your age had thick hair like you.

Reeling from this passive-aggressive jab, Homer leaks sweat and fidgets.

HOMER: Um, anyway, you might also recognize a dear friend of mine—none other than Krusty the Klown.

STU: (TUNED OUT) Yeah, yeah. I hate kids and all that is marketed to them.

KRUSTY: I respect that.

STU: Now, would you care to order first, babe?

D'ARCY: I'll have three low-carb croûtons and a pitcher of vodka screwdriver.

STU: Ah, the “Lindsay Lohan.” Excellent choice.

CHANDRA: The same for me.

STU: OK. (TO MEN) And I'll be back for your orders after my smoke break.

As Stu strolls away, D'arcy slaps him on the butt.

INT. PLANET HYPE – LATER

The burned-out starlets are hammered and giggling for no apparent reason. Homer is atypically sober and long detached from human interaction.

CHANDRA: Krusty, you wanna know what I think? 'Cause I'm gonna tell ya. I think we should do this again sometime. How about next Friday?

KRUSTY: Ooh. Next Friday's no good. That's the—uh--Jewish holiday of Rokmoklahavven. Can't do it. (TO HOMER) Hey, tubs, you up for dessert?

With the posture of a dejected primate, Homer stands up.

HOMER: No, that's all right. I think I'll just leave. I lost my appetite, anyway.

On his way to the exit, though, he pilfers some spare ribs off of a deserted plate and starts to nibble on them gloomily.

D'ARCY: Hey, what ever happened to that cute waiter?

With that, she leaves the table. A moment later, Chandra follows suit. Krusty looks around at the vacated table in a vacated restaurant and takes a long swig from his drink.

KRUSTY: (EMOTIONLESS) Alone at last.

EXT. PLANET HYPE PARKING LOT – MOMENTS LATER

With sunken eyes gazing down on his leather shoes, Homer flings the meatless ribs over his shoulder.

CHANDRA: Big Kojak! Wait a second.

HOMER: What do you want?

CHANDRA: (BEAT) Someplace new to have the bed-spins tonight.

Before he can ward her off, Homer is ambushed by a desperate embrace. He struggles away from her.

HOMER: Get away from me, you floozy!

CHANDRA: Floozy?! Hey, you're the one who wanted this date, fatty.

HOMER: I only wanted this date so that I could humiliate that jerk-of-waiter the way he humiliated me. But I just made a fool of myself. I could be home having sex with my loving wife—it'd be lucky number 3,407. Or at least I could be watching The Apes of Wrath for the tenth time, but nooo, instead I'm here, telling you to get lost.

Upon completion of his rant, Homer notices that Chandra has nodded off—still standing, remarkably.

Homer presses on a few more paces back to his car. He gets inside.

INT. HOMER'S CAR

CLOSE-UP ON HOMER

MARGE: (O.S.) I couldn't have said it better myself.

Mortified, Homer whirls around to see his wife sitting in the backseat.

HOMER: (FLUSTERED) Marge! What are you doing here? Oh God, I can explain--

MARGE: (ANGRY) I think you just did--to your tipsy friend out there. I know how jealous you get about certain things, Homer, so I tailed you on your little stalking escapade. This one of the most petty, conniving, despicable--

HOMER: Whatever word you're going to say next, I'm sure I deserve it, but I swear on our children that I never wanted to lay a finger on that woman. Marge, I can't believe you slept with that guy; it seems so wrong, and now I don't know if things can ever be the same again between you and me.

MARGE: (SIGHS DEEPLY) Homer, when I first met that man—that boy—he was popular and hip--and I was naive. He worked his charm and I made a mistake and then he broke my heart. You remember senior prom the next year? I went with that weasel Artie Ziff, and when he turned out to be just like Stu, I spent a short time convinced that I'd never find a man who respected me. I was wrong, of course. On the ride home that night, I picked up a man who sees me as the only one worth counting. And that makes a girl feel special.

The two share a tender smile.

MARGE: (CONT'D) So, even though Stu was the first, he certainly wasn't the best.

HOMER: (ABRUPT) Woo-hoo! You mean I'm bigger than he was?

MARGE: (IRKED BUT MANAGING) Homer...yes. Without a doubt. But that's not at all what this whole saga is about.

HOMER: (EYES DARTING, DISINGENUOUS) No...of course not...(BEAT) Anyway, I've had enough crazy bull-crap for one day. Let's go home, sweetie.

Marge leans in and bats her eyelashes seductively.

MARGE: Well, that's an idea, but you know, even though high school was lonely for you, you're never too old to have some fun in the backseat of a car.

Delighted by the invite, Homer crawls to Marge. As wriggles his duff between the front seats.

HOMER: (HUNGRILY) Mmmmm...Number three-thousand, four-hundred and seven...

EXT. PLANET HYPE PARKING LOT

The perspective shifts to the far end of the lot, where Disco Stu is spying on Mr. And Mrs. Simpson through a pair of binoculars. The eyepieces are bordered by pink, glittering stars reminiscent of Elton John's sunglasses. A single tear plummets down the cheek of Disco Stu.

STU: Disco Stu never knew love could be so sweet.

D'ARCY pops her head up from his lap and leers out the front windshield.

D'ARCY: What could be so sweet?

All traces of romance and decency vanish and Disco Stu reverts to his true self.

STU: No use trying to buckle me in/ 'Cause Disco Stu is ready to sin.

FADE OUT.

THE END.

The Simpsons Script 2 and a Half

2011-11-06T20:23:00.000-08:00

ACT TWO (CONT'D)

INT. HOMER'S CAR – MOMENTS LATER

Homer strangles the steering wheel and grimaces; he is as anguished as a madman in a straight-jacket with a fly crawling on his face.

INSERT:

A thought balloon appears above his head.

He pictures teenage STU nuzzling up to teenage Marge. As homage to Freddy Mercury, Stu wears a gaudy leather ensemble that barely covers his nipples and shows his chest hair and belly-button.

STU: Baby, my love is true/ So don't look for someone new/ 'Cause the only one for you/ Is your man Glam-Rock Stu.

Won over and smitten, Marge smooches him on the lips and then tends tenderly to Stu's neck. As she does so, he reaches behind her and grins at the notepad in his hand. The opened page is titled, “Words that Rhyme with Stu.” Several fitting words have been scribbled beneath the heading.

STU: (TO SELF) Heh, heh. Never fails.

Homer's thought bubble goes poof. He bashes the steering wheel and exerts a primal and furious growl.

EXT. STU'S DISCO PARKING LOT- MOMENTS LATER

Homer's sedan screeches to a halt across two parking spots.

INT. STU'S DISCO

The club is vacant except for a MUSTACHED MAN who sweeps the dance floor, which is littered with confetti, long spoons, and rolled-up dollar bills. Homer barges through the entrance.

MUSTACHED MAN: (CHARLES BRONSON VOICE) Hey, not so fast, KC and the Stout-Sized Waist Band. The place don't open 'til five.

HOMER: Can the insulting disco-puns, wise guy. I need to speak to the manager.

MOUSTACHED MAN: Well, you just did, paly-boy. Will that be all then?

HOMER: What are you talking about? Where's Disco Stu?

MOUSTACHED MAN: Ooh. Well, Stu made some shoddy investments. He financed a Monkey Dancing League that went bankrupt in two weeks. He was up to his sunglasses in debt, so he sold me this dump for ten-grand and a Carl Douglas Greatest Hits album. “Kung Fu Fighting” is the only song on the entire friggin' record, but still, that was the deal-breaker.

HOMER: Well, why is this place still called Stu's Disco? Why not name it after yourself?

MOUSTACHED MAN: (DEADPAN) Hey, swell idea. “Adolf's Disco.” It's got a nice ring to it. (BEAT) Look, if you really want to track him down, he's got an apartment at the Casa Nova.

HOMER: (WOODEN) Thanks.

MOUSTACHED MAN: (CALLING) And tell him those monkeys in the basement aren't gonna drive themselves to rehab, will ya?!

EXT. CASA NOVA APT. COMPLEX PARKING LOT – LATER

Stu's rusted jalopy approaches a parking spot. Its muffler drags on the cement. He is (fittinlgy) grooving to disco music. The tunes cease as he transfers the cassette from the tape deck to a boom-box on the passenger's seat, and then the tunes resume. Clad in the uniform of a Planet Hype waiter, Stu exits his car and boogies all the way to the entrance with the boom-box perched on his shoulder.

From the shrubbed fringes of the lot, Homer spreads apart two bushes to reveal his obsessive stare.

He prowls along the side of the building. He gazes at the rickety porches of the dwellings on the second floor and sneaks past three dumpsters of increasing size. They're labeled: “Recyclables,” “Trash,” and “Outdated Porn.” Homer closes the lid on this third dumpster and uses it as a platform to aid his strenuous climb up to Stu's porch.

INSERT:

From inside the dumpster, Moe thrusts open the lid and shakes an angry fist at Homer.

MOE: Hey, I'm scroungin' down here! Do ya mind?

INT. STU'S APT.

Stu's place is squalid and dimly lit. Homer can be seen through the sliding glass doors, peering discreetly. The front door opens and Stu steps in. Still abuzz with swagger, he limberly does the splits and flips on the light switch as he springs back to his feet. He then slams the door shut at the halfway point of a 360-degree spin-move.

Once the door is closed, however, his posture sags and he thumb-punches the STOP button. Suddenly silent and haggard, he looks down gloomily.

EXT. STU'S PORCH

Squatting like a catcher expectanting an outside pitch, Homer grovels, beset by envy and delusions.

HOMER: Stupid egomaniac can't tear his eyes away from his faaaancy leather shoes.

INT. STU'S APT.

STU: Disco Stu needs a Hot Pocket and a cologne bath.

He mopes into the kitchen, snags a Hot Pocket from the barren freezer, and opens the door of the microwave. He yanks out the dirty laundry stored inside and tosses the heap onto the carpet.

EXT. STU'S PORCH

HOMER: (AWED) Great dancer, renowned lover, and gourmet chef?

INT. STU'S APT.

As the microwave hums, Stu plops down on a lawn chair in the living room. Remote in hand, he flips on the TV.

KENT BROCKMAN: (O.S.) Tonight on Smartline, the collapse of the Monkey Dancing League has led to an outbreak of drug addiction in Springfield's once-proud primate community. Channel 6 anchor Scott Christian is live outside of Stu's Disco with more on the story...

Stu turns off the TV and buries his careworn face in his hands.

STU: Oh...Stayin' Alive just ain't what it used to be...

Someone knocks urgently at his door.

STU: (HUSHED) Crap! That's either the landlord or the cops.

The microwave beeps and Stu—overcome with panic—hushes it from afar. He grabs a pillow case strewn on the carpet and starts to shovel records and discarded clothes (a rhinestone codpiece included) inside it. He rushes over to the microwave and snares his Hot Pocket before escaping toward the porch, where Homer slinks anxiously out of view. Stu is halted in his tracks by a resounding call from the hallway. It's KIRK VAN HOUTEN.

KIRK: (O.S.) Hey, it's me—uh, Kirk! Are you in there, Stu?

His composure regained, Stu sighs and backtracks toward the door. He opens it.

STU: That's Disco Stu to you.

KIRK: Sorry. Listen, could you be a pal and work my shift at Planet Hype tonight?

Stu reaches into the pillow case, extracts the steaming Hot Pocket, and boldly munches on it.

STU: Among other things, working a double shift is beneath Disco Stu.

KIRK: Aw, come on. Milhouse is in the hospital with third-degree Indian burns on his forearm. (BEAT) Look, if you don't cover my tables tonight, I'll tell the boss you're the one who stole the Travolta codpiece from his wax statue.

Stu's shades droop to reveal eyes that dart fretfully like a trapped animal. He adjusts his sunglasses, lets out a timid cough, and conceals the pillow case with the codpiece stuffed inside behind his back.

STU: That codpiece could be anywhere but inside my pillow case. (SIGHS) Fair enough. You've found my one weakness: kleptomania coupled with compulsive lying and a lousy work ethic--plus I have a drug problem. You leave me no choice but to say yes, Kirk.

KIRK: Call me Mr. Van Houten!

STU: (FEEBLE) Yes, Mr. Van Houten.

KIRK: (GASPS) My God! That actually worked? What a breakthrough for my manhood...

Disgusted by both Kirk and himself, Stu slams the door shut at the culmination of a terse and bitter tantrum.

EXT. STU'S PORCH

His eyes aglow with shifty mischief, Homer strokes his five o'clock shadow.

HOMER: So...Disco Stooge will be waiting tables at a high-class restaurant, eh? This give me an idea. Heh, heh.

He begins his descent from the perch of the second floor porch.

Beneath Homer's dangling legs, Moe hasn't gone anywhere; he gapes lewdly at a dirty magazine inside the dumpster.

MOE: Ho, ho, the mother-load! Probably 18 magazine. I can't believe they still print this. Oh, somebody up there likes me.

Unwittingly, Homer's foot kicks the upraised lid of the dumpster. The lid teeters and crashes down with great force on Moe's head. Homer lands safely on the platform, oblivious to his bartender's likely concussion.

EXT. NEARBY PHONE BOOTH – A BIT LATER

Homer studies the digits scrawled on the napkin he took home last night. He dials the number of Krusty the Klown.

INT. KRUSTY'S MANSION – CONTINUOUS

Draped in a bathrobe as he lounges on an extravagant couch, Krusty sips on a highball glass. He's watching TV but doesn't seem like he's enjoying it.

KRUSTY: Buy a vowel, you moron!

GAME SHOW HOST: (O.S.) Survey says?

A buzzer razzes on TV to indicate a wrong answer.

KRUSTY: Ah, the poor schmucks just don't want to listen...

The nearby phone rings and Krusty answers it.

EXT. PHONE BOOTH

Atwitter with doubts, Homer's fingers coil and twist the cord connected to the receiver.

HOMER: Um, Krusty? Hi. This is Homer. Homer Simpson. I got your number from a bar last night? Remember that?

KRUSTY: Yeah, I guess so...the fat, chrome-domed sex-o-phobe, right?

EXT. PHONE BOOTH

Homer's shoulders go slack with relief.

HOMER: (FLATTERED) Aw...you do remember. Listen, I need a favor. A double date. You, me, and two of the glitziest, prettiest, fake-chestiest women you can find.

An operatic dirge of grim foreshadowing plays.

FADE OUT

END OF ACT TWO

The Simpsons Script 2

2011-11-01T16:13:00.000-07:00

Pretty soon here I'll be presenting the second installment of a TV script I wrote in college. Consult the title above if you're unsure of which show it was. Read the words below as long as you're not likely to cuss me out for misplacing (or losing?) the pages (or floppy disk?) that includes the latter half of the episode I conceived when I was 21. If you're the optimistic type, know that I'm pretty obsessive about saving all my creative crap, and so another tortuous round of digging through desk drawers just might yield the missing pieces. If you're a skeptic, however, allow me to contritely express the following PSA.

Don't smoke too much pot, kids!

http://www.google.com/imgres?q=nbc+the+more+you+know&hl=en&biw=793&bih=371&gbv=2&tbm=isch&tbnid=zfDQT3yrKuJK9M:&imgrefurl=http://talkingforfree.blogspot.com/2009_12_01_archive.html&docid=KQCucCPSp7kCGM&imgurl=http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_b6BdWeoHPfg/SxUXTXF6asI/AAAAAAAAAec/r9am0WzNbgI/s1600/040538845-nbc_the_more_you_know-783079.jpg&w=342&h=211&ei=j36wTtfyAsnVqgH0ooyvBQ&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=441&vpy=66&dur=70&hovh=168&hovw=273&tx=142&ty=160&sig=100310308426680881947&page=1&tbnh=72&tbnw=117&start=0&ndsp=10&ved=1t:429,r:3,s:0

ACT TWO

FADE IN:

EXT. SIMPSONS' HOUSE – MORNING

INT. BEDROOM

Homer is still passed out on the carpet with his pants around his ankles. He drools and fidgets, in the throes of a bad dream.

HOMER'S DREAM

Hundreds of TEENAGERS in bell-bottoms are gathered at a fair. A banner by the entrance reads “Class of '74 Carnival.” The viewpoint PANS past a Ferris wheel and a dunk tank to focus on the entrance of a funhouse, where JOHN TRAVOLTA pleads with OLIVIA NEWTON JOHN. Their attire matches what they wore in the climax of Grease.

TRAVOLTA: Aw, jeez! What do I gotta do to prove I'm crazy about you? Should I improvise a song and dance routine?

INT. BEDROOM

In response to the question posed in his dream, Homer winces and shakes his head.

HOMER: (MOANS) Nooooooo...

HOMER'S DREAM

A lone dark cloud appears in the sky above Travolta. The cloud unleashes a bolt of lightning, incinerates him, and then vanishes.

INT. BEDROOM

Sleeping Homer smiles with relief.

HOMER'S DREAM

Beside the funhouse, TEENAGE Homer stands next in line for a booth marked “KISSES: ONE DOLLAR.” A PRETTY GIRL poses behind the counter.

TEENAGE HOMER: (TO SELF) Oh baby, this is going to be the best dollar I ever spent.

Repulsed by the sight of Homer, the pretty girl hangs a sign that reads “Closed for Repairs.” She rummages through her purse for makeup and a hand-mirror and then slowly applies lipstick. Homer is dejected.

TEENAGE HOMER: (HANGS HEAD) Oh...

He walks away.

The viewpoint PANS to a nearby booth marked “Premarital Sex: Fifty Cents.” Clad in a skimpy skirt, TEENAGE MARGE poses behind the counter. At the front of the very long line, TEENAGE LENNY digs into his pockets.

TEENAGE LENNY: Aw, nuts. All I got is a quarter.

TEENAGE MARGE: Eh. No biggie. I'll just start you a tab.

She grabs Lenny's hand and ushers him into a rickety and unromantic shack.

INT. BEDROOM

Homer returns to consciousness in a wild and terrified fit. Sticky with sweat, he clutches the two hairs atop his head.

HOMER: (BLOOD-CURDLING SCREAM)

INT. SIMPSONS' KITCHEN – MOMENTS LATER

Marge tends to dishes in the sink, her sullen eyes fixed on a plate she scrubs with numb repetitions. Homer barges up to her, berating and pleading.

HOMER: How could you, Marge?

MARGE: Homer—

HOMER: Homer nothing! We've been married since Lisa was a bun in your oven...

MARGE: Actually, I was pregnant with Bart.

HOMER: Don't interrupt me when I'm too mad to fuss over details! All these years, you've lied to me.

MARGE: Lied to you? You never asked!

HOMER: Yeah? Well, I've never asked my dad if he loves me, but that doesn't mean I'm not dying to know.

Having overheard, GRAMPA enters the kitchen, feeling sentimental.

GRAMPA: Son, of course I--

HOMER: Put a sock in it, old man.

GRAMPA: (CHIPPER) Well, that's a load off. See you at Thanksgiving.

He leaves.

HOMER: Who was he? Who was your first?

MARGE: Oh, Homey, it was so long ago. What does it matter?

HOMER: It matter because the only pure thing in my life has been dragged through the mud.

MARGE: Dragged through the-- (beat) I'm the exact same person--

HOMER: It matters because I can't stand the thought of another man's hands running through your puffy blue hair.

MARGE: (EMBARASSED) Homer, please. Don't be so vulgar. And after all, it was the '70s.

Homer slaps his forehead and points to the tall perm atop Marge's head.

HOMER: I meant that hair!

Having sunk to a new horror of embarrassment, Marge peers at the kitchen tiles.

MARGE: (beat) Oh.

HOMER: Who was he?

MARGE: (SIGHS) I met him when we were juniors in high school, before I even knew you existed. He was kind of a fanatic about Elton John and Queen, so he dubbed himself “Glam-Rock Stu.”

HOMER: (SKEPTICAL) “Glam-Rock Stu?”

MARGE: Right. Only, ever since he got caught up in the Saturday Night Fever fever, he changed the first part to “Disco.”

HOMER: So you had sex with a guy named “Disco Glam-Rock”? What the hell kind of a name is that?

MARGE: No, no. You've got first part/ last part confusion. See, when the second type of music became more popular than the first type...

HOMER: Aw, would you please just tell me the guy's name, Marge?

MARGE: Disco Stu! That's what he calls himself now. The sleazy weirdo with the dead fish in his platform shoes! I slept with him. He tricked me into loving him and I've never stopped regretting it. There. Are you happy now?!

HOMER: (SINISTER) Delighted.

He storms out of the room, past his children. Seated at the kitchen table, Maggie is glum and Lisa is aghast, but Bart finishes the last of his orange juice and sets the glass down, reposed and detached.

BART: (BELCHES) Mom. Refill!

NEXT SCENE(s)...Overcome with jealousy, Homer tracks down Disco Stu-- whom, I seem to recall, waits tables at Planet Hype and lives at the same apartment complex as Milhouse's dad. Krusty returns to the storyline. Homer blackmails him into his scheme of vengeance that blunders but leads to catharsis.

Let the search resume. Sigh.

NICK: Such a pain in the ass, this writing business.

Founder of "Wiccapedia" Burned at the Stakes

2011-10-24T19:41:00.000-07:00

This phony news story was written for the Halloween issue of the Advance-Titan in 2006. The main reason why I'm posting it (five years later) is because it seems like a timely and faintly relevant piece to read in late October.

Since its formal inception in 2001, Wikipedia has risen to prominence as one of the most visited sites on the internet. Wikipedia serves as a vast electronic encyclopedia, providing users with information on everything from Abolitionism to ZZ Top.

The site has been subjected to criticism, however, due to its tendency to post faulty information from dubious sources. Most recently, the town of Salem, Massachusetts, has targeted Wikipedia-founder Jimmy Wales and charged him with affiliation to the pagan religion of Wicca.

Dressed in a puritanical black and white suit, Salem mayor William Goodyfellow spoke gravely of the website and its creator.

"Methinks this 'Wiccapedia' temptation that dwells inside the heathen's sin machine (computer) brings ignominy and damnation to its patrons. On behalf of the Almighty, I beseech all 'Wiccapedia' worshipers to repent!"

The controversy was ignited when a group of teenage girls was discovered by a concerned, torch-bearing mother deep in the woods which outskirt Salem. Under cover of a pup tent, the girls were found using a battery-powered laptop to explore Wikipedia entries. Although the youngsters weren't on the hunt for occult material-- but rather, searching for the astrological sign of Fez from That 70's Show-- the mother, Goody Miller, became hysterical when she learned the name of the website in question.

When Goody Miller relayed her account to the community, a town meeting was assembled at once. In a unanimous decision, it was agreed that Wikipedia creator Jimmy Wales must be kidnapped and put on trial as a "Witch-master." As a precautionary measure, attendees also concluded it was prudent to capture and drown Fez from That 70's Show-an aside barely worth noting.

Tightly fastened to a stake surrounded by a wide ring of hay, kindling, and computers, Wales spat the gag out of his mouth long enough to offer his testimony.

"Not since the kidnapping of Charles Augustus Lindbergh III on March 1, 1932, has an abduction been this noteworthy and shocking!" Wales assessed. "If somebody doesn't get a hold of my lawyer, I'll be engulfed in flames—much like the city of Chicago on October 8th of 1871."

The town of Salem has a brutal history of punishing those suspected of heresy without just cause or rationale. With righteous bluster, Mayor Goodfellow asserted that one cannot spell "Wikipedia" without the word "Wicca." When questioned about his error in rationale, the mayor's eyes became inflamed like the cinders that surround the lake of fire.

"Logic and reason be the traits of the Antichrist," said Goodyfellow. He then dusted off his hands, leaned back in his parlor chair, and grinned with immense self-satisfaction that bordered on the sin of pride.

The vindictive puritans relished the sight of the flames advancing toward a doomed and manacled Wales. His last words are chronicled below.

"You fools! I'm being persecuted on the basis of a thinly premised non sequitur—remotely reminiscent of the Seinfeld episode in which Kramer incurs the ire of The Van Buren Boys by inadvertently flashing their gang sign.

“Golly, I'm going to miss Seinfeld,” he added, ablaze and anguished. “It was so much funnier than That 70's Show...Pfft! What a shitty excuse for comedy.”

The Timecrowave Infomercial

2011-10-20T16:25:00.001-07:00

Gather 'round, both of you. Nick is poised to preface another script from his past that he rediscovered in a desk drawer.

I spent much of the summer of '09 in Chicago, enrolled in a class at the Second City and writing scripts for a nascent webisode series called The Furries. A reductive description is along the lines of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia meets Aqua Teen Hunger Force. The premise was that a sleazy, ruined banker named Brendan lost his job and wife in the wake of the previous year's economic crisis. Forced to his rent-out his once-lavish apartment in order to make ends meet, three creatures move in—a squirrel, a bunny, and a bear. It remained a mystery, by design, whether they were humans in costumes or anthropomorphic animals.

The Furries had their own names, traits, and quirks, of course, but for my first treatment, I opted to focus on Brendan. He struck me as an embittered and remorseful character who would like nothing more than to relive his past in order to rectify the poor decisions he made. In a comedy with fantastical, sci-fi leanings, the ideal storyline for him involved time travel, naturally.

The ongoing, morbid gag, however, was that Brendan was doomed, that he could never overcome his past transgressions and return to the cushy lifestyle he once knew. Minus the charming mystery and redeeming qualities, I thought of Brendan as a socialite with swagger like Jay Gatspy who devolved into a slovenly loser like Al Bundy; his fate wasn't the sparsely attended funeral of Gatspy but rather a life of continual failure—and that was that.

With themes of dystopian technology and cruel fatalism, I decided that he should purchase a faulty time-machine from a shyster named Handsome Randy Carp—a kind of devil in disguise who behaved, yammered, and dressed like a smooth-peddling radio magnate from the 1920s. It was a fun challenge to write lines befitting of a sinister shill who makes esoteric references in outdated language.

The script went over well, long before the project petered out (as far as I know). The creator of the show—an eccentric 40-ish man with penchants for compassion and grandeur—asked me to write an infomercial to tie in with the story—a mock-promotion for the helmet-like device that made voyages to the past possible, The Timecrowave.*

I said yes and here it is.

###

EXT. BACK ALLEY – DAY

FRED carries a large disposal bag marked “Dead Rats.” He is understandably nonplussed by this activity. A cigarette dangles between his lips. He spots another carcass, gingerly bends over to pick it up, and lets out a grave sigh.

FRED: These lousy rat carcasses are everywhere. And who does the city pay minimum wage to clean 'em up? Me, that's who. For God's sake, I've got a degree in Communications and now I'm doing this for a living.

From a second floor balcony, a RUDE MAN turns over a garbage can stuffed with dead rats. A few of them bounce off of Fred's head and then plop onto the concrete.

RUDE MAN: Hey, chatty Cathy, I got some more rat carcasses for ya. Next time try majoring in something more useful, like Philosophy.

Repulsed and demeaned, Fred buckles his knees to scoop the latest batch into his disposal bag. HANDSOME RANDY CARP enters the scene, pushing a wooden wagon with squeaking wheels. Its load is box-shaped and concealed by a black cloth.

HANDSOME RANDY: Does the plight of this poor sap ring true for you? Have you found yourself stuck in a joyless existence, as forlorn as Herr Hitler the day his Aryan race was bested at the Olympics by the noble savages of Africa? If so, old Handsome Randy Carp has the solution for you.

FRED: A bottle of rat poison?

HANDSOME RANDY: Rat poison? Nay, perk your spirits, Hemingway; nary a soul fancies the company of a quitter, as the popular saying goes. What I've got for you is a doodad that can transport you into the past where you can make all the sound decisions you blundered years ago. Why, you can transmogrify from beggar to tycoon, Tom Joad to Mr. J.D. Rockefeller, with this wondrous contraption: The Timecrowave!

With brash showmanship, he pulls off the sheet to reveal his invention.

FRED: Timecrowave? Sounds ingenious. But how does it work?

EXT. STEEP HILL – DAY – CONTINUOUS

At the hill's apex, Handsome Randy stands beside his latest customer.

HANDSOME RANDY: Simply place this doohickey atop that noggin of yours, crony. Then press any odd day and time you like—say...August second, twenty-naught-one, when you made that odious choice to pursue the Telegraphy racket at the university. Next, shut the door of the Timecrowave and clod-hop down this hill quicker than Willaim H. Harrison's stint in the White House.

Fred obliges, but not without expressing misgivings. With his head stuck inside a microwave with a hole in its bottom, his trembling voice sounds in a muffled echo.

FRED: Isn't that dangerous?

HANDSOME RANDY: Jelly-necked cowards seem to think so. But just as picture-show star Marty McFly's time-auto won't work unless it speeds four-score and eight miles an hour, the Timecrowave won't conduct its abracadabra without the declination and acceleration offered by hoofing it down a steep hill. Now, off you skedaddle, Zelda.

With that he shoves Fred, who maintains a frantic and barely upright gait for a few strides before toppling over and tumbling Timecrowave-over-heels several times. He barrel-rolls twice, bashes his knees and hips in rapid succession, and mercifully approaches flat land. On the brink of nausea, he treacherously regains his footing, walks a few steps with aim akin to that of a demagnetized compass, and then collapses with a thud onto the grass.

HANDSOME RANDY: Wait for it...

Seconds later, Fred is consumed in a cloud of ashy and polluted smoke. Once it dissipates, his body has vanished.

HANDSOME RANDY: But our chum Fred isn't the only chap who's gone from philistine to phenom thanks to the Timecrowave. Have a look-see at these gratified patrons.

EXT. LAKE MICHIGAN BEACH-FRONT – DAY

Flanked by two buxom, bikini-clad WOMEN, CHUCK revels in the sunshine with his hands placed on the back of both ladies. He's in a neck brace and his face is severely bruised.

CHUCK: I went back in time and spent the money my past-self paid for my fat kid's braces on three hours with these high-class hookers. Thanks, Timecrowave!

INT. CASINO – SPORTS BETTING ROOM

His legs encased in rigid casts, BUCK grins broadly. He fingers a pile of loose change in his right hand. He sports a Lebron James jersey.

BUCK: I went back in time to bet my life-savings on King James and the Heat to beat the Mavs in last year's NBA Finals!

A nearby BOOKIE frowns, approaches Buck, and whispers into his ear. Buck's eyes bulge with sudden horror. He fumes and curses.

BUCK: Aw, son-of-a-bitch! Really? But they looked so good after game one...

EXT. GOLF COURSE – DAY

Fred has returned to the present, enfeebled by his nasty tumble, paralyzed below the neck and bound to a wheelchair. He speaks with the aid of a voice modulator a la Stephen Hawking.

FRED: Seeing the error of my ways, I traveled back to 2001, forgot to warn everyone about 9/11, and got paralyzed in the process. Since then, the scientific community assumes I'm a genius because of my stoic disposition and monotone speech. My proposed discovery of Alf's true home planet has generated shock waves in the field of astronomy. I consume two gallons of delicious orange Tang everyday and have learned to play games of Tetris with my tongue. I owe all this fortune to the Time, Time, Time...

The word repeats like a note of music from a broken record. A NURSE enters the scene to rap the malfunctioning modulator with her fist. When that does the trick, she promptly scoots off-screen.

FRED: ...Crowave.

EXT. STEEP HILL – DAY

Handsome Randy Carp poses with moxie. He cradles his diabolical product.

HANDSOME RANDY: Much obliged for the kind words, invalids. Now that your peepers have feasted on the splendorous effects of the Timecrowave, what's to stop you from purchasing one, viewer? Get off that ample keyster of yours and dial Handsome Randy on your rotary phone. Call within the next hour and I'll guess your body weight—free of charge. Bid good riddance to the present and give salutations to a sunnier future with the Timecrowave.

FADE OUT:

* While Google-searching “Timecrowave” for the hell of it, I discovered that Saturday Night Live featured a sketch about a product with the same name. Confoundedly enough, this is the second time I have written a piece I thought was original only to learn later on that—whether before or after the fact—SNL has done it, too. The other one, “Listen Drooly, I'm Going to Sue,” was about a dopey man who pursues legal action against a dog because of the animal's bad behavior. (The dog bit him but the man deserved it). Hmmm...Coincidence or fishiness? For now, it just feels like yet another kick to the creative nuts, but let me know if you spot a Lonely Island version of “Coach, the Short Story.” Together, we can take Lorne Michaels to court.

Operation Fu/ Jam

2011-10-13T13:42:00.001-07:00

I hate to apologize for cracking jokes. Doing so leads to a vicious cycle of wicked temptation and guilt—and that is hardly a productive way to live. All these years after I wrote “Cubs Fan Wants to Waste Time Travel,” however, I'd like to amend a semi-serious swipe I took at Steve Bartman—the hapless, bespectacled bystander who became the scapegoat for the Chicago Cubs after he deflected a foul ball that the left-fielder nearly caught in game 6 of the '03 NLCS.

“Bartman deserves at least a dozen vengeance wedgies,” I wrote.

While somewhat funny, that statement is not at all true. It's hyperbole. In actuality, Bartman has suffered enough—and then some. He was simply a tailor-made target for writers; he became the source of twisted inspiration for goofy Cubs fans like me. In all sincerity, though, he should be forgiven and treated with immense kindness from now on. In fact, that is an understatement. We should ask him for forgiveness. On that spooky night at Wrigley Field, the fallout from Bartman's mistake was a revolting display of humanity.

When I defamed Bartman, the context of the essay was that I wanted to travel back in time to prevent him from swatting away that fateful ball that was aloft in foul ground. I cited his mishap as the absolute most vital happening in history that begs to be altered and rectified. I'm still fond of that one, but I'm no longer on-board with its premise. No. It occurs to me now that it would be petty to enact Quantum Leap redemption on something as frivolous as the outcome of a baseball game.

The time has come to let go of that senseless resentment.

The same cannot be stated, though, about Shaquille O'Neal's decision to license his name and likeness to Shaq Fu rather than the NBA Jam series for the Super Nintendo.

Let me explain.

As the number one overall pick in the 1992 draft, Shaquille O'Neal was drafted by the Orlando Magic. The dominant phenom quickly established himself as a premier big-man; he went on to win the Rookie of the Year award. Shaq was and remains charismatic, disarmingly goofy, and marketable, and so in no time he was fielding offers from the entertainment industry to cash in on the craze he generated. He appeared in commercials for Reebok. He starred in movies—once as a funky genie and another time as a black Robocop. He signed a record deal and dropped an album called Shaq Diesel.

And, oh yeah, circa '94, some lowlifes as Electronic Arts convinced him to fulfill the title role of one of the shittiest video games ever made.

Shaq Fu was in the one-on-one fighter genre; it was the kind of game in which the aim is to jump around a lot and punch and kick another guy until his life-meter runs out and he keels over. To my knowledge, most of the people who actually bought a copy of Shaq Fu jumped out of second-story windows upon completion of level 2. The game was maligned by everyone who bothered to care about it. All these years later, the offending cartridges dwell near the top of a steep mound of pop-culture junk.

NBA Jam, by contrast, will always be a masterpiece. The vid stripped round-ball down to a two-on-two contest—a marquee duet vs. a marquee duet. NBA Jam merged the simplistic setup and permissible violence of Nintendo’s Arch Rivals with the aerial acrobatics of a coked-up superhero. The result was an addictive frenzy of give-and-gos, glass-shattering dunks, three-balls, and brutal shoves that ranks as one of the most beloved sports titles to be found on 16-bit systems.

Now, I don't intend to express contempt for Shaq. He is one of my absolute favorite NBA legends. By the time I entered junior high school, I lost track of how many times I had cheered as I watched a beastly Shaq-dunk on Sportcenter. Over a decade later in college, I howled in a rowdy fit of joy when I saw him hoist the Larry O'Brien trophy alongside of Dwayne Wade. I never cared much for his movies or his music, but I never begrudged the man for putting some effort into something other than what he was obviously born to do—which has got to be abusing and belittling chumps in the low-post while winning scoring titles and championships.

Regrettably, Shaq's likeness never abused nor belittled chumps in the low-post in either NBA Jam title for the Super Nintendo. I have never let out a rowdy fit of joy after posterizing 16-bit Karl Malone on a tomahawk slam courtesy of 16-bit Shaq. NBA Jam and Shaq are both great, nevertheless, but they don't overlap. When he signed a contract to endorse Shaq Fu, litigious sticking points too nerdy to dwell on prevented him from appearing in the console-import of NBA Jam.

I don't despise Shaq for choosing money over merit; I'm just disappointed. Like Bartman, I just have this unwavering, dumb urge to talk some sense into him—from one mistake-prone human being to another.

Another reason why I chose to obsess over Shaq for two weeks and write about him is that we were both born on March 6th. Sometimes non-famous people feel a weird kinship for celebrities who share their birthdays. I don't take horoscopes seriously, but by contrast, I get a quirky kick out of the notion that some weirdo who moonlights as a palm-reader gives Shaq and me the exact same advice on a daily basis.

Every time I glance at the astrologically based counsel foretold for Shaq and me in the newspaper, I expect to read, “Use your veteran-savvy to counteract the youth and athleticism of Dwight Howard. Also, you should probably scale back on making references to The Simpsons.”

That never happens, though, and so I regard astrology as an absurd but endearing footnote tacked on to the long list of faulty ways to make sense of the world.

Anyway, I hate to see my March 6th cohorts fuck up so wretchedly. Those lazy scientists still have plenty of work to do, but if, someday, those brainy pillow-humpers finally fulfill their potential by inventing a time machine, I would lobby to go Quantum Leap on Shaq for his role in the Fu / Jam debacle. What follows is an account of what would happen if only those lousy geeks who call themselves scientists would quit jerking off and get down to business.

Enjoy? Enjoy.

At the culmination of an hour or so of research on Google and a week or two of stalking a video game developer with a creepy vice—as well as my main man Shaq—I'd determine the exact date and time that the Big Diesel entered the headquarters of Electronic Arts to ink the Godforsaken deal in question. A rough estimate of this date and time—to the clueless, hastily-guessing mind—is January 11th, 1994, at 9:15 a.m.

Before stepping inside of some sort of a dome-shaped, metal chamber with gamma rays and protons beams or some shit (just to give you a few ideas to build on, scientists), I'd have to visit a costume shop. Part of my master-plan involves dressing up like Luigi (Mario's brother). I'd buy a lighter and something that could harm people, too. I'll explain why later.

With a frenzied swirl of electrons, I materialize in a back alley of the Electronic Arts building—located in Redwood City, California. I straighten my tussled overalls and adjust my green cap before noticing a frumpy and astonished homeless man. Dumbstruck, he blinks at me repeatedly and then tosses his bottle of cheap whiskey in the air.

“I've had enough of this.”

I lunge and catch it before the glass shatters against the concrete.

“Are you crazy?” I scold. “There's plenty left in here and this is probably gonna be the highlight of your day.”

He considers my point, nods gratefully, and accepts the bottle as I hand it back.

I check my watch for confirmation of the date, year, and time—all precise.

“Not bad, scientists,” I say as I hustle alongside the EA building toward the entrance.

The lobby is stark but ornate. The floor is marble and the furniture, while sparsely placed, is lavish. The walls are decorated with framed posters of EA hits such as John Madden Football and NBA Live. I admire the scenery for a beat and then hurry past a burly security guard with watchful eyes and a shaved head. The secretary behind the desk is likewise suspicious.

“Can I help you?” she says. She poses her question with drawn-out uncertainty.

“Indeed you can, ma'am,” I say. “I'm an acquaintance of Mr. Chaz Flenderson, one of your most esteemed developers.”

“I see...” she murmurs, looking over my shoulder to lock eyes with the security guard.

“Yes. Could you be a dear and please tell him Luigi is here?”

“May I ask what your visit pertains to?”

“You may. Certainly. Only—Mr. Flenderson would prefer some discretion on the matter, and I simply can't breach his trust by giving you full disclosure, ma'am.”

The heavy clacking of the security guard's shoes resounds throughout the lobby. I picture him squeezing his holstered nightstick. As he approaches, I rub my mustache for a second—a nervous gesture that I quickly correct by letting my hands slink past my waist. I breath out, assuming the posture of a man with nothing to hide.

“Is that right...Luigi?” Her eyes roll. She exchanges haughty glances with the man poised to club me. “And do you have a last name?”

“Brothers,” I say, shrugging. “Trust me, he'll know who I am...ma'am.”

She grins wickedly and clicks her fingernails against the desk. Her hand inches closer to the phone. I don't turn my head but I know the security guard is really bearing down; his steamy breath seeps underneath my collar and my whole body wells up with beads of sweat.

“Well, one way or the other, this ought make for quite a show,” she says.

She grabs the phone and dials the extension number.

“George,” she says to the man lurking beside me, “If Mr. Flenderson wants nothing to do with this guy, I'm going to look the other way. OK?”

My head swivels to see George nod. He seems intent on crippling my retinas.

“Yes, ma'am,” he says.

I can hear a faint dial-tone, and then another.

“Politeness,” I remark to George. “That's where it's at—am I right, George? Whatever happens, just know that I say ma'am, too.”

George says nothing, but as he continues to stare, I gather that his manners have limitations.

The dial-tone ceases. A muffled voice succinctly answers the phone.

“Hello, Mr. Flenderson. There's a man in the lobby asking for you. He doesn't have an appointment. He is dressed in green overalls like Luigi and he refers to himself as such. He says you're expecting him...”

The voice reprimands the secretary. Her bemused expression turns somber; she becomes like a misbehaving beast getting whipped by its master.

“Sir, you don't have to hiss at me,” she says, flabbergasted. “Your wife and kids? What do they have to do with this?” Her glower is more wrathful than George's when her eyes meet mine. “OK...OK. I'll send him right up.”

She pump-fakes a slam of the receiver, thinks better of it, and then sets it in place with delicacy. She engulfs her elfish face in her hands. George gets the hint, exerts a let-down grunt, and backs off. I'm exhaling with so much relief that I nearly forget to breathe in. The secretary gestures toward the elevator without making a peep.

“Much obliged, ma'am,” I say.

I press the “Up” button and tap my feet anxiously as I wait. For the first time I become aware of the barely audible radio. It's a hit by Nirvana that I remember and love. Despite my better judgment and in too ominous a tone, I sing along loud enough to be heard.

“Well, I swear that I don't have a gun,” I sing. “No, I don't have a gun...”

A ding echoes throughout the lobby and I board the elevator.

Outside the window-plated lobby, a sleek limousine pulls up. The Superman logo is emblazoned on the side of the back-right door. A behemoth athlete steps out, one incredibly long leg at a time. He is dressed casually, in a black shirt and blue jeans, and is soon accompanied by another passenger from the limo—a tuxedoed man much burlier and darker than George.

Shaq lets his bodyguard lead the way. Once inside headquarters, Shaq nods respectfully to George. His pearly grin vanishes as his ears perk up; he shakes his head and struts toward the secretary.

“Excuse me, ma'am,” Shaq says with a wink. “With all due respect, it's cool if you like grunge. However, I'm kind of an important client, and while I'm here, I'd prefer to listen to something with a bit more flavor.”

He leans his 7'2” frame over the desk and presents to her a CD. In an instant the rancor I stirred in her is gone.

###

Having endured the humdrum piano twinkles of the elevator music, I step off hoping to hear Cobain's vocal-mimicking solo. No such luck. The Notorious B.I.G. has overtaken the stereo system.

“What gives?” I wonder aloud.

A lanky, pale man with thinning hair charges down the hallway to accost me.

“I could ask you the same damn thing,” Flenderson says.

He latches hold of my shoulder and roughly shepherds me into his office. He bristles with contempt and agitation as he points his finger to my forehead.

“What gives? I specifically told the agency not to send me any guys while I'm working! I never know when my wife's gonna stop by to nag my ear off. Put yourself in my shoes, numb-nuts. How would it look if she caught me with a male prostitute in my office?”

My cheeks flush and I stammer, unprepared for the most unsavory part of the mission.

“My bad. Um, afterward, I can give you some sort of a...coupon.”

“You're gonna have to do better than that, slim!” he shouts. “And you're not even tall and sculpted like the other Luigis. Christ. What do you weigh? A buck thirty-five?”

“That's a remarkable guess."

“Shut up! Do you even have a big penis?”

“Meh,” I shrug.

He stomps toward the phone atop his desk.

“That's it. I'm calling security.”

“You didn't let me finish,” I blurt out. “I was going to say, 'Meh. It's big enough.'”

He slams the receiver down. In a 180-turn of emotions, he approaches me and swats my butt.

“Great answer! Confident but nonchalant. That's what I like to see, blue eyes. Put a positive spin on the manorexia and I'm sold.”

My eyes narrow as I gaze at the carpet. I scratch my mustache.

“Um...don't think of me as...manorexic. Look at this way: I've got the... metabolism of—uh--a marathon runner?”

He clasps onto my slender jawbones and smooches my cheek. It's revolting. There is no cause for tongue when kissing someone on the cheek.

“Brilliant! Now do me a favor. Shut up and wait in my office or else I'll kill you. I've got an important meeting with a major client. Shouldn't take longer than 20 minutes, and after that, Luigi, we'll bang one out to celebrate.”

His eyes flicker with panic as the elevator chimes on our floor. He shoves me onto his leather couch, hysterically hushes me, and shuts off the light as he leaves the room.

I gather my breath and blink deliberately. I will need some time to gather my composure for the next phase of Operation Fu/Jam. A moment later, I overhear Flenderson's exuberant greeting.

“Hey, Shaq-Man! How the hell are ya?!”

Shaq's relaxed baritone is much harder to translate.

“I'm good, Mr. Flenderson. This is Rodney, my associate. Please don't touch us.”

“Won't happen again, big guy! Now, follow me to the conference room. We'll get this whole thing finalized and inked.”

“All right.”

Heavy footsteps down the hallway. A door opens then shuts.

I exhale with abounding tension, get on my knees, and sign the cross. I pray to a higher power.

“Dear Batman, please bless me with the respect you displayed for Alfred, the guidance you offered Robin, and the ass-kicking prowess you showed every time you fought the Joker. Bat signal Off.”

With newfound courage, I rise to my feet. I wriggle the handle of the glass-plated door and grin wolfishly.

“Looks like someone forgot to lock the door. Heh, heh.”

In the conference room, Shaq and Rodney lounge on plush swivel chairs. A distance of roughly 15 feet away, Flenderson rests his duff on a polished desk made of redwood. The desk is flanked by a waste basket. Figures and pie-charts are drawn on a chalkboard behind Flenderson. He thumbs over his shoulder to emphasize a selling-point.

“That graph marks last year's tally of the best-selling fighting games, gentlemen--”

Flenderson stops as his ears perk and detect a calamity of glass shattering in tandem with the manliest grunt this side of the Mississippi.

“Whoa! Did you hear that?”

“No,” Shaq replies.

“Really? 'Cause I could've sworn I heard the sound of glass br--”

Rodney bolts out of his seat.

“Hey!” he barks, his fists balled. “Your biggest client just said—in not so many words—that he didn't hear shit! Now don't argue with Shaq. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Flenderson answers, meek and belittled. He clears his throat rigorously, loosens his tie.

“As I was saying,” he continues. “With the right touches of marketing and a little bit of good fortune, I promise you this: Shaq Fu is going to outsell Mortal Kombat.”

I burst through a glass-plated door again. Transparent shards rain on the carpet as I hit the floor. Flenderson gestates wildly. Shaq and Rodney stand in unison and in a heartbeat Rodney assumes the role of Hakeem Olajuwon by boxing out Shaq. The conference room resounds with shocked profanities. I groan miserably for a second before jumping to my feet. I yank a shard from my forehead. Blood geysers out at first and then seeps steadily. I point to Flenderson.

“This man is full of bull-crap, Shaq. He's a creepy shyster. Don't believe a word he says.”

Flenderson fumes in indignation.

“Neither door was locked! Jesus. What's wrong with you?”

“Shaq Fu is going to be a commercial and critical disaster. I'm telling you: It's not worth the money, Diesel.”

“Dammit. All you male prostitutes dressed like Nintendo characters are the same. Can't even wait 'til the afternoon to get high.”

“I'm not a male prostitute,” I declare. “You fool! You've been duped by a struggling writer from the future.”

“A struggling writer from the--” Flenderson chokes on his own acidic spit. He reaches for the phone. “I don't buy it, kid. Let's see what George thinks about the matter.”

Rodney pounds his chest once. Twice. He looks poised to trounce me.

“Na. I got this.”

“Hold on!” Shaq bellows. A moment later he's snickering, but with a trace of compassion. An odd hint of levity overcomes the hostility in the room.

“Come on,” he gestures to me. “Now, just to review: Vanilla Spud Webb over here just launched himself through two panes of glass, yapping about video games and how he's from the future. He's hurt. He's bleeding. You really think he needs a beat-down? That's whack. He needs a psychiatrist.”

I nod in slow repetitions. It strikes me that—regardless of its outcome—this mission won't be a lost cause.

“Mr. O'Neal, on behalf of those afflicted with mental illness everywhere...” I begin, my voice quavering. But it soon occurs to me that expressions of sentiment are wasteful at present time. “Forget it. Thanks for buying me some time.

“Listen, Shaq: You're just embarking on the start of a career that will span until 2011. You don't think I'm from the future? Well, get a load of this: You're gonna win four championships, but none with the Magic. As a free agent, you will sign with the Lakers for oodles of cash. You're gonna think your All-star shooting-guard is an asshole and he'll think the same about you, but you'll still win trophies; Phil Jackson will make sure of that. Later on you'll dunk all over Dirk and the Mavs to earn a fourth ring alongside of D-Wade.”

“Four rings?” he says with intrigue. He snickers. “Damn. Does my free-throw shooting get any better?”

“Hell no,” I tell him. “Anyway, all this is to say that you're a legend in the making, and mark my words, Shaq Fu is far beneath the standard of excellence that you stand for. NBA Jam is a different story, though. It is NBA Jam—not this God-awful mess that will be even worse than Clayfighter—that will do justice to your Hall of Fame legacy.”

“Hmm,” Shaq considers, deep in thought. “NBA Jam. You know I'm in the arcade version of that game, right?

My reply is petulant.

“Yeah, Shaq. I get that, but I don't own an arcade machine, and I don't know anyone who does, either. Jeez. Not everyone's a millionaire or a winner on the showcase showdown.”

“What the hell is he babbling about?” Flenderson snorts.

Shaq swivels his head to address Flenderson.

“The Price Is Right, fool.” He turns back to me. “That was a solid pop-culture reference.”

“Thanks, Big Diesel.”

“No problem, Big Imagination.”

We bump fists.

Something occurs to me.

“Wait, you've played NBA Jam on the arcade, haven't you? Come on, man, you know that game is--”

“Insanely bad-ass,” Shaq finishes my sentence.

“Well, then what's the holdup?” I plead. “You know it's gotta be one or the other. Why can't you just say no to Shaq Fu?”

“For the same reason I'm gonna sign with the Lakers in a few years. The dollar signs. Plus I'm an individual. I conquer uncharted territory. I make bold decisions. Tack on the fact that I can play the arcade version of Jam. At home. 'Cause I'm a millionaire. There's your answer.”

My rhetoric is derailed. I'm on the brink of surrender until I catch sight of Flenderson's smug and triumphant smirk.

“This guy's a total weasel, OK? And weasels swindle people. Do you really want to sign that contract without having your lawyer read it first?”

“I already did, son,” Rodney chimes in.

Flenderson and I exchange looks of surprise.

“Wait. You're a lawyer?” we ask, united by bafflement.

“My lawyer-slash-bodyguard—yes,” Shaq says. “Rodney, tell these poor skeptics the legal definition of habeas corpus.”

“'A writ issued to bring a person before a judge or court in order to release that motherfucker from unlawful detention or restraint,'” Rodney replies, rife with righteous swagger. “Ya racist bitches.”

He points to the contract atop the desk and barks at Flenderson.

“Your secretary faxed me that shit yesterday. Get a handle on your business, ah-ite? On behalf of my client, pending his signature, we approve.”

Shaq grins wanly, but there is a hint of sadness in his eyes as he stares at me.

“Satisfied? Can we call an ambulance for you now?”

I bury my glass-slit face in my glass-slit hands for a moment. I reach into my pocket and grab hold of my last resort.

“It's a shame it had to come to this,” I say gravely.

I start to unbutton the shoulder straps of my green overalls.

“Are you undressing?” Flenderson wonders. “What's the deal? I thought you said you weren't a male prostitute.”

I reveal dinky fireworks strapped to my sweater. They're “Black Cats,” known to sparkle and cause very mild explosions. I light the wick with my last resort, the lighter. I deliver my ultimatum.

“Decision time, Shaq! Tear up that stinking contract and I'll snuff out the wick. Otherwise, we all die.”

The bluff works on Rodney, at least. He gasps, screeches, and then charges past me with a shove that nearly knocks me over.

“Get the fuck outta my way, Unabomber!” he yells. “Security! Help!”

As Rodney rushes to the stairwell, Flenderson snaps out of his terrified stupor and ducks behind his desk.

“Sweet Jesus!”

Shaq merely sucks his teeth and shakes his head with equal parts mirth and disappointment.

“Unbelievable.”

He reaches across the desktop and tears off a few inches of Scotch tape from the roll. He walks up to me. With poise that almost seems eerie, he stoops over to unfasten the string of fireworks stuck to my torso. I don't try to stop him. He doesn't burn his hand as he rolls the Black Cats into a shape that approximates a sphere. He lets out a quick yawn as he applies the tape.

From a distance of roughly 15 feet, Shaq takes aim at the waste basket.

“Three, two, one...”

With that, Shaq heaves the lit-sphere aloft. It arches poorly and plops down three feet away from his target. The wad of Black Cats thumps on the desk—atop the wretched and damned contract for Shaq Fu.

The (oddly long) wick vanishes and an instant later the fireworks flare, pop, and shriek in a pyrotechnic frenzy that is somewhat impressive and entirely noble. The contract is set ablaze. It crumbles with advancing blackness and disintegrates into smoldering ash. Our ears ring with the sound of a flat-lined pulse on a cardiograph. With tears streaming down his cheeks, Flenderson pokes his head up from underneath his desk and wafts away a cloud of smoke. He gapes at me and utters obscenities that I can't even hear.

Shaq bends his knees and bellows with tremulous joy into my ear.

“My God! You're right about NBA Jam, Big Imagination. How could I ignore the signs?”

Shaq fishes for something in his back pocket. It's a newspaper clipping of some sort. Flenderson wipes his tears and staggers over to us. He's furious.

“No, no, he's not right about anything!” he hollers. “He's a lunatic and he's going to jail. Listen, we'll reschedule the signing for tomorrow, print out another copy--”

“Pipe down, Weasel!” Shaq reprimands. He turns to me and reads with boisterous glee. “My horoscope for today: 'An unexpected encounter with a stranger from a different part of the space-time continuum may change your life for the better.'”

I laugh like the lunatic Flenderson thinks I am.

“That's my horoscope, too. We have the same birthday, Shaq!”

We bump fists again.

“Horoscopes?!” Flenderson snarls. “Do you really believe that nonsense?”

“Uhhh...” Shaq begins, mockingly. “Do you really think now is a good time to dis horoscopes?”

“I know, right? Those things are...totally legit,” I say to Shaq, betraying my opinion and loving it. “Who talks trash about horoscopes? What a lowlife.”

“Lowlife,” Shaq echoes, nodding his head. “Such a pithy and biting derogatory term for a bad person. I like it, but don't overuse it.”

“I won't,” I lie.

Down the hall, we can faintly hear a stern voice exclaim warnings.

“Security! Drop your weapons!”

It must be George. Flenderson curses us with harmless bile as he escapes the conference room.

“So, how 'bout it,” Shaq says. “You got an escape plan, McFly?”

I snap my fingers and point to him, my thumb raised like a trigger.

“Back to the Future. Nice. Well, uh, the trouble is, in 2011, time travel is possible, of course, but the whole thing is in its infancy. Ideally, I should have leaped back once you made the decision to appear in NBA Jam...

“Oh, and can you do me a favor and box out the security guard before he gets in here and pummels the shit out of me?”

“Sure thing, buddy.”

With the bulk of his backside clogging the oblong opening in the door, Shaq plants his feet, spreads his wingspan, and acts as a blockade. George, Flenderson, and Rodney surge and grunt in vain from the other side.

“Thanks. Like I was saying, they must still be working some kinks out of the time machine. The scientists, I mean.”

“Pffft. Scientists,” he scoffs.

“Oh, they're so lame and overrated!”

“Couldn't agree more,” Shaq says. “Also, I think someone's zapping me with a tazer gun.”

“And why do they wear those stupid, white lab-coats?” I go on.

Electrons gradually begin to swirl and flash about my body. My skin flickers like a strobe-light gaining speed as it rotates.

“Hey! Here we go. Finally.”

“Yup. Definitely a tazer gun. Vision blurring...knees wobbling...can't keep this up for much longer...”

“By the way, Shaq,” I say obliviously, “Years from now, if you spot someone who looks a lot like me accidentally spying through your kitchen window...go easy on him, will ya?”

Shaq scowls at me, on the brink of collapse, but his ire is soon chased off by a magnanimous smirk.

“Oh, Big Imagination. I can't stay mad at you.”

“Ditto, Big Diesel,” I say. “Ditto.”

His legs give out and he slumps to one knee. Three men storm past him with intent to pulverize me.

No matter. I dodge the first punch when I Quantum Leap.

###

Back at the laboratory, I emerge from the time machine and shove past gawking and applauding scientists. I give the finger to photographers and snub the president. I speed on the drive home and pay no mind to Stop signs. I lock the doors, crank up some Beastie Boys, and two minutes later, my 16-bit Shaq posterizes 16-bit Karl Malone. The glass shatters with the force of the dunk. I pause the game and touch the wounds on my face. They were definitely worth the trouble, I realize, and for awhile I feel the same way about everything else, too.

The Simpsons Script 1

2011-10-06T14:39:00.001-07:00

“I've been reading a lot of scripts lately; you know, it's a lot cheaper than going to the movies or getting cable.” --Troy McClure

As I ransacked through desk-drawers that stored stacks of torn folders thick with papers that I filled up with ink years ago, I found something other than what I was searching for. Wasted potential? Crushed expectations? No and no. Don't be so negative. What I came across had a cover page that more or less looked like this:

Prime-time TV Writing
The Simpsons
“Insert Title Here”
Written by
Nick Olig, 15th grader

Allow me to explain this cover page. The college I graduated from offers radio, TV, and film courses that are fairly respected by those who want nothing to do with more practical pursuits like marketing, sales, and computer programming. Now, it is a bit loopy for unknown and unconnected Wisconsinites to write scripts for shows that are produced far west in California. Looking back, more so than a kind of minor league system, the class seems like a fantasy camp for addicts of cartoons and C.S.I. In truth, neither Seth MacFarlane nor Michael Bay called my professor on a weekly basis to ask, “Who are your top prospects, Doug?” Even so, every semester, scripts from UWO are submitted to contests, and the ones that are well-received at least provide their scribes a dozen or so positive words to add to their resumes. The same semester that I won a short-story contest (to fill up some empty space on my resume), I also wrote an episode of The Simpsons. I couldn't come up with a title for it in those bygone days when I told others I was a 15th grader rather than a junior in college. And years later, I still don't know what to name it. “The Simpsons Script”?! Horrible. That's almost worse than “Insert Title Here.” I don't even warrant a D-minus for some of my titles.

The setup of act-one and some of the lines and gags are passable, though, and so I have decided to post the first 4/5 scenes. After that, my plot-line stumbled a bit (that happened years ago), and some of the pages have gone missing (as I discovered today). There is a slim chance that the lost content eventually will turn up. As far as the likelihood of that is concerned, read this paraphrasing from an episode of The Simpsons:

INT. LIVING ROOM

Homer walks in with movie rentals in tow.

MARGE: Did you bring home a copy of Waiting to Exhale?

HOMER: No. They were all out. They put me on a waiting list but told me not to hold my breath.

And so the family watches Paint Your Wagon instead.

End scene.

OK. Now read part of a script that will never be produced. C'mon. Be like Troy.

ACT ONE

FADE IN:

EXT. SIMPSONS' HOUSE – AFTERNOON – To Establish*

INT. LIVING ROOM

BART and LISA lie prone on the carpet, elbows pressed to the floor, chins resting on opened palms. They watch TV with bated excitement.

ANNOUNCER (OFF-SCREEN): Live from Springfield, home of the world's most obscene parakeet, it's the Krusty 30th Anniversary Special! And now, here he is, the man who puts the “acidic” in “Hasidic,” Kruuussstttyyy the Klooowwwnnn!

The curtain raises. The children in the crowd cheer hysterically. KRUSTY is clad in a dapper tuxedo.

BART: Wow. When's the last time you saw Krusty in a tux?

LISA: I think it was when he did that tasteless sketch that led to the cancellation of the short-lived Krusty After Dark—the one in which James Bond is captured, starved, and forced to resort to cannibalism.

BART: (SNICKERING) Oh, yeah. At the end he says, (IMITATING) “I can't believe I ate Pussy Galore!”

INT. KRUSTY'S STUDIO – CONTINUOUS

KRUSTY: Hey, hey, kids! (GOOFY LAUGH) Thank you, thank you. Thirty years on TV. What a dream come true. I couldn't ask for more. Sure, it would have been nice of the network to give me a prime-time slot for this thing, but hey, it's sweeps week and I guess I can't keep up with the chef who yells at people and the dumb, drunk broad from New Jersey. What can you do? Anyway, in honor of this fine occasion, Krusty has something very special lined-up today...I'm taking the day off to get soused at a bar!

INT. LIVING ROOM

Disappointed and disgusted, Bart and Lisa spring to their feet. Bart balls up his fists.

BART: He pulled this same stunt on Arbor Day!

LISA: ..And on that Jewish holiday he just made up on the spot: “Rokmoklahavven.”

BART: You mean that's not a real holiday? I wasted hours on that “Rokmoklahavven” greetings card. What a shyster!

INT. KRUSTY'S STUDIO

The youngsters bicker and boo. An ANGRY BOY wads up a spit ball while he mouths, “You son-of-a-bitch.”

KRUSTY: Now, now, settle down. Sideshow (FAKE-COUGHS, MUTTERS A MUFFLED NAME) is here to put himself in Krusty's shoes.

With trepidation, SIDESHOW MEL joins Krusty at center-stage.

SIDESHOW MEL: Now, Krusty, you do know that remark about the shoes is purely figurative...

Krusty hops around as he removes his shoes one at a time.

KRUSTY: Like hell it is.

FLASH FORWARD TO:

Bent over with his head on level with Mel's kneecaps, Krusty exerts a series of grunts as he shoves Mel's biggish foot into his own modestly sized red shoe. The bruised toes on Mel's other foot have already been forced through the vinyl tip. Krusty grumbles, thrusts, and pounds the tip until the toes on Mel's other foot horridly burst through, too. An ominous pop sounds. Mel shudders as Krusty rises to his feet and lets out a satisfied sigh.

KRUSTY: There. Go get 'em, new guy. So what if you've got a broken toe? It's time to break a leg.

He swats Mel on the back and walks offstage.

SIDESHOW MEL: (GNASHING HIS TEETH) Greetings, children. As a bit of an overture, I wish to regale you with a splendid impression of former Prime Minister Lord James Callaghan.

INSERT: Dumbfounded, the whole audience blinks as one.

OFFSTAGE: With his tie already loosened, Krusty warily raises an eyebrow. MR. TEENY lights a cigarette for him. Krusty nods a quick thank you and swipes his hand by his neck in a cutting gesture. Mr. Teeny likewise nods. The monkey then picks up a nearby bucket marked “Weasel Guts.” With a mighty heave, he hurls the bucket's bloody contents onto the bone that juts out from Mel's hairdo.

SIDESHOW MEL: (GRIM) Oh...dear. Well, onward with the show, Mel. Onward with the show...

INSERT CLOSE-UP: A malicious ROTTWEILER snarls inside a portable cage. A ZOOM-OUT shows Mr. Teeny unlatch the door. The dog rushes for Mel, leaps in the air, and clamps its teeth on the bone. The kids in the crowd are appeased by this; they point and cheer as Mel falls and flails.

ON LISA – HOLDING THE REMOTE

With narrowed and fiery eyes, Lisa thumps the power-button with her thumb.

LISA: This is a new low for Krusty. I can't bare to watch.

BART: I hear ya, Lis...but what else is there to do?

The two peer through the window.

EXT. EVERGREEN TERRACE

The sun shines majestically above chirping birds and smiling passersby on the sidewalk. In the road, an ice cream truck has turned over. MILHOUSE AND JANEY raid the supply with chocolate smeared on their delighted faces.

INT. LIVING ROOM

These happenings fail to excite the Simpson children.

LISA: (YAWNS) I see your point.

She turns on the TV. Like her brother, she looks sedated. The noise of cheering children and snarling dogs fills the room.

SIDESHOW MEL: (O.S.) (STRUGGLING TO IMPERSONATE CALLAGHAN) My countrymen call me “Lucky Jim,” but if that were truly the case, why was I born with such woeful vision?

KRUSTY'S AUDIENCE: (O.S.) Boooooooo!

EXT. MOE'S BAR – TO ESTABLISH

INT. MOE'S BAR

Krusty gulps down a shot. He is the only patron, and a solemn one, at that.

MOE scrubs the inside of a glass with a very long and colorful handkerchief. He hands it back to Krusty, who stuffs the gaudy cloth back into his pocket.

MOE: Thanks, stranger. Ever since I splurged on that smutty arcade game, I ain't had no cash left over for clean towels.

KRUSTY: Don't mention it.

MOE: Hey, pardon my ogle, but...don't I know you from somewhere?

KRUSTY: (GROANS)

Krusty reaches into his pants pocket for his trademark clown nose. He puts the thing on and points at it.

MOE: Holy crap, you're Krusty the Klown!

Krusty nods and removes the red nose. Moe hurries to fill a glass with beer.

MOE: You know, I might hate myself in the morning for doing something generous, but what the hell, have one on the house.

KRUSTY: Thanks.

The entrance door swings open. Along with LENNY and CARL, HOMER bursts through.

CLOSE-UP ON MOE

The hot-tempered bartender grabs Krusty by the collar and yanks him nose-to-nose.

MOE: (RAGING YET HUSHED) That drink was our little secret. You got that, clown?

Krusty is horrified. He nods. Moe's rage vanishes as he puts an arm around Krusty and greets the newcomers.

MOE: (CONT'D) Hey fellas, look who it is!

Homer and his coworkers vacantly look at the clown.

KRUSTY: (GROANS)

He reaches into his pocket and again applies his signature nose.

HOMER/LENNY/CARL: Holy crap, it's Krusty the Klown!

Krusty takes off the nose as the men occupy the stools flanking him.

HOMER: Mr. the Klown, your comedic talents have completely freed me from the awful pressure of being a positive role-model to my children. (EMOTIONAL) Thank you. (beat) Now, let me buy you a beer.

KRUSTY: Na, pug-nose over there just gave me a--

His gaze meets Moe's he detects the murderous glint in the bartender's eyes.

KRUSTY: I mean, sure! Why not? I'll have another, but just one. And that's only if I don't have to pretend to care about your problems. Or listen to any of your stories...unless there's a horny housewife in there somewhere.

HOMER: (VALIDATED) Woo-hoo!

EXT. MOE'S BAR – LATER

A slug line reads “42 beers, 14 shots, 5 mixed drinks, and a bottle of glue later.”

INT. MOE'S BAR

Pleasantly sloshed, the men sway on their bar stools. Krusty, the center of attention, is about to finish an anecdote fit for a locker room.

KRUSTY: ...So I said to Pacino, “Sure, Natalie Wood was pretty good, but I'd rather bone Sharon Stone.”

They erupt with laughter.

LENNY: Holy smokes. A seven-figure audit, four Ods, and a bout with the clap. I envy you, Krusty.

CARL: Yeah, what a lifestyle. Hey, give us the scoop, Krusty. How many women you been with, anyway?

KRUSTY: Eh. Who keeps track?

LENNY: Seven.

CARL: Eleven.

MOE: Three.

KRUSTY: (SIGHS) OK, OK. Let me see...does a tipsy Bea Arthur count?

LENNY: Meh. I guess so.

MOE: Whoa, whoa, that counts? All right! That ups my total to four, then.

KRUSTY: Well, that puts me at...two-thousand, eight-hundred and twelve women. Plus a weird close-call with David Bowie.

Following a hushed awe, the boys fidget.

MOE: Huh. (beat) David Bowie.

LENNY: So, how 'bout you, Homer? What's your number?

Homer reacts to the question like it's a whiff of smelling salt. Deep in thought, he strokes his five o'clock shadow.

HOMER: Well, let me see...there was...her...and then...add the zero...(beat) Marge. Just Marge.

Aside from Krusty, all involved scoff at Homer.

MOE: For God's sake, Homer, I thought I was pathetic, but I got you quadrupled.

LENNY: Yeah, and I got you sevtupli—um, septaruple...uh...I've boinked more broads than you!

KRUSTY: Ah, you can't fault the guy for not cheating.

CARL: Maybe so, but what about high school?

MOE: Yeah. Plenty of people scored in high school. Even me. Thank you very much, Marvin Gaye record...and narcolepsy.

HOMER: Hey! For your information, I got to second base with Shirley McDonald.

MOE: The head cheerleader? You felt her up?

HOMER: Well...not exactly. She was my partner in a three-legged race that took place on a baseball diamond.

For this admission, Homer is cackled at.

HOMER: Shut up! We may be a little old-fashioned, but Marge and I share something special. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going home to romance the woman I love after a heated pep-talk to my whiskey-wang.

With that, Homer storms for the exit. Krusty pursues and catches him by the door.

KRUSTY: Don't worry about those schmucks. They're just jealous of you and me both.

He jots down his phone number and hands the napkin to Homer.

KRUSTY: Listen, it get lonely at the top, so if you ever want to hear a story about how great I am, or if you can score some primo reefer, give me a call, will ya?

As he sways to and fro, Homer eyeballs Krusty.

HOMER: Who the hell are you?

KRUSTY: Aw, for the love of...

He digs into his pocket for the clown nose.

INT. BEDROOM – LATER

As Homer barges in, the door thwacks against the wall. He flips on the light, staggers toward the bed, and kisses Marge.

HOMER: Listen, baby, you're the greatest thing that ever happened to sliced bread. And I'm not just saying that 'cause I threw up on some roadkill on the walk home.

MARGE: (YAWNS) Well, you're home early. The bars don't close for another five minutes.

Homer wrangles with his shirt, trying to remove it.

HOMER: Yeah, the jerks at Moe's are acting like a bunch of Lenny and Carls. They were giving me the third-dimension 'cause you're the only one I've done the naked-snuggle with. But I say mahogany is where it's at. There's nothing wrong with freaks like us that embrace premarital Cassidy. Am I right?

MARGE: (NERVOUS LAUGH) Yup. You're right, Homey.

As he fumbles with his zipper, he casts a leery gaze on her.

HOMER: Hold on...I know that laugh. That's the same laugh you let out when I asked if you'd seen my Members Only shirt. Two days later Lisa told me you donated it to those monsters at the Salvation Army. They revoked my membership and gave it to a stinking hobo! (beat) Are you hiding something from me?

She pulls the covers over head.

MARGE: No, no, no. Of course not. There. It's settled. Now let's go to sleep and hope you're too drunk to remember this conversation in the morning. (NERVOUS LAUGH)

Homer tugs on the covers like a magician revealing the ugly truth. He exposes his wife to his accusatory pointer-finger.

HOMER: You are hiding something. What is it, Marge? I demand to know.

Marge rubs her forehead, swallowed by dread.

MARGE: (SIGHS) Homer, you're the love of my life and we got this far without me ever having to bring this up. But the truth is, before I met you...I once slept with another man.

Un-fazed, Homer backs away from the confrontation. He hops on one foot and clumsily tends to stepping out of his pants.

HOMER: (NONCHALANT) Hmm. You had a slumber party with a dude, eh? Well, that's kind of weird, but I can handle it. Who was he? Smithers?

MARGE: No. Homer, you don't understand. When I say “slept with,” that's a nice way of saying that—before I knew you existed—I had sex with another man.

HOMER: (AGHAST) What?!

He loses his balance, tips over, and whacks his head on the dresser. He won't regain consciousness until morning.

END OF ACT ONE

###

Hey, it's me again. This is a suitable place to stop for now. There will be a little more to come. Homer has a funny nightmare in the next scene, and after that, he confronts Marge in the kitchen and you'll find out which semi-well-known character bedded her in high school. (In my script, at least.)

“If you've come this far, maybe you're willing to come a little further. You remember the name of the town, don't you?”**

Springfield.

*Not all of the formatting herein is done properly. You know what, though? If you're the type who models his scripts after what he reads on my blog, the time has probably come for you to abandon your hopes and dreams.

** I'm not sure why I slipped in a Shawshank quote at the end. Standards have fallen.

Too Many Jokes

2011-09-03T11:47:00.001-07:00

When I'm asked why I've never tried stand-up comedy, I tend to stammer in my response. I say that I'm flattered by the suggestion, but then I cite my dread of bombing on-stage and my general distaste for public speaking. My inquisitor on the matter assumes that anyone who writes comedy must be able to perform it, too, and it's always disappointing to tell him/ her otherwise.

There remains a slim chance that I will one day change my mind about stand-up, that the size of my testicles will miraculously double and I will muster the fortitude required to tell jokes to dozens of drunks at a bar.

Until then, I leave you with a lengthy collection of the best stand-up material I have written but never performed on-stage. If your copy of There Will Be Blog has yet to be red-flagged by doo-doo residue in the bathroom, now is the perfect time to remedy that.

Instead of that long-winded Surgeon General’s warning on the side of a box of cigarettes, I think a more persuasive disclaimer would be: “There’s no cool way to wheeze, Olig.”

The other day I saw a heavyset girl wearing a high school track sweatshirt. A bit puzzled, I said to her, “Shot-put, right?”

I was at the grocery store the other day. By the entrance I saw one of those funneled coin deposits with a sign above it that read, “Your donations will help to feed animals at the local petting zoo.” I gladly donated all the change in my wallet. Let me tell you, it’s a great feeling to know that some adorable little bunny is going to choke on the quarters I donated.

Unlike women, most men don’t mind using blankets to cover up their windows. If there were no women on the face of the earth, blanket sales would skyrocket and curtain sales would plummet. And I shan’t consider the setback the tampon industry would endure.

The following are bad ideas for bumper stickers. 1.) My kid shot your honor student. 2.) I brake for child molesters! 3.) If you can read this, you're not from Alabama. 4.) Honk if you've blinked today. 5.) Follow me to where I hide the bodies!

If I had but one superhuman power, I’d want the ability to scratch my butt with my mind. ‘Cause let’s face it, we’ve all had that inopportune butt-itch at a wedding or funeral.

If Bette Midler named her son Adolf, the poor kid’s name would be Adolf Midler.

I was standing in line at the grocery store when I spotted a Cosmopolitan magazine on the rack. A nearly nude Megan Fox was on the cover. Underneath her picture, the caption read, “Hey ladies, doesn’t this bitch make you feel fat?”

The future would be less terrifying if our pubic hair fell out as we got older instead of turned gray.

G.P.S. Navigation Systems are a scam. Forgive me for pointing out the obvious, but it's impossible to get directions on the road from a plate of German Potato Salad.

I'm so sick of unrequited affection. The phone sex lady never calls me back. I gave that sultry voice the best years of my life!

Whoever coined the phrase “Smooth as a baby's bottom” sounds like a pervert to me. Why did we let a baby's ass-groping pederast coin a popular expression?

The one advantage the penis has over the vagina is the penis can answer yes or no questions. Have you ever tried to get a straight answer out of a vagina? It can be so maddening.

The Trench Coat Mafia really gave the Mafia a bad name.

If it's true that life is nothing but a dream, it's incredible to think of how many times you've unknowingly pissed the bed.

Something about vampires just doesn’t add up to me. Given the fact that they don’t appear in reflective surfaces, isn’t it strange that they’re all so primly groomed and presentable? Without a mirror to use for reference, you’d think they’d all be slovenly doofs with boogers in their noses and bits of jugular stuck between their teeth. Instead of handsome men like Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt and the guy from Twilight, modern-day depictions of vampires should resemble bedraggled misfits like director Tim Burton and mug shot Nick Nolte—people who obviously haven’t dared to look at their reflection in years. Self-reflection is at the core of vanity, and vampires completely defy that.

Robocop doesn’t scare me. I’d just shoot him in his vulnerable mouth area and he’d be a goner.

Remember when our grade school teachers told us we had to learn cursive because our high school teachers would forbid us from writing freehand? The fuckers lied to us.

I used to be enamored with a girl who told me that even though she thinks she might love me, she didn't want to give me a hug. That's when I realized I was chasing a lost cause. “I might love you but I don't want to hug you?” That's the same agreement I have with my dad.*

In the future, bathroom walls will be equipped with spell-check devices. This will prove invaluable considering a lot of guys have a habit of misspelling the word “masturbate.”

Sometimes when I’m eyeballing a gorgeous girl in a Maxim spread, I wonder if she’s secretly got a Siamese twin that was airbrushed out of the picture. Because, as my female friends keep insisting, they can do some pretty amazing stuff with that airbrush technology.

You don't see too many deaf third base coaches, do you? That's because the batter wrongly assumes the hit-and-run is on every time the coach mimes the words, “Damn, these polyester uniforms really chafe my nuts.”

When you’re walking back to your car in a parking lot late at night, do you ever pretend there’s a knife-wielding serial killer nipping at your heels and you’ve got to unlock the door and drive off quickly in order to survive? I do, only instead of rushing urgently, I take my precious time getting into the car because I’ve always dreamed of being stabbed to death.

Watching war movies has taught me that soldiers are more likely to run out of ammunition than cigarettes. The battleground is no doubt a nerve-rattling environment, and cancer sticks provide a brief reprieve, but soldiers in war movies should be more practical and replace a few boxes of cigarettes with some clips of ammunition. Although it’s true that you can kill a Nazi with second-hand smoke, the
process takes decades, and it’s much simpler to pump his chest full of bullets.

Whenever an athlete who wears the number 69 engages in mutual oral sex, it’s got to mean a little extra something. And while we’re on the topic, the next time you’re in the midst of sixty-nining, I think it would be fun to abruptly scold your partner by screaming, “Hey, you’re doing it all wrong! You’re supposed to be the six and I’m supposed to be the nine, not the other way around, stupid!”

My secret to happiness? Oh, I owe it all to that pillow I own with the phrase “Hooray for Love” sewn in the fabric. It's just that easy, people.

Why do the Spanish feel the need to attach gender to inanimate objects? The Spanish live in absurd fantasy world where the computer menstruates and the hammers obsess about baseball to keep from ejaculating too soon.

I was very disappointed by the contents of a compilation CD called Monster Ballads. It was filled with melodramatic '80s crap from the likes of Poison and Cinderella; there weren't any songs that lamented the woes of monsters such as Freddy Krueger, Swamp Thing, The Wolfman, and former vice-president Dick Cheney.

In the event of a zombie uprising, the best mode of transportation is a snowplow. And don't give me that monster truck bullshit; everyone knows those things have terrible gas mileage. I've put a lot of thought into this, so just trust me on this one.

For the life of me, I can’t comprehend this cultural hard-on for expensive car rims. I’d rather splurge on calf implants than pay five-grand for a set of hubcaps. These grown men have a toddler-like obsession with meaningless shiny things. Why stop at hubcaps? Go duct-tape some Christmas tinsel to your riding lawnmower, ya spoiled-rotten stooge.

What is it the Bloods and Crips disagree on? I’m no expert on the matter, but from what I gather, both gangs embrace hustling, hos, rap music, tattoos, malt liquor and territoriality. Members of both gangs were born into underprivileged neighborhoods that are mostly neglected by outsiders. Bloods and Crips both despise and fear the police. It seems like they’ve got more in common than they care to admit. Is the whole dispute centered on color preference? Do you have to spray a man with Uzi fire because he likes to wear red as opposed to blue? I’d like to see the two gangs reconcile and unite against a common enemy: The Amish.

My grandma is in the throes of Alzheimer's Disease, which isn't a funny notion on the surface, but I'll tell you this: Watching baseball on ESPN is more entertaining when someone in the room keeps getting shocked and spooked by a computer rendering of the strike zone (the “K-zone”). I can't help but grin wickedly whenever she asks, “Did that man just swing his bat through a magic window?” No grandma, magic windows don't yet exist, God bless your heart.

Phone sex is all right, I guess, but you haven't lived until you've tried Morse Code sex.

I bought a season of Teen Mom on DVD just for the deleted scenes. My favorite clip that got cut is called, “A shred of human dignity.”

No one ever said that life is easy, but sometimes, on serene summer twilights, when the charcoal embers in the grill get slowly extinguished like the gleam in the eyes of tuckered-out toddlers, and a flock of graceful birds fly straight over head, I just think to myself: “Am I gonna get shit on?”

*Hey. Yuks aside, I really do love my dad.

This Is the Story of Rotten Nihilists

2011-08-31T10:43:00.000-07:00

In response to some scathing comments I wrote about a popular jam band, my best friend told me, “If you really dislike something, the best revenge is to not acknowledge it all. Don't give it any credence.” That struck me as a thoughtful and noble adjustment of the adage “If you can't say anything nice, (and so forth).” A mindset such as that can embolden the individual, but I don't care for the implied limitations. Strictly saying or writing nice things can have disastrous results. In fact, I'm quite thankful that people so often choose to make disparaging remarks; it's a blessing that will hopefully endure as long as we inhabit this planet.

The Jews, for instance, who were exploited, starved, and tortured in concentration camps had every right to say to each other, “These Nazis are a bunch of assholes.” Black people are obliged to deride all members of the Ku Klux Klan; I recommend the derogatory term “stupid cousin-fuckers.”* Gay teenagers are encouraged to rebut disdainful slurs and abuse brought on by popular jocks with a volley such as, “At least I'm not a spoiled, wannabe-bigot who gets his sick jollies from cruelty.” If we all took the “anything nice” maxim too far, too many underdogs who try to abide by the Golden Rule would indefensibly get shit on by vile oppressors.

Freedom of speech should not be restricted to compliments, and less vitally, it doesn't have to be restricted to serious issues, either. We live in a first-world country, which means we are permitted the privilege of pop-culture. When that privilege is combined with our right to free speech, guys like me are going to assess the triumphs and downfalls of less-essential yet meaningful things such as rock music.

Let me give you an example of what I mean: For my $, the Sex Pistols are the most obscenely overrated band of all time.

Less contentious than that, no other rock group benefited so much from their brevity. Released in October of 1977, Never Mind the Bollocks stands as the band's only album; they self-destructed and broke up shortly after they achieved fame and toured America. Their debut is all that counts for something in the group's legacy of music. By contrast, Nirvana—another disaffected, abrasive, and monumental band that didn't endure for very long—has two canonized LPs, a solid debut, and a classic Unplugged concert album to bolster their career. As a bonus, Nirvana's songwriting, musicianship, and redeeming qualities utterly waylay the Sex Pistols. But it's too easy to claim that Rotten and the scoundrels don't measure up to Nirvana. Moreover, the Sex Pistols are inferior to pretty much every other well-known band that ever impacted popular music—and for reasons deeper than the fact that they were lousy players who essentially have but 12 songs to their credit.

To begin with, even fans of the Sex Pistols will readily admit that Sid Vicious was an awful bassist. His incompetence was so woeful that he doesn't really qualify as a musician. Sid Vicious was a no-talent hack who excelled at sneering while looking very much punk-like on-stage. In fact, Malcom McLaren—the rogue-manager whose eyes lit up with dollar signs when he got the idea to market raw, sonic angst to the public—lured Vicious into the group strictly because of his attitude and appearance.** Vicious was asked to defer loudness to the other Pistols and pluck away at an instrument that is comparatively easy to play in a genre of music known for its simplicity...and he couldn't do it. He failed.

Oh well, give credit where it's due: That lowlife sure could sneer! For a couple years during the '70s, he sneered with conviction throughout live shows. And bafflingly enough, that's how he posthumously got inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. By sneering. As a side-note, while he was mired in a strung-out haze, he also stabbed and killed his girlfriend. In addition to artistic integrity, Sid Vicious murdered a woman, too.

Nonetheless, he's still idolized by some as they tour a Hall of Fame. Now that's what I call Bollocks.

My chief gripes with guitarist Steve Jones and drummer Paul Cook are twofold. First off, to reiterate, they were a part of the most obscenely overrated band of all time. Jones and Cook are, at least, the least disgraceful components of the Sex Pistols, but that segues into my second gripe: They should have known better than to perform with a chump who championed doom and a maladjusted snot with a shitty voice.

Johnny Rotten is the snot in question. Now, over the years, I have met plenty of full-fledged punks and befriended a few. I admire many of them for their grit, passion, independent spirit, and contempt for tie-dyed clothing. I get past their initial barbs about the music I prefer to listen to and the beer I choose to drink, and then a lot of times we'll exchange jokes, ideals, and verbal swipes. Later on, occasionally I'm told that I'm “Good shit” and I grin and say, “Thanks and ditto.” The punks that I respect and sometimes befriend love to bust chops, especially if you admit that you can't stand the Misfits, but unlike Johnny Rotten/ Lydon, they don't misguidedly use their fondness for said style of music as just cause for acting like a total asshole to everyone. Even the ones who have to cope with shady upbringings, economic strife, and a deep mistrust of authority don't treat others like gutter-trash due to the fact that life can be so cruel and unfair. Rotten is different, though, and that's why I don't respect him and hope that I never get within a mile of the bloke (especially because he is prone to fits of wretched rage and I have hereby insulted him). If he stands for anything, it's pissing on the hope of a more humane and rational future. And I'm not at all on-board for that.

Rotten once snarled, “I am an Anti-Christ/ I am an anarchist.” OK, guy, here are three concerns I want to raise about the opening lyrics to one of your best-remembered tunes. 1.) You're an Anti-Christ? I realize you probably snarled that line solely for shock-value—and hell, it worked like a charm, I must admit. But I don't get why an atheist would proclaim to be the false-coming of the son of a higher power he doesn't even believe in. That's more of an affront to your own convictions than a satirical statement. Keep this in mind, too: If you're wrong about the existence of God—well, there's no easy way to put this...after death, you're gonna be totally fucked—even more so than all of the other atheists. You are, after all, the one who declared himself an Anti-Christ on vinyl because you craved fame and money. 2.) You're an anarchist? Oh, that's cute. How novel! It's funny—I knew a couple of dudes from high school who etched the "Anarchy" symbol into their wooden desks instead of paying attention in History class, but to the best of my knowledge (and this is the darndest thing), those dudes never succeeded in their goal of overthrowing governments world-wide and leading all of society into a new age of lawlessness. Maybe I'm mistaken. I hope to see some of them at my upcoming ten-year reunion, just to check in on how their pursuits of anarchy have panned out. Now, while it's true that governments only function capably about 35% of the time, Anarchy, on the other hand...(and I'm getting out my calculator to make sure I get this assessment just right)...OK, I figured it out. Anarchy functions capably ZERO PERCENT OF THE TIME. At the risk of coming across as an uptight sissy, the free reign to murder, rape, steal, and so forth—without penalty of law—would somehow fail to benefit anyone's quality of life. So. How about this: Go with the lesser of two evils and get to work with hopeful intentions, ya wanker. 3.) Were the words “Anti-Christ” and “Anarchist” intended to rhyme? 'Cause they don't.

Those are a few of the reasons why I hold the Sex Pistols in such a low regard. In the interest of objectivity, though, I asked a pair of pals—both of whom are thoughtful and fair-minded fans of punk-rock—to defend the band in question. My friend Dick Willy weighed in as well—mainly because the Sex Pistols beg to be bashed by a musician in addition to a critic.

Concerning the group's merit, Dirk Gideon e-mailed me the following:

“I don't think they get rated highly for their music—even though I enjoy it—but rather for the fact that they helped to pioneer an entire genre.”

“Even though I don't consider them a great band,” Blake Headwig added,
“They more or less defined the UK punk scene in the late-70s to the general public. They were a vital part of a certain time and place. For good or ill, they de-constructed the untouchable, demigod-like perception of rock stars. They were the anti-Led Zeppelin.”

To Dick Willy and me, Blake's closing comment carried all the logic of saluting a group for being the “anti-Awesome.” I responded with the following...

“Apparently, the thing this band is least-credited for is their MUSIC, and that's pretty fishy to me. The middle-fingers they raised meant a lot more than the notes they played.”

“By and large,” Dirk retorted, “That is what punk rock is all about, Nicholas. It's a medium of expression and an outlet of angst for disenfranchised people who would otherwise be invisible to the masses.”

At long last, I have a strong hunch that Rotten and I can agree on something. Punk music is legit for the reasons cited by Dirk and Blake. The question of whether or not punk-rock has appeal boils down to a person's gut feeling to the following Catch-22: “Anyone can do it.”

Regardless, the Sex Pistols' influence is still starkly contrasted by the group's merit. It is quite possible—and sensible, I think—to exclude the Sex Pistols from one's I-pod or CD collection in favor of superior bands such as the Clash, the Ramones, MC5, the Stooges, Minor Threat, Bad Brains, Bad Religion, Jawbreaker, and so on—without defying that juvenile notion of punk-purity.

Dick Willy was less-charitable in regard to the style of the One Album Menace. It should be noted that he can play complex chord-progressions and solo with far-reaching gusto on his guitar without feeling guilty about it or boring the crowd.

“When I hear a band like the Sex Pistols, it reminds me of how an accomplished chef must feel when he drives past a McDonald's burger joint and sees those words underneath the golden arches, 'Billions and billions served.' That chef has got to shake his head and wonder if all of his hard work and training were really worth it.

“But in a way,” he noted, “I'm so grateful we have the Sex Pistols. Without them, there's no way I'd appreciate truly great music as much as I do. Without all the amateurs, the pros wouldn't be so special.”

I suppose I'm somewhat grateful for the Sex Pistols, too. They're a concrete example of advocates for humanity's most wasteful doctrine—a value/ “belief” system that I have denounced in previous essays, an outlook on life that I truly despise and won't shut up about.

Dude. The fucking Sex Pistols are nihilists.

Blake majored in Philosophy, and according to him, “The expressed belief in nothing is a direct challenge to organized society. Nihilism contends that all of the laws and morals meant to help everyone coexist are pointless and ineffective. It's the philosophy of apathy, and I do think the Sex Pistols embody nihilism.

“However, a true nihilist would wither and die because it follows that feeding and taking care of yourself is meaningless, too.”

Terrific. The Sex Pistols' core ideal contradicts itself. Not only are they hopeless and damn proud of it, they're dumb, too.

While it's true that music cannot put an end to wars, famine, or poverty, the best bands truly can change the world for the better (however marginally). The Clash urged listeners to know their rights. The Sex Pistols, on the other hand, urged listeners not to care about their rights—or anything else, for that matter. Whereas the Clash declared that they wanted to blow up the evils of the establishment-structure, afterwards, they were poised to rebuild. The Sex Pistols' aim was to destroy everything and piss on the ashy ruins. They were complacent with the nothingness of pure destruction. Nothing positive was gained by their hackeneyed antics. They just wanted to blow up buildings for the hell of it and then sneer and piss after the fact.

Wow. Talk about a worthless revolution. That's “Pretty Vacant,” indeed. Thankfully, all of the underdogs who try to abide by the Golden Rule in the face of vile oppressors don't have to fret too much; those rotten nihilists were full of shit when they promised us "no future."***

No Future? Well...holy shit. What a wasteful and wrong thing to promise your audience.

“Ever get the feeling you've been cheated?”

Hey. You said it, Johnny Rotten.

*Also, black men should feel free to speculate that most racist behavior stems from jealousy of penis-size. Every time those repulsive yokels have burned down a church in which black people gathered to worship and sing praise, think of it as a nasty and pathetic way of them grieving their mediocre wieners.

**The Pistols were, in fact, hand-picked and manufactured by McLauren, much like the astoundingly sleazy Lou Pearlman recruited and peddled boy bands in the mid-90s. To paraphrase my pal Ziggy, “They should have named the band the 'Backstreet OIs.'”

***Rather, "The future is unwritten."

Coach, the Short Story

2011-08-16T15:52:00.000-07:00

Craig T. Nelson is an actor in his 60s best known for playing the title role of Coach Hayden Fox on an ABC sitcom that peaked in popularity in the early '90s. (He was the embattled dad in the movie Poltergeist, too.) What follows is an account of what happened on his trip to the Atlantic coast of Florida to take in the Daytona 500, a major NASCAR race.

Inside an Applebee's, Craig sits in a booth, alone and solemn, gazing absently at a menu. Suddenly a clamor arises in the pocket of his khaki pants. It's his cell phone, blaring the theme song from Coach—a marching band anthem that flourishes with all the gusto of a John Phillip Sousa arrangement. Craig urgently digs for the cell phone, brings it into the light. Meanwhile, a burly and excitable man in his late 20s overhears the music from his perch at the bar. He sits bolt upright, swivels around, and turns his focus toward Craig. The fight song ceases abruptly, though—an indication that Craig has received a text message rather than a call. He frowns as he reads the text.

“It's over, Craig. Move out by end of month. Goodbye. --Diane.”

His shoulders slink. He groans weakly. On the brink of catatonic despair, he slips the device back into his pocket and stares at the empty seat in front of him.

The young man at the bar approaches, his mouth agape, his eyes bulging in increments with each step he takes in his leather sandals. His t-shirt bares Greek letters; stitching beneath that reads “2001 Pledge.” He grins broadly, tucks his hands behind his head and squeezes the bill of his backward-turned cap. When he gets within an arm's reach of the table, Craig finally notices him.

“Coooaaach!” the young man bellows.

A willowy waitress with a golden ponytail strides over, shaking her head.

“Inside voice, Mike. Please. Tone it down.”

Craig smirks wistfully, a bit revived but still weary.

“It's all right, miss,” he says. “I guess the fanfare is nice sometimes.”

She peers at Craig quizzically. After a moment, she nods with vague recognition.

“Oh—my goodness. I do know you—from television. Yes. A sitcom. What was the name of that program?”

“Coooaaach!” Mike informs her.

“Yup. That's the one,” Craig says, chuckling.

“Well, I've never waited on a celebrity before. How neat! I'll be back to take your order in a minute, sir.”

She walks away, flashing her teeth. Mike lingers, awestruck and vibrating with cheer. Craig extends an open hand to his admirer.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mike.”

Startled by the greeting, Mike gulps anxiously, convulses out of his stupor, and shakes hands. He nods reverently.

“Coach,” he says in a dignified manner.

“Have a seat.”

Mike exerts a quick gasp and then obliges. He slides into the booth and faces his idol.

“You know,” Craig says, “I hate to be needy, but it really is refreshing for an actor to find someone who really likes his work. The years I spent playing Hayden Fox were some of the best of my life—professionally, personally, financially...you name it. Sure, we were never quite as popular as Full House or Seinfeld, but do you know which show had the sixth-highest ratings in prime-time from '92 'til '94?”

“Coach!”

“Bingo! Holy smokes. You really know your Coach facts.”

The waitress returns, poised to jot down Craig's order. As she addresses Mike, she motions toward the bar.

“I think your beer is getting warm...”

“No, it's all right,” Craig insists. “Mike, care to join me for dinner? It's on me, bud.”

Overcome with gratitude, Mike pumps his fist and nods effusively.

“Coach!”

“That's the spirit,” Craig says, squinting at the menu. “I'll have a T-bone steak, rare, with a baked potato on the side. And for my new friend...”

Mike bows his head and gestures to Craig; he defers.

“Coach?”

“You want me to order for you? Sure. Mike will have the same. And a few rounds of beer for the both of us.”

The waitress says she'll be back soon with their meals and departs.

Craig leans forward, raises an eyebrow.

“I ordered the T-bone 'cause that was my nickname when I was about your age. Craig 'T-bone' Nelson.”

The gag is slow to register for Mike. A few seconds pass by, but then, with feigned understanding, he lets out a boisterous laugh. He tilts his head to the side and points to Craig.

“Coooaaach.”

Craig rollicks in his seat, snickering.

“Oh man, sharing some laughs with one of my biggest fans...This is just what I needed.” He reaches into his back pocket and makes a grand presentation of two tickets. “Do you like NASCAR, Mike?”

He nods repeatedly.

“I suddenly have an extra ticket for the Daytona 500 tomorrow. Tell you what: You can be my guest, but only if you pass the quiz. Ready?”

Puzzled but willing, Mike nods again.

“Okay. First question: What is the greatest TV show of all time?”

“Coooaaach!” Mike hollers.

“What was the profession of the character I played?”

“Coach.”

“And, last but not least, who's your favorite character?”

“Coach!”

“Really? Wow. Most people say 'Dauber,'” Craig says. He offers a high-five and is left hanging for less than a millisecond. “Congratulations, Mike, you passed with flying colors. Let's celebrate with some shots of Jameson.” He turns his head and says, “Excuse me—waitress!”

###

At the big race the next day, Craig and Mike are clapping elatedly, standing on their seats with the utmost expectancy. The surrounding spectators are no less enthralled. Craig nudges Mike.

“The last lap. I've got five-grand riding on Jimmie Johnson and he's making a late-charge on that bozo Jeff Gordon. Oh man, Mike—the racing, the gambling—it doesn't get much better than this.”

Mike nods in agreement. They watch the drivers round the final turn. Johnson is trailing Gordon by less than a car-length.

“You can do it, Jimmie!” Craig shouts.

Perhaps mystically spurred on by the Coach's encouragement, Jimmie Johnson indeed does it; he takes the checkered flag by a narrow margin. Bursting with triumph and passion, Craig and Mike hug each other. Craig pulls away and grabs a hold of Mike's chubby cheeks.

“Guess who just got five-thousand dollars richer?”

“Coooaaach!”

“You said it, Mike! Now we gotta celebrate.”

###

As the sun begins to set over an immense parking lot of diminishing NASCAR lovers, Craig and Mike wobble triumphantly, tailgating beside Craig's Ford Mustang. In unison they plunge car keys into Keystone Lights, puncture the cans, and then chug their beers in shotgun fashion. They finish and let out a heinous harmony of belches.

“Chalk up a baker's dozen brews,” Craig says. “All right, buddy, I got a hankering for some topless dancers. You in?”

Mike nods repeatedly. Craig grins and slaps him on the butt.

“Attaboy!”

Mike smiles sheepishly at this raunchy gesture. He wags his finger in mock-admonishment.

“Coooaaach.”

Craig chortles, puts his pal in a disarming headlock, and scratches out an appreciative noogie.

###

At the strip club, 2 Live Crew's “Me So Horny” pulsates from the stereo. On the verge of drunken oblivion, Craig and Mike sit very close to each other on a plush leather couch. A bare-chested man approaches them and swivels his hips to the beat of the music. He is buff, waxed, and pompadoured, and he is clad in what is crudely known as a Banana-Hammock. He leaves their company and finds new patrons to dance in front of once Craig and Mike start making out.

###

A “Do Not Disturb” sign hangs on the door-knob outside of Craig's hotel suite. Inside, Craig and Mike are silhouetted in moonlight as they tenderly smooch. “Take My Breath Away,” the ballad from the movie Top Gun, accentuates the romantic mood. The author will hereby refrain from describing this scene in detail because he doesn't wish to induce more barfs than are necessary.

###

While we're on the subject of barfing, Craig and Mike do that the next morning—at the same time, into the same toilet bowl. The two men have become repentant and ill monsters—Craig more so than his worshiper—and they trade upchucks and then lean back miserably while the other grips a hold of the seat of the toilet to wretch. Craig lets out a loud groan.

“Oh, Jesus, Mike. I think we went overboard with this whole thing. Look—this is just a confusing rough patch in my life. Right before I met you, my girlfriend dumped me in a fucking text message.”

“Coach,” Mike replies, consolingly. He places his hand on Craig's shoulder. Craig recoils and rebuffs.

“Nope. Don't do that,” Craig says. “We got too drunk and you've been a pal, but just because I don't understand women and I doubt I ever will, that doesn't mean...”

He almost throws up again. He utters profanities and shakes his head fiercely.

“I mean—I put my penis into your butthole. Repeatedly. That actually happened, Mike. I just don't want that to happen ever again. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is. You have to get out of here. Please leave.”

Tears well in Mike's eyes and he almost throws up, too.

“Coooaaach,” he says, heartbroken and barely audible.

Craig hears it, though. He shoves Mike and accordingly they both nearly fall on their faces. Craig rises to his feet, hungover yet determined.

“That was the last time I will ever touch you, Mike. Don't make it worse. Like I said, you have to get out of here. Please leave.”

More so than welling, Mike's tears are now streaming. Dissipated and devastated, he stands up. He tries to exhale a sigh but can't quite manage it. When he gazes one last time into Craig's eyes, his vision is awash with distortion. Mike hangs his head and abides; he walks out of Craig's hotel suite with the heavy, slow feet of a prisoner en route to getting his lethal injection. Craig looks away.

“Don't cry,” he murmurs. “Coaches don't cry.”

The door shuts behind Mike and a tear leaks out on Craig—only one, though.

In the hallway of the hotel, Mike's legs fail him and he has to kneel down. He pounds his fist into the floor. He gazes upward, to address God, perhaps. All he sees is a ceiling, though. As he musters up the vocal strength to wail out his despair, a black man of middle-age steps out of his suite two doors away. His head is bald, he's trim and his muscles are toned. He is dressed in a collared Chicago Bears shirt.

With the extravagance of an emotional wreck, Mike manages to wail out his despair.

“Cooooooaaaaaach!”

His scream commands the attention of the bald man who likes the Bears. He squints suspiciously at Mike. He strolls over.

“Yeah? You talking to me?”

Mike is startled. He wipes his snotty nose, stands, and shakes his head no.

“Ah-ha,” the man snickers. “My mistake. You must be upset about a different coach.”

Nodding and on the verge of smiling, Mike offers and receives a handshake. After that, he tilts his head and points at the man before him.

“Coach?” he asks.

“Coach Lovie Smith. Yup. That's me,” Lovie says.

He gestures to his shirt.

“Chicago Bears. I'm in town to get a look-see at some younger players—one quarterback, in particular.”

Bobbling his head, Mike reaches for his wallet and presents to Lovie his driver's license. Lovie inspects.

“Nice to meet you, Mike,” he says with a smirk. “I coach against a guy named Mike from Green Bay at least twice a year, but I won't hold that against you.”

Lovie winks and playfully pats Mike on the shoulder. After a moment of puzzling over the comment, Mike gets the joke, or at least pretends that he does. He guffaws, pumps his fist, and then points to Lovie again.

“Coach.”

“That's me! Say, Mike, I was just about to get some breakfast. I'm here by myself and I have an extra coupon that's good for a discount on the buffet. I know this is kind of sudden, but...you just seem like a really nice guy. Do you want to eat some waffles with me?”

Mike volunteers to Lovie a high-five that is not denied.

“Coach!”

“Mike!”

With that the newly acquainted buddies set out for breakfast. Coach Lovie and Mike walk down the hallway and don't look back. By the time they turn the corner, they're holding hands.

We're an American Band, For What It's Worth (side-B)

2011-08-06T22:30:00.000-07:00

Telling quote #1: “We are the innovators/ They are the imitators.”--My Morning Jacket, “Wordless Chorus”

Telling quote #2: “Question: Which bear is the best bear?”--Jim Halpert, impersonating and mocking his loony co-worker Dwight Schrute on The Office.

The four of us rode our bikes to the Ferg household on the southern edge of town. In reference to Mariokart, we hollered jokes about shooting red shells and dropping banana peels along the way. We were poised to play a friendly game of poker. I was the last to arrive at our destination and blamed my shoddy performance on a lack of Star power-ups, which I am wont to do.

We helped ourselves to bottled waters in the basement. Mr. Ferg came downstairs to greet us. Everyone said hello and in no time I was asking him questions about music. He gave me answers on Gram Parsons as well as the various lineups of the Byrds. Mr. Ferg is a great guitar player. He's in his mid-50s. We're friends with his two sons. When his workweek is through, he plays gigs with three different bands and covers songs by CCR, Elvis, Buddy Holly, and Buck Owens (to name a few) and performs originals like “Shit My Pants Polka” and “I Can't Sing Like Johnny Cash.”

My friend Wesley Tables got my attention.

“You should ask Mr. Ferg your big question.”

It was a reference to side-A of this essay. I had finished it the day before. I shrugged, nodded, and took a seat on a bar-stool with intent to pose my question to Mr. Ferg.

“OK. In terms of a rock band having a whole lot of impact on the world at large, the Beatles have got to be #1, right? They're British, of course. Who do you think is the most influential and significant American band? That's the big question.”

His prominent brow crinkled, owing to wariness more so than intrigue.

“I just don't think there's a real answer to that question, Nick. No other band left their mark in history quite like the Beatles—American, British...Irish, who cares? I don't see why there has to be a competition for second place. What does it matter? Now, a lot of people thought the Byrds were sort of like the American version of the Beatles, and there's some truth to that, but I have to say that my ultimate answer is that I don't have an answer for you.”

It should not be overlooked that my friends were overjoyed by this response. Dick Willy chimed in.

“That's a great answer, Mr. Ferg,” he said. “And you still don't know whether to count Nine Inch Nails as a band or a solo artist, Olig,” he added.

That was true, at the time. I pondered for a beat without hanging my head in dejection, which was a challenge. Tad Lightly spoke up.

“I'd go with Three Dog Night.”

Mr. Ferg snorted before he took a sip of beer. He shook his head.

“Three Dog Night,” he repeated—somehow marveling and dismayed at the same time.

Mr. Ferg and I agreed on something, at least. The problem with Three Dog Night and so many other popular American bands from the '70s is that they all tend to blend together in a hearty but generic stew of that musical era. To me, Steve Miller Band, Kansas, T-Rex, Grand Funk Railroad, Boston, and Three Dog Night all seem akin to sports teams that made the playoffs only to get knocked out in the first round. All of these bands made achievements, but the true champions of their era will be discussed later. Hopefully this is the last time anyone likens the dudes from Cheap Trick to the Yao/ McGrady-led Houston Rockets, circa '05.

In the basement of the Ferg household, I realized I wasn't making much progress. Basically, I had journeyed to consult the sage, only to be told that my pressing question didn't really merit an answer. I stepped outside to smoke a cigarette and contemplate as much as I could as the chips and cards were distributed for the poker game.

Later on in the night, the answer to a minor issue came to me. Belatedly, I thought of a reply to one of Dick Willy's many qualms with my latest essay. What I said seemed especially mistimed because I interrupted a chat that was mostly about Gilligan's Island.

“Nine Inch Nails are a band, to answer your question," I said. "But they're a band with an identity crisis. Trent Reznor isn't a solo artist and Nine Inch Nails are a band in pretty much the same way that 'bra' should be plural and 'panties' should be singular—even though they're not termed that way. By a loophole of logic, Nine Inch Nails are more like the bra, plural, than the panties, singular. Got it?”

I felt satisfied and went all in with my dwindled stack of chips. My nines were drawing dead before the final, “river” card was flipped. After that, the upshot of my explanation was that I had to explain myself further. I felt accustomed to doing that sort of thing.

***

The point being: I really didn't get anywhere the night the big question was brought up. Sure, Nine Inch Nails may count as an American rock band, but they're definitely not the most historically relevant. The same goes for so many other bands because my point of comparison is unfair in nature. I have come to realize that Mr. Ferg is probably onto something...but that doesn't mean I won't try to meddle with the ludicrous notion of determining America's most comparable answer to the Beatles.

I get the maddening nature of it all, though. We're a country founded on the belief in the triumph of the individual, whereas the British put a higher regard into the collectivist spirit. Americans tend to feel like they have a band, but the British typically feel like they're in a band. Americans are more likely than other nationalities to lend prestige to one while lessening the contributions of others, and rock 'n' roll is but a microcosm of this truth. This is why so many Americans know something about Albert Einstein and Babe Ruth but have little to add about the Manhattan Project and the '27 Yankees. This why the president has more power than congress, whereas the British Parliament has more power than the Prime Minister and royalty. Great Britain and America were fundamentally molded into those paradigms, and the iconic music created in both countries has reflected that.

In recognition of this cultural chasm, I am hereby waving the surrender flag in regard to my original question. The ideal way to cope with all the flack I've been handed for raising such an absurd question (not to mention the dumb consternation the whole thing has caused me) is to strike up a compromise and admit that I too can't really provide a satisfactory answer. Instead, I have to offer an abrupt crossover into baseball lore. I'm going to compose a starting-lineup card of America's premier rock bands.

Baseball is, after all, a truly American sport; it has been deemed our national pastime, ad nauseam. It's also not as popular as football—whether it be American football or the painfully dull version of the game that Brits embrace. Just as American bands don't provoke as many “wows” from the casual fan, the same could be said about baseball in comparison to football.

Elvis is our quarterback and Creedence Clearwater Revival is our center-fielder--am I right?

As for the problem of equating plural entities (bands) to singular entities (individual players), refer to the Nine Inch Nails conundrum earlier in this essay.

Some significant bands must be left out of the starting line-up; they'll have to ride the pine in the dugout, chew and spit wads of snuff, and tell dirty jokes between innings. R.E.M. are critically beloved and forefathers of indie/ alternative rock, but their magnitude is just not on par with the bands in the starting line-up. Apologies for the snub, Michael Stipe, but you sang it best: “Everybody Hurts.” Lynyrd Skynyrd are quite popular, especially to southerners, but they're really more of a Confederate band. Benched! Van Halen meant an awful lot, but they lose points for interchanging lead-singers and thereby cheapening the value of their group by employing the likes of Van Hagar and later Van Gary Cherone. Journey is denied mostly because their most memorable music video—the one that featured them earnestly playing air-instruments in a back alley—cannot be appreciated by a self-respecting listener who has no sense of ironic detachment. The Eagles have a top-selling greatest hits album working in their favor, but too many fans of rock-music share the Dude Lebowski's conviction that they really sucked. Guns 'n' Roses disbanded an album or two before cementing a superlative legacy, and then their lead singer devolved into a pop-culture joke. Metallica doesn't quite mean as much to American heavy metal as KISS does (who hit the scene first), but I will concede that that was a very tough call to make...

For what it's worth, naturally.

And so, with "fuck yous" to further ados: Here is my starting line-up of the most iconic American rock bands.

1.The Ramones, RF. They played much faster than any other band in the line-up, and lead-off hitters are known for having great speed. The Ramones only required 2 minutes to blast eardrums with 3-chord ugly-bliss. They played at a frenzied pace and always hustled. They could easily stretch a bloop-single into a double. My friend Ziggy has to lend a great and insightful quote about why the Ramones are so crucial, and here it is: “Like most Americans, they're dumb and they don't care. They founded American punk.” Listen to Ziggy.

2.The Beach Boys, 2B. “They're probably the most suitable rock-critic answer to the question,” Ziggy opined, and, considering that Rolling Stone deemed Pet Sounds the second-greatest album of all time (behind only the Beatles' Sgt. Pepper), it's hard to disagree with him. Their early stuff seems so unduly fixated on the appeal of surfing and So-Cal babes, and I have to scoff at the likelihood of legendary Brits like Mick or Paul or Plant ever bringing their talents to a county fair in my hometown of Fond du Lac, WI—as Mike Love has done with his touring semblance of the Beach Boys—but that only serves to demonstrate the fact that our bands are less in-demand than their counterparts across the Atlantic. Within the confines of the debate, that hardly matters, though. “Good Vibrations,” “God Only Knows,” “Sloop John B.,” “Barbara Ann,” “Help Me Rhonda,” and a host of other melodic triumphs stand as proof that while the Beach Boys didn't slug very many out of the park, they still tallied singles with the greatest of ease.

3. Creedence Clearwater Revival, CF. It's telling that managers often place whom they consider the team's premier hitter in the third spot of their batting order. (Ken Griffey Jr., Albert Pujols, and Ryan Braun are fine examples.) The onus is on #3 hitters to hit for both power and steady contact, and to make the most of their athleticism by stealing bases from time-to-time. CCR did all of this. “Lodi” and Fogerty's forlorn ballads with “Rain” in the title are packed with emotional wallop. Among others, “Lookin' Out My Back Door,” “Proud Mary,” and “Bad Moon Rising” proved they could crank out hits effortlessly. “Commotion” and “Fortunate Son” were indicative of their speed. More so than any other band in the line-up, CCR represent what I truly love about rock music: They make me want to dance, but they don't overlook my heart or mind for a single note. In Fogerty's solo hit “Center Field,” he pleaded, “Put me in coach/ I'm ready to play.” Damn right. I'm happy to oblige.

4. The Doors, LF. The Doors are entrenched in left field because that's where a lot Jim Morrison's lyrics came from. Listen to the rambling dread of “The End” if you think that's an unfair statement. Last night I spoke with a Doors-adoring friend about “The End” and came to the conclusion that, “One man's jerk-off is another man's genius.” This is the main reason why the Doors are so divisive. Half of my friends who really dig rock music dismiss them as self-indulgent phonies, while the other half regard them as brilliant virtuosos. The latter stance is closer to the truth about the Doors. “Break on Through,” “Light My Fire,” and “Roadhouse Blues” were like towering home-runs of American rock-music. The Doors aren't exactly the divine and enigmatic love-child of Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin, but don't hold that against them. In addition to making plenty of bassists question their self-worth, the Lizard King and Co. embodied sex, drugs, etc. with both swagger and reckonings of doom...which was not too shabby, for an American band.

5. Aerosmith, 1B. Our first-baseman has sold more albums than any other American rock group. So what if their manager more or less thinks they're boneheads? They're undeniable fan favorites whose relevance has spanned four decades and endured enough turmoil, failure, and revival to fuel a marathon of Behind the Music. I have no disparaging remarks to make about tunes like “Sweet Emotion,” “Dream On,” “Walk This Way,” “Rag Doll,” and even “Janie's Got a Gun.” Their cameo in the “Flaming Moe's” episode of The Simpsons still tickles my funny bone. Pay no mind to Steven Tyler's recent high-profile disgraces and remember him as the front-man of a group of American Idols.

6. The Grateful Dead, 3B. The Dead represent the gradual mainstreaming of the counterculture. They lasted for 30 years and retained their freedom and integrity (albeit hippie-integrity), and even though the merchandising of the group became omnipresent on t-shirts, hats, backpacks, and bumper stickers, very few fans ever accused them of selling out. They began as starving artists who liked to get high and evolved into rogue capitalists who liked to get high, and as long as they kept touring relentlessly without losing a hint of magic in their live shows, Dead-Heads were all too thrilled to buy t-shirts emblazoned with fuzzy bears and what appears to be a lightning bolt trapped inside a human skull. Their studio albums matter some, but they're the only band in the line-up who truly belongs because of their concerts. The main qualm I have with the Grateful Dead batting sixth is that it's sure to take them about 8 fucking minutes to round the bases during their home-run trot. Their position is third-base, by the way, because I have a strong hunch that under-the-blanket finger-bangings were common among their concert-goers. Free love is a wonderful thing.

7. KISS, DH. This is the most aggressively branded portion of the line-up, but, whereas the Grateful Dead transcended indictments of selling out, KISS were different: Selling out was their chief aim as a band. Gene, Ace, Paul, and Peter aspired to be superheroes in rakish costumes and make-up who blasted pop-metal in huge arenas. They merged comic-book iconography with ass-kicking rock 'n' roll. It's not that their success was a gimmick; rather, their gimmick was authentic and that's why they succeeded. KISS is our Designated-Hitter because they clearly lack range in the field. They could sometimes belt out bombs like “Shout It Out Loud” and “Rock and Roll all Night,” but when they tried to expand their sound and sentiment, debacles of balladry were the result. “Beth,” for instance. They wanted to rock and roll all night and party everyday and...well, that was IT. Powerful? You bet. Versatile? Hell no.

8.The Byrds, SS. According to Tom Petty, “The Byrds were the first credible answer to the British Invasion.” This is why the Byrds play shortstop: Defense. Circa 1965, our borders were invaded by superior forces of music from the UK. Just like in World War II, these bands were essentially our Allies, but we still had to counteract their power as best we could. Mr. Petty is close to the truth, but it's more accurate to say, “The Byrds were our first line of defense against the British Invasion.” They bat in the 8-hole for subjective reasons that most likely serve as a microcosm of their relevance: I know of nobody my age who admits to adoring the Byrds, and yet I've met a multitude of people who obsess over the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Who, etc. In a way, this seems like a shame: Music fans born in the '80s mostly know the Byrds for their hit tune that would cue whenever Kevin Arnold from The Wonder Years gazed longingly through a window and mused about the ever-changing nature of growing up. The Byrds meant more than the sum total of their heavenly single “Turn! Turn! Turn!” plus popularity around the same time the Fab Four appeared on The Ed Sullivan Show. But as the decades have turned again and again, their magnitude has been dwarfed by the British Invaders of their era. That error should not be charged to the shortstop, though. That error should be charged to the fans.

9. A platoon of Nirvana/ Pearl Jam, C. OK. I have to address that
1.) A lot of people abhor the Seattle bands, they will insist that GNR and/ or Metallica got shafted by a scrawny shoe-gazer, and 2.) Kurt Cobain hated being compared to Eddie Vedder and Pearl Jam. He thought the album Ten was awful. Well...let me explain, fuckers. Long after the big bang of rock 'n' roll, Nirvana and Pearl Jam founded a genre that convinced millions to stop buying Poison albums. Just as Bob Dylan was lionized as the spokesman for Baby Boomers, Nirvana and Pearl Jam will forever be intertwined with the DNA strands of Generation X. Nobody ever deemed Axl or James Hetfield the voices of their generation, though. As for Kurt's disdain for Eddie, teammates don't have to get along; Derek Jeter and A-Rod don't need to belong to the same book-of-the-month club in order for the Yankees to make another run at the pennant. As for the basis of their platoon, Kurt was a southpaw, and so Nirvana bats against right-handed pitching. When a lefty is on the mound, Eddie and his band-mates get a rare start. Nirvana meant more for a shorter period of time, while PJ is the exact opposite; they both belong in the line-up. Catchers are not stylish, they get dirty* behind the plate, and they're oftentimes the least-accomplished hitters in the line-up.

Starting Pitcher, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. You've got to understand that pitchers are different than hitters because they're individuals more so than collectivists. Tom Petty has a shit-load of great contributions to American rock-music, but where the win-column was concerned, he was adamant about receiving more credit than his teammates. Granted, not all pitchers do this consciously, but a lot of times, they end up minimizing the contributions of others while glorifying themselves in the process. Such is the case with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. Additionally, the fact that Petty somehow recorded a solo album with his trademarked backing-band offers proof that the man knows how to throw a curve-ball.

That is my optimal line-up card...but you have to realize that America would still lose to Great Britain in the World Series. We'd get crushed, 4 games to 1. Historically speaking, those Redcoat-bands are stacked. If you don't believe me, get a load of this: The Beatles and the Rolling Stones can be likened to having Babe Ruth and Hank Aaron on the same team, and they're so deep that the fucking Clash hit 8th in their batting-order. I have hereby presented the only way a team of Brits could dominate a team of Yankees on the baseball field: Metaphorically.

***

So. America clearly loses that contest—and less importantly, an American writer fails in his effort to assert his country's greatest rock-band. Sure. I offered a decent alternative to answering the question that I posed, but I didn't exactly cite an official response.

Not long after Mr. Ferg dismissed the very nature of the question I asked him, I didn't learn my lesson; I asked my dad the same thing. He replied warily.

“I don't know. Maybe the Beach Boys, maybe the Byrds. I mean--does it really have to be a competition?”

“I think it does,” I said. “But I might be wrong about that.”

He shook his head and grinned fleetingly. “Whatever, Nick. That's your thing. You'll figure it out.”

I had to reminisce. I thought of the night when my dad sat in a lawn-chair on the back-patio of his house with casual hopes of overhearing the Beach Boys concert that was in progress ten blocks away. No notes struck his eardrums on that particular night, though. The wind just carried the sound waves in a different direction. I was roughly the same distance away from the Beach Boys' show at the county fair, across town and drinking beers at a party, but when I stepped outside for a smoke, I couldn't hear a lick of "Good Vibrations," either.

And for a moment I felt like everything had been explained to me, even though the real answers were beyond me, too.

Telling quote #3: “First thing I remember was asking papa 'why?'/ For there were many things I didn't know/ And daddy always smiled, and took me by the hand/ Saying 'someday you'll understand'/ Well, I'm here to tell you now each and every mother's son/ You'd better learn it fast, you'd better learn it young...'cause someday never comes.”--CCR, “Someday Never Comes”

*Or grungy, if you will.

We're an American Band, For What It's Worth (side-A)

2011-07-27T21:54:00.000-07:00

I don't mean to boast, but not long ago, I made practical use of a status on Facebook. This is a relative claim, of course; I'm comparing the question I posed to the likes of 1.) “My ex-girlfriend is a vile harlot”* and 2.) “man im so high right now!” Now, I can't prove the status I submitted was more substancial than either of those two offerings, but mine garnered over 50 responses, whereas no one had a word to say to the jaded lover or the non-discrete stoner. The point is not that I am therefore cooler than anyone else, but rather, that my hunch about posting something relevant on FB has been supported by evidence. This essay functions in much the same way. I seek validations for what strikes me as truthful, but I don't offer very many indisputable facts. Considering the following question that I posed...how could I?

“I have a question about music. OBJECTIVELY speaking, it can be stated that either the Beatles or the Rolling Stones are the greatest British rock band. (Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd can't quite match the magnitude of their predecessors.) Which band best qualifies as America's greatest? Not necessarily your favorite, mind you--and please dear God nobody say Fish** (sic).”

My hypotheses are that 1.) the indisputably iconic rock bands from Great Britain are vastly easier to acknowledge than their American counterparts, and 2.) America's most influential and monumental musicians are all solo artists. Less vitally, it's also fairly simple to identify the solo rockers from Great Britain who have left the most culturally significant legacy. The greater question that I want an answer to is this: Why does it seem so laughably dubious to try to name the American rock band that truly resonates the most? I can't even compile a plausible Top-5 that would be remotely satisfying—which is vexing since I'm inclined to do such a categorical thing. How can this be explained?

I received plenty of solid answers and, predictably, very few great answers. Some replied facetiously. (“Cheeseheads with Attitude,” “America, for fuck's sake,” and “If only Nickelback were born in the U.S.A....”) Others provided sincere replies that strike me as ludicrous. (“Rancid—debate over,” “The Strawberry Alarm Clock...no contest,” and “The Grass Roots?”) Not everyone gave an objective rather than subjective response. (You're one of my favorite people, Hootie McBoobs, but that band who rocked us so thoroughly at Summerfest, “the Black Keys”...they're just not a viable answer to the question.) One person answered, “The Beatles, obviously,” and I don't know her well enough to tell if she was serious or kidding. I got a kick out of another comment, “Definitely Grand Funk Railroad, now that I think about it,” because that would be Homer Simpson's answer and Grand Funk were at least effusively proud when they proclaimed themselves an American Band. Aside from Fish (sic), I was relieved nobody mentioned bands I think are both quite shitty and poor answers to the core question. Sticks,*** REO Speedwagon, and Bon Jovi.) I was rueful when bands that don't appeal to me but nonetheless merit consideration were brought up. (Journey, Aerosmith, and Van Halen.) The most rational and insightful contributor included in his Top-5 Sonic Youth—a discordant indie-band that has mostly disdained mainstream appeal since their emergence in the mid-80s. This baffles me as much as it validates my initial hunch. I couldn't believe Lynyrd Skynyrd, R.E.M., and KISS were nowhere to be found in the debate. These three American rock bands combine for nearly 8-million “likes” on Facebook.**** Astonishingly, Metallica is more popular than all three of those bands COMBINED on the same site—and they were likewise absent. Maybe I need new digital pals to better reflect our culture's classification of a truly great American band. Maybe I should offer superficial friendship to a random weirdo solely because he has a Gene Simmons tattoo on his chest. These are the fake problems I conjure to make life even more troubling.

My premise that Led Zeppelin can't match the magnitude of the Beatles or the Rolling Stones was disputed. This is a minor quibble and a tangential challenge. Regardless of whether you prefer Led Zeppelin to the Beatles and/ or the Stones, don't overlook the fact that the Misty Mountain Hoppers were not a part of the British Invasion—probably the most momentous development in the time-line of rock 'n' roll. I will gladly concede that, in terms of impact, Led Zeppelin vaulted over less iconic British Invaders such as the Who and the Kinks. Led Zeppelin may very well earn the bronze medal in the debate across the Atlantic, and—all things considered—that is an astounding achievement. But no matter how much you adore raunchy but sometimes sentimental hard rock that verges on heavy metal, please, don't shit yourself: Led Zeppelin mean a lot, but the Beatles and the Stones unequivocally mean more. As the time elapsed after the watershed moment of said Invasion, the limitations of cultural impact became more restrictive. (This also helps explain why Black Sabbath, Queen, the Clash, and Cream—while superior in impact to the vast majority of American bands—aren't the most sensible answers, either.) Perhaps I should have restated it all this way: In an encyclopedia that chronicles a slew of rock bands, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones must have the longest, most thorough entries. Which American band warrants the longest, most thorough entry?

And by the way, I do realize that equating sexy things like rock 'n' roll and Robert Plant's acid-washed pants-tent to scholarly things like encyclopedias and footnotes sort of reduces the appeal of what I'm trying to embrace. What can I say? Don't be like me. Shit, I can barely pull it off. It's a daily challenge.

The second problem people had with my premise was far more exasperating. Vance Flerny, among others, completely disagreed with me that Chuck Berry and Elvis Presley qualify as solo artists. After I commented that both are subject to a different (and less ambiguous) debate, he retorted with the following:

“That's weak. They both played with bands. Neither one just hung out by himself and played on-stage. I would hate to be the one to tell the 'band' backing a so-called solo artist that they actually weren't a band at all—that the only person considered to be the artist was the front-man.”

To my chagrin, Richie Chipworth concurred.

“Yeah. Why are solo artists disqualified? It seems like an arbitrary distinction.”

I spewed an exhausted sigh and tried to explain that there is a clear difference between bands and solo artists with backing bands that typically feature a revolving cast of players. Golly, what a fucking lost cause that turned out to be. And I'll have to elaborate. Being in a band is not the same as having a band. While the former phrasing designates a partnership, the latter implies prestige for one and the subordination of the others. Chuck Berry is the easiest to dismiss because he never had a definitive backing band. He required interchangeable bassists and drummers, but, in essence, the man behind “Johnny B. Goode” played with his own Ding-a-Ling. As for Elvis, Bob Dylan, and Johnny Cash, consider their album covers for tangible proof. NO MENTION of the Jordanaires, the Band, nor the Tennessee Three, respectively, is printed on ANY of the studio album covers the three collectively released. This info was reflected by Billboard charts that marked record sales and radio play. Credit, acclaim, and fortune came to them in vastly unbalanced proportions compared to what their backing bands received. Hence: the King, the Voice of a Generation, and the Man in Black qualify as solo artists.

Beyond that, it's senseless and grammatically incorrect to say something akin to, “Johnny Cash was such an incredible band.” Or: “The Beach Boys are my favorite musician.” Sweet Jesus, people. If I have to explain to literate adults the difference between singular and plural nouns, I'll be forced to pursue a career as a merchant of suicide machines.

Votes were cast for Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers as well as Bruce Springsteen and the E-Street Band. This is where it gets especially tricky. Explicit signs of prestige and subordination apply to both, but the line-ups of the Heartbreakers and the E-Street Band alike have remained mostly intact for over 35 years. Petty and Springsteen may be glory-hogs, but I think that's a major part of their American appeal, and furthermore, both are loyal glory-hogs who prefer not to play with interchangeable musicians. Does either qualify for the debate?

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers were marketed and therefore qualify as a band because three crucial words, “and the Heartbreakers,” were printed on the record sleeves of You're Gonna Get It!, Damn the Torpedoes, Greatest Hits, etc. Bruce Springsteen, on the other hand, did not acknowledge the E-Street Band on the covers of Born to Run, Born in the U.S.A., Darkness on the Edge of Town, etc. The Boss also played every instrument on 1982's Nebraska, which is widely regarded as his best (and definitely saddest) album. The E-Street Band are very rarely recognized on Springsteen's album covers.

Therefore, the poor neurotic hack trying to clarify this clusterfuck deems that Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers are in fact an American band. Bruce Springsteen is ultimately an American solo act, though. If I was assert that the distinction lies in the album covers, would anyone believe me? Vance Flerny and people of his ilk would not; I can only hope to sway others.

Maddeningly enough, though, Tom Petty released a few solo albums. In fact, three of his biggest singles, “I Won't Back Down,” “Runnin' Down a Dream,” and (oh, sweet lord, how the gruesome plot thickens) “Free Fallin'” are all included on 1989's Full Moon Fever. By my logic, those hits would have to be stricken from the band's legacy. Infinitely worse, Wildflowers was marketed as a solo album, too. That one featured “You Don't Know How It Feels” and “You Wreck Me.” I type infinitely worse because—get this—ALL THE HEARTBREAKERS, except for the drummer, played on Wildflowers. Petty is damn lucky he didn't cause a rift in the space-time continuum with that move.

The man whose alias is Dick Willy is my best friend. He warned me about what I was getting myself into:

“I can't get with this question. Too much red tape. Splitting hairs between 'band' and 'solo' seems beside the point and really hard to do. That said, I can't say this question isn't interesting.”

And I can't say I don't want to thank you for the feedback, Dick Willy.

Too much red tape? You bet. I started out aiming for a track length comparable to CCR's “I Put a Spell on You” (4:32) and now it appears I have “I Heard It Through the Grapevine” (11:06) to wrap my mind around. I have become like what I typically despise: A jam band. But I will labor on until the end of side-A's rigmarole.

The Rat Pack was suggested. They were certainly iconic and American, but they don't at all count. They were lounge singers, crooners—not rockers. What's more, they openly disliked rock 'n' roll, partly because they were all born before the Great Depression and partly for the same reason cock-rocker Vince Neil hated Kurt Cobain and grunge music. Rock 'n' roll made crooning seem antiquated to a lot of Baby-Boomers. There was a time when only backwoods yokels and blues-howling black people played the guitar. The six-string used to be widely derided as an unsophisticated and boorish instrument. There was a time, believe it or not, when a fucking clarinetist stood a much better chance than a guitarist of seducing gorgeous and horny socialites. Rock 'n' Roll changed that, though. I'm glad. To hell with the clarinet and so much for the Rat Pack.

Some folks will really resent me for stating this, but the Jimi Hendrix Experience doesn't count. The front-man's drummer and bassist were born in Great Britain. You can't be an American rock band if two-thirds of your group refer to trucks as “lorries.” And Hendrix was not technically a solo artist, either, since his album covers credit his band-mates. Hendrix is thereby in no-man's land and it hardly seems fair. If it's any consolation, Hendrix is one of the greatest musicians to appear on this planet in the past century.

More-modern jam and punk bands, while disparate in style, are all inherently indebted to the American forefathers of their genres, the Grateful Dead and the Ramones, respectively. Again, as time elapses beyond a moment of historical innovation—whether it's the emergence of the San Francisco-rooted counterculture in the late-'60s or the impact of the “fuck all, play fast,” CBGB's scene in New York—bands almost always mean less than their genre-specific influences.

Pearl Jam and Nirvana verge on viable answers, and not merely because I like their music. (My favorite American rock band, FYI, is a toss-up between Cake and Spoon, but I realize those are both terrible answers to the question I posed.) Grunge had its downfalls—enfeebling despair, Messiah-complexes, that haunting Alice in Chains video with the creepy guy who had his eyes sewn shut, Alice in Chains in general—but it marked a legit cultural phenomenon. Eddie Vedder and Kurt Cobain were prodded by the media in the way cops bark into a megaphone to contact a criminal with hostages in his living room: “What are the demands of Generation X?!” Both felt beleaguered by the likes of Time magazine and 60 Minutes circa 1992. Vedder waited out the conflict, stopped appearing in music videos about a decade before MTV stopped showing them, and came to peaceful resolution. The same cannot be stated about Cobain.

Grunge probably stands as the most recent game-changer of major significance in American rock music. As for later developments such as rap-metal and garage rock revival, in terms of their cultural clout, Cobain is the man to quote: “Oh well, whatever, nevermind.”

There. I have turned away a lot of unworthy candidates and granted a minority entrance into the debate. This is the closest I will ever get to working as a bouncer at a popular nightclub.

And so, here is my restated premise. More so than any other British rock band, the Beatles best-qualify as the consensus #1, even though a lesser case could be made for the Rolling Stones. The British solo acts (assuming you don't reject the very notion of a “solo act”) are slightly tougher to determine, but manageable. David Bowie is my favorite and he might be in the Top-3, but he's too strange to appeal to as many people as Elton John or Eric Clapton. If it's between those two blokes, the edge goes to Sir Elton because too many of Clapton's hits are attributed to bands (Cream, Derek and the Dominoes, and Blind Faith). It doesn't matter that Sir Elton rarely wrote his own lyrics; he prevails as the premier British solo act, albeit with less competition than his Yankee counterparts. America has a plethora of iconic solo artists. It's almost criminal to belatedly give credence to Buddy Holly and and Little Richard and Ray Charles, among others. They're not the most satisfying answers, though, and neither is Bob Dylan. The King is unparalleled in magnitude and influence. Remember, the Beatles idolized Elvis Presley and not the other way around.

But I still have no clue which American rock band duly ranks as our most significant. It feels impossible and dumb to declare, just as it did thousands of words ago. Don't worry, though. The thought-market is saturated—and restless, too. With the Beach Boys, Credence Clearwater Revival, the Byrds, the Grateful Dead, the Ramones, the Doors, Van Halen, KISS, Aerosmith, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Metallica, Guns 'n' Roses, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Nirvana, and a few others to discuss, I should be able to scrape something together.

Twenty, twenty, twenty-four hours to go until then. Maybe more. It's high-time I gulp down a Lexapro. Maybe it'll make me drowzy. At this point, “I Wanna be Sedated.”

*This quote is severely paraphrased.

**Here is today's installment of what could be the most infuriating thing about the band in question. The quartet has been known to close concerts with a Capella, barbershop-style renditions of songs such as “Hello, My Baby.” They're all MUCH better musicians than singers, and yet, at the very end of certain live-shows, they put aside their instruments and focus all their energy on a component of their music that is not exactly one of their strengths. Barbershop isn't what you're cut out for, you Vermontian millionaires. Just because you love The Simpsons and there are four of you does not mean you should try to emulate the B-Sharps.

***(sic)

****The expressed “likes” of Talking Heads on Facebook are comparatively piddling, which I can't understand. Stop Making Sense is, after all, an American live album for the ages. I think their popularity is skewed and diminished because so many of their fans may try to log onto Facebook only to say to themselves: “How do I work this?”

White Knows Candy

2011-07-17T05:54:00.001-07:00

Four people sit behind a news desk, half-encircled by a camera crew. Only one of the four is a regular on television. His name is Marshall Storm, an anchorman known for badgering those he interviews with rude and prying questions. To his right, Mookie gestates peevishly. The middle of the panel is occupied by a wide-screen TV that displays a vexed and nonplussed Bill Cosby via satellite. To the right of anchorman Marshall Storm is Skip White, the frazzled and controversial owner of a local candy shop. Beside Mr. White, a fairly attractive but stern woman named Susan Grace glowers at him through wire-rimmed glasses.

Marshall Storm: Welcome to Hard Focus. I'm Marshall Storm. Grant Barker has the night off again; he was, if you recall, fired two months ago. Tonight the Hard Focus is cast on Skip White, owner of White's Candy Shop, a local business that has become the subject of controversy.

Skip White: There's that word again: Controversy. Skip White is now public enemy number one. I don't get it. I've done nothing wrong.

Susan Grace: On the contrary, Mr. White, what you've done is wrong and irresponsible.

Mookie: Yeah! You lied to me, Whitey.

Marshall Storm: Those are the outbursts of Susan Grace, concerned mother and moral crusader, and Mookie, a disgruntled cocaine addict. And joining us via satellite is a more esteemed African-American who serves as proof that Channel 6 in no believes all black people are as hopeless and vile as Mookie. Warm greetings to wholesome comedian and children's doctor: Bill Cosby. A living legend.

Bill Cosby: What? Doctor? No, that was just a character I played on the TV...say, what does this have to do with me? I heard some talk about a candy shop and drugs. What's all this about?

Marshall Storm: (bursts with laughter) Great stuff as always, Bill—and a fine segue, too. Let's take a look at Mr. White's latest commercial.

Skip White stands preening behind a display case of boxes of chocolate. A large spool of licorice, wound-up like a garden hose, can be seen over his shoulder.

Skip White: Greetings, candy fans! I'm Skip White. You know, people can buy a candy-bar just about anywhere these days, but what really makes my shop stand out is that I'm a certified expert on candy. The teenager in the baggy pants at the Wal-Whatever—has he memorized every single ingredient in Sweet Tarts? What about the heavyset fellow with the tattoos at the gas station—is he gonna explain to you the difference between Starbursts and Mambas? Heck no. You get the picture; I'm like a candy-sage. If you've got a craving for the stuff, you can trust me. Like my slogan says, I promise you: White Knows Candy!

The image freezes on Mr. White grinning, his thumbs upraised. His conclusive three words, “White Knows Candy,” echo loudly several times before the commercial ends.

Back in the studio, Susan Grace shakes her head in dismay. Mookie's skittishness has morphed into contempt aimed at Skip White, who throws up his hands with baffled exasperation. Marshall Storm furrows his brow and attacks.

Marshall Storm: “White Knows Candy”--the racy motto of an ignorant man whose main customers are children.

Skip White: Ignorant. How am I ignorant? I know my product. I'm a candy expert; White knows candy.

Susan Grace: Mr. White, the fact that you still don't get the horrible implications of your slogan is maddening.

Mookie: Yeah. You done me wrong, Whitey. I was flipping through the channels and I saw the last part of your commercial—promising people white nose candy. The gall! Shame on you.

Skip White: Hey, you watch your mouth; I do know candy. Hershey's Kisses have been around since 1907. Bill and Dorothy Harmsen made the first Jolly Ranchers...

Mookie: Man, you just don't understand.

Skip White: One serving size of Nutty Bars has 310 calories...What do you want from me?! Seriously, am I on the Candid Camera program or something? You have to tell me if I ask, right? Ever since I promised that “White Knows Candy,” I feel like the whole town has been pulling my leg and doing a darn good job of it.

Marshall Storm: No, Mr. White, this is most assuredly not the Candid Camera program. What do you say to the critics who accuse you of promoting drug use to children and misleading certain coke-heads who happen to be black? Think of an answer to that question while I check in with the esteemed Bill Cosby. Bill! What's your take on the situation?

Bill Cosby: Hold on, now. Would someone please explain to me how I got involved in all of this?

Marshall Storm: (guffaws explosively) Quite the zinger. Oh, mercy—each word funnier than the last. Your rebuttal to the aforementioned charges, Mr. White?

Skip White: What? Children and—and—drug use? Coke-heads who happen to be...how am I making the blacks drink too much cola? Giving people the third degree for knowing a lot about candy—is that what we do in this country? Has it come to that?! I mean, honestly...am I on the Punked program? Isn't that what they call the Candid Camera these days?

Susan Grace: Good God. Mr. White, I've explained this to you so many times, but you just won't listen. My patience has worn quite thin ever since Mookie told me about your unfortunate slogan.

Skip White: Wait. You two know each other?

Marshall Storm: Indeed they do. Let's take a look at Mookie's momentous chat with Ms. Grace, captured on tape by a security cam at Heavyset Hank's gas station.

Mookie fitfully waits in line. Ahead of him is a slovenly man with an uncombed pompadour, dressed in an expensive but long-neglected suit and tie. Adorned with tattoos on his arms, Heavyset Hank can be seen working the register. Susan Grace enters the colorless frame, a gallon of milk in tow. She spots Mookie and addresses him with cheer typically reserved for a baby nephew.

Susan Grace: Mookie! Well, what a pleasant surprise.

Mookie: (revived) Yeah. The feeling is mutual as hell, Susan Grace.

Susan Grace: (kindly scolding) Mookie?

Mookie: (hangs head) Oh. I'm sorry. Mutual as heck, Susan Grace.

Susan Grace: That's better.

Mookie: (itching his scalp profusely) So, how are the kids?

Susan Grace: Wonderful. Mark starts karate class tomorrow. Jane is already learning to stand on her own two feet. And you? How's the drug problem?

Mookie: The drug problem is bad, really bad. I can't find drugs anywhere!

Susan Grace: Oh, I hate to hear you talk like that, Mookie...

Mookie: No, no. Hear me out. There's a man on TV...Chip, no...Skip White, promising people white nose candy—like his place was a cocaine bodega. I rushed down there—you know, before the cops caught wind of it—and ordered myself an 8-ball. He had no idea what I was talking about! When I broke it down for him, he kicked me out, called me a “dirty hoodlum” or some sh...some nonsense.

Susan Grace: Wait--the candy shop owner? He said something about “white nose candy”? There must be some sort of a...Oh! Oh, goodness, no...such a poor choice of words...

The man in the disheveled suit and tie turns around—cautious yet determined.

Grant Barker: Good evening. I couldn't help but overhear discourse pertaining to white nose candy. Have you got any? Granted, I can't pay for it now , but I would gladly go down on either one of you for a toot.

Mookie: (pointing) Hey! I seen you on TV, too. It's the Hard Focus guy!

Back in the studio, Mookie returns an affectionate wave to Susan from across the desk. Marshall Storm betrays a twitchy expression of disgust concealing glee.

Marshall Storm: Correction, Mookie: It was the Hard Focus guy. Well, there you have it. Amid Grant Barker's shameful downward spiral, a drug-addled street tough who happens to be black and a virtuous mother/ activist bond over their scorn of a clueless candy shop owner.

Susan Grace: Well, the Bible tells us to hate the sin, not the sinner.

Skip White: Sure! And yet, for some reason, it's okay to hate the “White Knows Candy” guy.

Susan Grace: That's because you don't realize that you've sinned.

Mookie: Mmmm! Preach on.

Skip White: But I haven't even sinned!

Susan Grace: I rest my case.

Marshall Storm: Bill Cosby! What's your take on this ongoing comedy of errors?

Bill Cosby: Wait, wait, whoever you are...I keep hearing talk of—what?--white nose candy?

Marshall Storm: (guffaws) You've slain us all once more and we are eternally grateful. Shifting gears, Mr. White, what was going through your mind when you defiled our town's sense of decency?

Skip White: You know what? I've just about had it! Lord almighty, I'm innocent. I don't know why people are so bent out of shape about “White knows candy.” “White knows candy” is harmless. There's not a damn thing wrong with “White knows candy”!

Bill Cosby: (laughs) Oh, oh—okay. I get it now. White nose candy—sure, that's the nickname of the drug people snort. I used to turn it down all the time back in the '70s. Nasty stuff. Hey, candy man! Listen here: “knows” spelled with a “k” means you've got knowledge of something, but “nose” spelled with an “n” refers to the thing on your face with two nostrils that allows you to smell the roses and the perfume and whatnot. “Knows” and “nose” sound the same, but they mean different things. You got that?

Skip White: (slowly) I...I think so.

Bill Cosby: Good. Now, the fact that your last name is White is just a bad coincidence. The real problem is that you're speaking of yourself in the third person. We can roll with that, though. To get all these people to calm down about your slogan, just say your first name instead.

Skip White: (pauses for even longer) I...I knows candy? No. Wait. Skip. Skip knows candy?

Bill Cosby: Bingo, candy man!

Susan Grace: Finally!

Bill Cosby: Problem solved. Now, I'm not quite dead yet, news anchor, so if you don't mind, I'd like to tell the folks in wherever the heck this is airing where they can see me doing stand-up.

Marshall Storm: (chagrined) I'm afraid we don't have time for that, Bill. Way to ruin the show, you fossil. Wow. Well, for the bottom-feeders on my panel who overcame their differences and bored us all in the end, this is Marshall Storm saying goodbye. Join us next time on blah-blah-blah.

The theme music cues as Skip White gets out of his chair to offer a contrite handshake to Susan Grace. Marshall Storm rips off the tiny microphone on the breast of his blazer. He chucks it onto the floor, but his words can still faintly be heard.

Marshall Storm: Psssssst. Hey. Mookie! Where's the party tonight?

He winks and gestures to his nose.

Nick Again Lists His Favorite Albums

2011-06-28T21:47:00.001-07:00

Where introductions are concerned, I am a writer of few words.

...

All right, then.

15.Jimi Hendrix—Are You Experienced? (1967): Judging by the plethora of singles that bolster this album, you'd think it breaks my rule of excluding Greatest Hits collections. Incredibly, though, “Purple Haze,” “Fire,” “The Wind Cries Mary,” “Hey Joe,” “Foxy Lady,” and “Manic Depression” are all included on the Jimi Hendrix Experience's debut. Hendrix was so talented that he could provoke baffled accusations of cheating from rock-and-roll mortals, and more than 40 years later, it's still stunning to consider the abundance of great songs that resulted from his first recording session with the Experience. Hendrix would later release Axis: Bold as Love and Electricladyland before his untimely death in 1970. Not even the Beatles accomplished so much in such a limited window of time. He wasn't cheating, but it sure seemed that way.

Hendrix announces his presence at the party during rock's golden age with the psychedelic strut of “Purple Haze.” He wonders if he is “happy or in misery,” considers it a moot point either way, and translates to his listeners the spell his muse puts on him. Within the span of the incantation, images are conjured: tire tracks smeared across the backs of loose groupies who play hard-to-get, jealous lovers with blood on their hands fleeing for the border with embattled resolve, traffic lights about to turn the color of loneliness—all told by a weird gypsy who straddles an ignited Stratocaster as he charms and beckons the flames. Hendrix captivated with searing riffs without resorting to as much macho fluff as Jimmy Page. At times, he was as poetically engaging as Dylan or Lennon, and his feats of virtuosity on the guitar were clearly unrivaled by either one.

He was such an extraordinary talent that it seemed like he was cheating, but in reality, that was never the case. Jimi Hendrix just set his own rules to play by.

14. The White Stripes—Elephant (2003): Judging by the album cover, which portrays two strikingly pale indie-rockers sitting on an amplifier, both stricken with despair, the White Stripes did not seem especially plussed by the widespread buzz wrought by 2001's White Blood Cells. Such trepidation may have been valid on some level, but Elephant, the duo's follow-up to the hype they generated for the garage-rock revival scene, marks a bold claim of their presence as an upper-echelon band in popular music. Elephant is less a salute to well-crafted trashiness, more indicative of the group's fondness for Led Zeppelin as opposed to Iggy and the Stooges, a stunning achievement of mainstream acclaim that never compromises Jack and Meg's core goal of maximizing the potential of minimalism.

The first track, “Seven Nation Army,” is the most duly overplayed single since “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” The 14th and final track is a cloying debacle. Aside from those extremes, Elephant leaves nothing to complain about. Among others, “Black Math,” “Girl, You Have No Faith in Medicine,” and “Hypnotize” scintillate with the Stripes' straightforward and biting approach. “I Want to be the Boy to Warm Your Mother's Heart” and “You've Got Her in Your Pocket” showcase Jack's nearly outdated pangs of sincerity. “Ball and Biscuit” is a bluesy odyssey of snide self-empowerment that finds a great guitarist who tends to favor simpler chords in the mood to puff out his chest and rip a few mesmerizing solos. In “The Hardest Button to Button,” Jack tartly makes amends with childhood squalor, as though he'd like to flaunt his middle finger to the whole world with the flippancy of fellow Detroit native Eminem...if only he wasn't such a gentleman.

Jack admits that he doesn't consider himself a genius in “The Air Near My Fingers.” Fair enough, but he sure is brilliant, and he chose a worthy sidekick (with jaw-dropping hooters). Brilliant minds still get bored sometimes—as he indicates earlier on the same track—but the notion that said boredom has to translate to the audience is as misleading as, say, an album cover that portrays two seemingly distraught indie-rockers who really didn't mind the spotlight all that much. The White Stripes told an occasional fib.

13. Weezer (the blue album) (1994): “What's with these homeys dissing my girl/ Why do they gotta front?” Front-man Rivers Cuomo begs this question at the start of his band's splendid breakthrough single. Similarly, there is no cause for derision of Weezer's debut because of the letdowns Cuomo and Co. have released for much of the past decade-plus. Chuck Klosterman, a more accredited writer on rock music, contends that Cuomo's songwriting skills have not diminished; rather, his persistent earnestness has become incompatible with the counterculture's increased longings for irony. I disagree. I never want anything to do with Dungeons & Dragaons, but when Rivers Cuomo began to favor his KISS poster “In the Garage” to his 12-sided die, Weezer's sound suffered. It's okay to blend KISS-like, pop-metal hooks with gnashing, Pixies and Nirvana-inspired angst; that is, in fact, what made Weezer such an appealing band in the mid-90s. The backlash against Weezer started when Cuomo—the Harvard graduate with horn-rimmed specs, an accidental founder of the Emo scene—adopted the overly simplified lyrical approach of KISS. The horribly embellished “Weezer Problem” has little to do with irony and much to do with wasted intellect.

That stated, the blue album stands as the first album I bought—on cassette, which would have presented the tedious issue of having to fast-forward (rather than skip) a track not worth the listen. Thankfully, the blue album is without a second of filler material; from the power-pop wallop of “My Name Is Jonas” to the extended, brooding trance of “Only in Dreams,” the geek-rockers find an exquisite balance of alternative sounds light on self-loathing and radio-friendly sing-alongs that are actually thoughtful. Cuomo somehow charms as a jealous and controlling boyfriend in “No One Else.” He convinces his listeners of the plausible nature of riding a surfboard to work. More candidly, he offers a quiet/ loud indictment of drunken stepfathers that serves as a generation's go-to anthem for the children of divorced parents; “Say It Ain't So” probably surpasses even Nirvana's “Serve the Servants” in that regard.

Which is saying something, when you consider that Cobain is remembered by many as the premier songwriter to emerge in the '90s. And who cares about all those post-Pinkerton letdowns?* Make Believe they were only nightmares, for “Only in dreams, we see what it means.”

12.The Strokes—Is This It (2001): An electric guitar mimics the sound of short-circuitry, drums thump a lax tempo, and then—with the conviction of a weary malcontent—Julian Casablancas pleads, “Can't you see I'm trying?/ I don't even like it.” Fittingly, the Strokes' rise to fame seemed nonchalant, as though they were resigned to ambition, already burned-out by partying and groupies in their early-20s yet doggedly set on going through the motions of stardom. Their debut LP garnered glowing reviews, inspired rock critics to employ the metaphor about “lightning caught in a bottle” ad nauseam, spelled the demise of goatee metal-rap, and redefined something obscurely known as the “cultural zeitgeist.” The Manhattan quintet foretold their response to such hype in their debut's opening/ title track: “Is this it?”

This album yielded three terrific singles. As is the case in “Last Nite,” the raucously tuneful strums of dual guitarists Albert Hammond Jr. and Nick Valensi interlace and build dynamics until the former exclaims with a solo perhaps too trashy for arena-rock but at least befitting of a much larger garage. “Someday” finds Casablancas longing for freedom via childhood nostalgia and subverting the Pink Floyd principle: “Together we stand/ Divided we fall.” (“Alone we stand/ Together we fall apart.”) “Hard to Explain” envisions space-rock without the hippies and relays a conversation between an adoring boyfriend and a skeptical father.

“The Modern Age” is a flourishing jaunt for slackers that verges on questioning if all relationships are doomed. “Barely Legal” comes across as a sloppy nod to surf-rock re-envisioned with NYC grit. And with lyrics such as, “I should have worked much harder/ I should have just not bothered,” it's easy to see that the Strokes are not easily appeased. Which hardly matters; their appeal lies in upbeat and unkempt musings on eternal dissatisfaction. The human condition has rarely sounded so infectious.

11.Led Zeppelin—Houses of the Holy (1973): Disregard the album cover. Dwelling on it inspires reactions such as, “Artistic, I guess...but mostly REALLY creepy” and “That avant-garde pederast really had a VISION.” If the whim strikes you, feel free to skip past “No Quarter,” a compelling but mismatched dirge that has Led to countless acid-induced horror shows. It is then feasible to regard Houses of the Holy as Zeppelin's finest, and less equivocally, their most vibrant. Houses then qualifies as my most-treasured album when I'm in the mood to appreciate life. Zeppelin's fifth offering finds the hobbits returning home safely from the darkest depths of Mordor. With the glowing support of their families and community, the group rejoices and gets down to mending the levee that broke at the conclusion of IV, rebuilding it with wizened minds and abler hands.

The musical chops of Page, Bonham, and Jones are unmatched by pretty much any other band you can think of. (Cream and the Jimi Hendrix Experience may be their worthiest foes.) Robert Plant is not one of my favorite singer-songwriters, but the man undoubtedly 1.) has awesome pipes,** 2.) OWNED his role in the spotlight of the biggest band of the 1970s, and 3.) should in no way be denounced as a liability. Bonus: He sounds decidedly less sleazy, not as easily parodied on Houses.

“D'yer Mak'er” is the Zeppelin tune I catch the most guff for loving. In the ensuing sentences I will be defending my opinion in transposed pro/ con fashion. Con: The words “mad,” “bad,” and “sad” are perhaps rhymed gratuitously. Pro: “D'yer Mak'er” delivers an eargasm. Con: It's an eargasm induced by a blatantly simple groove that serves as Zeppelin's answer to the missionary position. Pro: Still counts as an eargasm, so shut your ugly face, naysayer. Get yourself a blog so you can tell me how much "D'yer Mak'er" sucks. I DARE YOU!

ELSEWHERE, the rickety structure of “The Crunge” hints that the same blokes responsible for “Stairway to Heaven” have a penchant for farce and levity, too. “Over the Hills and Far Away” and “The Ocean” are jubilant blasts of arena-rock that even fussy cynics can embrace. If you take into account the “No Quarter” exception I mentioned before, the most somber sentiment on this glorious LP can be heard in “The Rain Song.” “Upon us all, a little rain must fall.” Just a little rain? I can live with that. Gladly.

*I will allow that 2002's Maladroit is a fine album.
** It's a good thing I pluralized "pipe." I was one Freudian misspelling away from raving about Robert Plant's "awesome pipe."

The Soil Satan Outlet Goes out of Business

2011-06-13T21:38:00.000-07:00

A bald man of middle-age wobbles in front of a cameraman, a director, and his crew. The onlookers are hushed and awestruck by the spectacle. The man is shabbily dressed in a sleeveless t-shirt with fringed edges and suspenders that pinch his flabby upper-body. Atop his head is a crudely assembled dunce-cap with the word “Bangkrupt” (sic) printed on it in black marker. A display of red and black vacuum cleaners are racked behind him. He blows into a noisemaker, causing a flair of short, colorful tassels and a high-pitched, outrageous toot.

Howdy-do, cruel world, it's Vince Wally Vincent, the Vacuum Guy, owner of the Soil Satan Outlet—which is bad news for me, 'cause the place is going out of business! My soon-to-be ex-wife had her doubts when I spent most of my rich uncle's inheritance on funding the Soil Satan Outlet. Well, honey, I sure hope you can pry your head out of your gay lover's lap long enough to look at the TV screen and say, “I told you so.” How the hell is Fran, anyway? I'm keeping my fingers crossed that she's doing just swell. You tell her I'm expecting her to give nothing but straight A's to little Vance in gym class. Hell, the kid's life is pretty screwed-up now. Might as well grant him at least one perk, right? Ha, ha! Only kidding, ya carpet queens.

By now, you have all read enough newspapers and seen enough local news segments to know the origins of the Soil Satan Outlet. In 2007, yours truly, Vincent Wally Vincent, a lowly worker of the Dirt Devil corporation, worked up the balls to start his own line of vacuum cleaners. I designed and crafted a mechanism to enhance the suction power of the standard Dirt Devil. Having one-upped my ungrateful employers, I decided on a name that sounded similar but was more emphatic. I mean—if you really want to clean that dog-barf stain spotlessly before the company arrives, which seems like a stronger option: The Dirt Devil or the Soil Satan?

I had faith that American consumers would salute my clever touch of wordplay, that the gag would be understood and nobody was going to protest my very existence with charges that I'm an “Occult Monster” or a “Doomed Heathen.”

Oh, boy. Having faith really backfired on me that time.

Vince blows a concerted gust of air into the noisemaker.

In the early days, my business attracted a great number of Satanists. The Godless hooligans clamored in vain for black cloaks, jugs of goat's blood, and Slayer albums. Few showed any interest in buying a vacuum cleaner. Some purchased key chains and spare parts on occasion—and I shudder to think of the horrible things those degenerates did with all those extension tubes.

Well, those sales kept us afloat for awhile, but you know Satanists: They're magnets for spats and scuffles with angry Christians. There's nothing quite like going into work past protesters with picket signs that predict your eternal damnation. Oh, boy! Just give me a daily dose of Jesus freaks and devil-worshipers spitting on each other, nut-jobs from both sides jabbering in tongues, and a lowlife with “666” tattooed on his forehead stumbling about the parking lot with an ether rag. “No coffee for me, honey,” I'd say, once I made it inside. “Walking through that heinous mob is all the morning pick-me-up I need!”

My son was nearly hit in the head when one of the picketers pitched a stone through our front window. The guy must have been without sin. What can you do?!

Next came the boycotts. Right-wing yahoos got involved in the fray, taking a moral stance against superior and cost-effective vacuum cleaners. Our state's governor denounced my company because of its name and raved about the evils of a harmless pun, all the while shortchanging teachers and students and making life worse for poor people and the middle class. America. What a country!

He further punctuates this message by blowing into the noisemaker.

In the meantime, profits soared for Dirt Devil. Nobody hassles the owner of that vacuum company, even though “Devil” and “Satan” mean the same thing—just like “Dirt” and “Soil.” It's funny how one man can become a respectable millionaire while another is ruined for boldly trying to raise the stakes... Maybe I'll laugh about it later.

Until then, the Soil Satan Outlet has a lot of shit we need to get rid of before our pulse truly flat-lines. Hell, we're going out of business—might as well have a sale, right? My God, I cuss and whack my noggin with a stapler every time I think of how little we're charging for these vacuum cleaners! The Soil Satan Six-Sixty-Six Thousand, for instance, is being sold for a third of what it's worth. These prices are so low you'll think I've gone CRAZY! ...Which is not really the case; I'm just broke and desperate and trying to raise enough cash for a one-month stay at a crummy motel.

What's next for Vince Wally Vincent, you ask? Does the captain have any future-plans, after the shipwreck? Indeed, I do. First I'm gonna rain tears of despair into a bowl of cold Spaghettio's and listen to some country music—and I'm talking about the real country, the depressing shit, not that happy crap that sounds more like Bon Jovi than Hank and Cash.

After that, I plan to stop acting like a pussy and drink a lot of beers. Then I'll carouse with the neighbors at the crummy motel, maybe even find a sweetheart I won't later turn into a lesbian.

Hell, in my 20s and 30s, I failed as a violinist and a ventriloquist. Maybe I'm just being too superstitious about having a job title that fits well with my first and last name. Maybe I've been going about my career path the wrong way. Maybe I need to focus on my middle name and take up a profession like watchmaker, or owner of a Winnebago dealership.

Well, I've kept you from watching Two and a Half Me long enough. The point is: Don't worry about Vince Wally Vincent, you bunch of dumb hypocrites. I'll be glad to get this albatross off my neck and transition into a new era of letdowns. Take it from me: The Vacuum business sucks. It's time for me to move on to something that blows.

With that, Vince Wally Vincent blows into a noisemaker, causing a flair of short, colorful tassels and a high-pitched, outrageous toot.

Nick Lists His Favorite Albums

2011-05-31T20:55:00.001-07:00

Blog-posts by nature don't command high expectations. That is a source of dubious and ignoble appeal to my slacker tendencies as well as an affront to my skills and ambitions as a writer. I try to tend to this gap in values by writing especially crafted and developed essays for my blog at my own leisurely pace.

Failures are much easier to cope with when I think of myself as a blogger rather than a writer; they can even provide a refreshing holiday. When I finished my last essay, without knowing what to write next, I tepidly began a piece titled “Good Names, Bad Names.”

Thunderballz is a good name for an AC/DC cover band, I wrote. Gaylord is a bad name to give a homophobic baby.

And that's as far as I got.

I decided to compose a list of my 20 favorite albums, similar to the countdown I put together for video games that I enjoy and for the same reason: I needed to grant some time for more legit ideas to percolate while keeping my mind active with a creative diversion. As a blogger rather than an author, I consider myself immune to crimes of obsessive self-indulgence.

Here are the rules: I won't include live albums, regardless of how great I think they are, because they so often encompass eras or entire career-spans of musicians. The merits of a single recording session shouldn't be compared alongside of a live performance with multiple sessions to pick and choose from for optimum material. For that reason, I will only type that I'd love to gush about Nirvana's Unplugged in New York, Talking Heads' Stop Making Sense, and Johnny Cash's concert at Folsom Prison, but stubborn logic prevents me from doing so in this forum.

In the interest of providing a more diverse list, I will refrain from including more than one album by a band or musician. That is why I won't elaborate on my fondness for Radiohead's Kid A, Beck's Midnite Vultures, or a handful of worthy candidates recorded by the Beatles and Led Zeppelin.

Greatest hits albums? Get the fuck out of here. The audacity!

Apologies, ladies, for devising such a sausage-fest in my highly subjective celebration of terrific music. Can I be forgiven if I insist that, “There is something wrong with me, not you”? I doubt it. That line didn't go over well in bed, either. Also, I will, perhaps, give disproportionate credit to the songwriters involved and therefore diminish the contributions of the other musicians in a band. Such biases may offend bassists and drummers but seem like a natural conceit to storytellers who sing in voices people love to hear.

20.Jets to Brazil—Orange Rhyming Dictionary (1998): The countdown commences with its least acclaimed entry. Wikipedia, a different reference guide not printed on the front of this LP, lends little more than insight into the gag behind the album's title. Get it?!

In 1995, a multitude of haughty punks betrayed and disparaged Jawbreaker—JTB frontman Blake Schwarzenbach's former band. The backlash from purists arose when Jawbreaker capitalized on their fringe-success by signing with a major label. In light of the mainstreaming of punk that was led by bands like Green Day and Blink-182, genre-elitists reckoned it unforgivable for a group to accept a pay raise for making great music. The jaded snots literally turned their backs on the band throughout Jawbreaker's final concerts. It was a vile and misguided condemnation of the trio who had delivered the masterful 24-Hour Revenge Therapy, a nasty denouncement of grown men who still loved punk-rock but had become duly tired of receiving eviction notices, sleeping on the floors of friends' apartments, and riding vast distances from gig-to-gig in a ramshackle van. There is a difference between ideals and delusions, punk-kids. Christ—I think jam-bands suck, too, but at least the hippies aren't so hateful or unjustly judgmental. Jerks.

(Obsessive self-indulgence. Don't act surprised.)

Orange Rhyming Dictionary marked Blake's transition into indie-rock/ emo, and he reveled in the leeway allowed for an expansion of sounds and sentiments that other scenes had to offer. Blake was free to dwell in the somber and contemplative riff of “Chinatown.” He was in no hurry, felt no need for thrashing abrasions when he relayed the story of lying depressively on the floor and observing that his curtains resembled a “Sea Anemone.” He was still a romantic who wanted to proclaim his love for a woman, as he did in Jawbreaker's “Jinx Removing,” but his delivery in “Sweet Avenue” was less feverish, more thoroughly developed and refined.

Aside from its notable ballads, Dictionary excels with an enticing blend of distortion and purity, propelled by both disenchantment and resolve. The album opens with “Crown of the Valley,” a tale of spoiled nostalgia that rollicks with a near-perfect alt-rock groove highlighted by Blake's pleading, “Oh God, stop tearing off the roof of my experimental bathroom/ It's the only thing that's halfway mine, and not for your prying or lying eyes.” On the 10th track, he builds upon suspenseful dread, types for miles and creates worried piles of paper before conclusively indicting his muse, who keeps fucking up his life. Blake endured the communal backlash that spelled the demise of his first band, acknowledged his cynicism of punk-cynics and radio-friendly profiteers alike, and retained his integrity. As was the case in the escape-anthem “Morning New Disease,” he was still dreaming of a life that wasn't his, but at least he kept dreaming, and for that, I am thankful.

19. Nirvana-Nevermind (1991): For Kurt Cobain, the album that defined the Seattle grunge-explosion and spelled the demise of hair metal proved those dark adages about being careful for what one wishes for and catching hell due to answered prayers. It was the same desire to connect with listeners on an emotional level that would later daunt and terrify him when he was deemed the spokesman for his generation. Like Dylan before him, he resented the lofty distinction. Both felt troubled and wearied by such expectations and resented being perceived as Messianic figures. Cobain lacked the gritty will-power of a survivor, however, which was unlike Dylan. Heartbroken and enfeebled by addiction, the disillusioned voice of the early-90s ultimately decided life wasn't worth the trouble.

To express the impact generated by the first track and lead single, “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” is redundant by now. It stands as an exceedingly rare hit that alters the landscape of popular music, for good or ill—depending on whose side you were on in the Axl/ Cobain rivalry that was ignited by their bad-ass vs. smart-ass confrontation before the 1992 MTV Video Music Award ceremony. “Teen Spirit” is as aggrandized and overplayed as “Whole Lotta Love” or even “Welcome to the Jungle”--songs so resonant with timely impact that they hardly require further listening at this point.

That should not count as a demerit against Nevermind, however; despite allowing for more studio-polished production touches from Butch Vig, Cobain did not scale back on his sometimes enlightened, sometimes adolescent vitriol for the sake of a #1 single. “In Bloom” and “Come as You Are,” likewise, garnered airtime on MTV and rock radio without yielding much of a compromise in artistic intent. The former was a landmark of slacker irony for its skewering and resigned acceptance of those who like all the pretty songs, even when they know not what the message is. The latter was a riff-hypnotic, desperate plea for true friendship from a man who was lying when he swore that he didn't have a gun.

It is the tracks that received little-to-no exposure on MTV or rock radio that solidify Nevermind as a personal favorite, though. Amidst the mid-tempo laceration of “Lounge Act,” Cobain lets us know that even alt-rock saviors struggle with unrequited crushes as he confides, “I've got this friend, you see, who makes me feel/ And I wanted more than I could steel.” Drummer Dave Grohl commands blistering beats of punk-fueled aggression on tracks like “Territorial Pissings” and “Stay Away.” Bassist Krist Novoselic lends a sinister buoyancy to tracks such as the quiet-to-loud, bipolar anthem “Lithium.”

Cobain, was, of course, the star of the show, in ways both fitting and tragic--and that is perhaps best evidenced by the doom-struck empathy he evokes for a victim of atrocities named “Polly.” In response his acknowledgment of the ballad, Bob Dylan simply remarked, “The kid has heart.” My favorite track is “Drain You,” a gripping horror show of human selfishness and insincerity. “One baby to another says, 'I'm lucky I met you'/ I don't care what you think unless it is about me/ It is now my duty to completely drain you.” He goes on to evoke the story of Original Sin, charging, “You taught me everything without a poison apple.” It is a grave misfortune that Cobain believed he had learned all that he needed to know when he died by his own hand at the age of 27.

18.Elliott Smith—From a Basement on the Hill (2004): Despite the appearances of this and the previous entry, not all of the ensuing albums were primarily written by suicidal heroin addicts. It's just a happy coincidence how it turned out that way twice in a row!

On one level, it seems like a morbid bias is at work in adoration of the songs that essentially served as one man's self-inflicted goodbye to the cruel world. On another, and perhaps more humane level, most of the tracks are just so damn plaintively beautiful and alive with melancholic melody that such a bias is duly owed to From a Basement on the Hill.

“Coast to Coast” begins the posthumous release with an orchestral overture suitable for a horror movie. The macabre tunings are followed by percussive kicks and cracks and an ominous guitar riff that sounds like a buzz-saw spinning with sinister patience. Smith pleads for amnesia to forget about his emotional ties to friends and loved ones after his mind has been made up on the matter of life and death. Smith admits that he doesn't consider himself the sort of person who makes other happy and gives up on constructing that facade. “Let's Get Lost” finds the pained singer/ songwriter longing for the comforts that introverts get from solitude. In “Shooting Star,” Smith wails a riff of haunting, bad-trip acid-rock and likens the appeal of an unreliable love interest to the fleeting faith experienced by those who wish upon meteorites that pass across the galaxy, far away from us. “King's Crossing” marks a macabre journey into the grim psyche of an abject drug addict—redeemed by Smith's gripping honesty and gift for melody. Without pretension, in hindsight, he defies his audience to, “Give (him) one reason not to do it.” A female voice recorded the response, “Because we love you,” after the fact, when Smith's swan songs were being mixed and polished in the studio.

“A Fond Farewell” stands as Smith's equivalent to Cobain's “All Apologies.” With detached resignation, Smith compares his internal crisis to bidding “Farewell” to a friend “who couldn't get things right.” To him, his life and demise added up to “A little less than a happy high/ A little less than a suicide/ The only things that you really tried.” Elliott Smith sold himself short.

17. Cake—Comfort Eagle (2001): As outrageous as this seems, more so than Bob Dylan or Johnny Cash, Cake singer John McCrea impresses me most with his less-than-spectacular, limited-range vocals. McCrea, much like the legends I have perhaps dubiously compared him too, excels in his knack for accommodating insightful and cynical narrations to a voice that—if not exceptional—never wavers far from truth and conviction.

McCrea enthralls with vivid character sketches of a global variety, from Austrian noblemen and opera singers who perform in foreign lands to the aspiring writers and offbeat radio deejays of America. “Meanwhile, Rick James” offers a twinkling rockabye of keyboard notes to soothe a man helpless in his efforts to protect his girlfriend from the allures of big city seediness. Multi-instrumentalist Vincent DiFiore juggles keyboard and trumpet duties with the greatest of ease. He lends spooky tones to the title track, an ironic denouncement of the greed and hubris symptomatic of expanding empires, as well as sharp flourishes of brass to “Short Skirt/ Long Jacket,” McCrea's dynamic plea for an ideal lover.

Comfort Eagle is a fine rock album with astute pop-sensibilities. McCrea is a wily cynic who can still deliver earnest affection (in “Love You Madly,” for instance), as well as unaffected heartache in the closer, “World of Two.” His workmanlike baritone in no way diminishes his songs because they are so thoroughly crafted and labored over with focus and care.

16. David Bowie—The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars (1972): There is a chance that Ziggy Stardust may not truly qualify for the concept album hall-of-fame (alongside of Sgt. Pepper and Tommy) because it's possible that Bowie was too spaced-out and loony to discern the act from the real thing. Ringo Starr, for instance, could no doubt tell the difference between himself and Billy Shears, but in the early '70s, Bowie's distinction between identity and character seemed, at the very least, hazier. Ultimately, I think Ziggy Stardust was a splendid compromise of schizophrenic ticks and art-rock grandeur that put Bowie in the role of his supernatural yet doomed alter-ego.

It's telling that in “Five Years,” the first track, Bowie readily admits that he has been known to feel like an actor. The conceptual premise of Ziggy is (loosely) established here: with our doomsday lurking in a half-decade, a visitor from another planet with musical chops and a garish taste in wardrobe is left with only so much time to enlighten us with his lewd and ethereal brand of rock music. In the process, however, Ziggy's focus wavers; his excesses are most clearly exposed in the pseudo-title track, when it is revealed he “took it all too far,” ravished his own ego, and collapsed under the gravity of his messiah-complex. Ziggy's story-arc concludes, predictably but no less powerfully, as a “Rock and Roll Suicide.” In resuming the fixation for cosmic mysteries that he founded with “Space Oddity,” Bowie played the role of an ill-fated alien rather than a man, loaded the songs with kitsch, but somehow never forfeited his project to the forces of farce. There are psychedelic preachings, to be sure, romping yet somewhat obtuse hippie-commands to “Freak out in a 'Moonage Daydream'” and “Hang on to Yourself,” but Bowie seemed a worthy prophet on mortality, too. The first words of “Rock and Roll Suicide” stand as testament to that...

“Time takes a cigarette and puts it in your mouth.” And later, fittingly, he wails the only condolence for such a grim truth: “You're not alone.”

(Wham, Bam, thank you, ma' am. 2,500 words is enough for now. I am—after all—a blogger, not an author. More to come.)

Cocaine Blows

2011-05-18T23:07:00.000-07:00

It has come to my attention that a lot of Googlers happen upon this essay in search of references to cocaine and Tony Montana from Scarface. That's fine, but it should be stated upfront that this essay takes a firm stance against the snorting of powder that gets people high. Cocaine is disgusting and its illegalization is justified. Furthermore, Scarface told a cautionary tale, and if you think that that film was done in the name of glorifying white nose candy, you're mistaken. Further, furthermore, Scarface is nowhere near as great as The Godfather or Goodfellas, so I'd advise you to curb your enthusiasm in regard to the story of the rise and fall of Tony Montana. Now, if I haven't warded you off, thanks for reading "Cocaine Blows."

I support the legalization of marijuana. My reasoning is that its use--when compared to alcohol, its legal, mind-and-mood-altering counterpart—can be linked to drastically fewer crimes of violence, domestic abuse, sexual assault, and impaired driving. Smoking marijuana is not an unassailable choice, of course; abusing weed can lead to woes of lethargy and prolonged stupors. Lack of motivation and dumbness, though, are defects in character that are not at all comparable to the human horrors of a man raping a woman, a father pummeling a son, or an entire family getting killed in a car wreck caused by a lowlife with visions of multiple and distorted roads.

Lousy drunks.

Alcohol has proven to be the catalyst for far more evil deeds than marijuana. Whereas alcohol can be purchased without incident in plain sight of a police officer waiting in line at a gas station, possession of marijuana is a common catalyst for fines and imprisonment. It is the difference between Hell and jail.

Furthermore, it is a blunder of justice to make criminals out of those who wish no harm on anyone and simply seek a means for calm euphoria and inspiration that is provided by nature.

I typed the gist of these beliefs on pot in response to a friend's Facebook post on the prospect of the drug's legalization. This is a friend of a rare and, more importantly, respectable breed who claims to have never once partook in Reefer Madness. His argument is rooted not in a personal fondness for the drug in question but rather in more vital issues such as the infringement on civil liberties and the high expense to taxpayers caused by its criminalization.

It was a rational discussion between two old friends in different time-zones. It was also inherently made open to others for debate, and we can so seldom count on rationale from OTHERS on the Internet. What follows is a reply from a third party to my comment on pot's relative harmlessness.

“On the day you witness someone die of a drug overdose come back and tell me how you feel!”

Awwwww... Now, doesn't that ignorant dipshit just seem so adorable? Someone needs to pinch his ruddy cheeks and ruffle his mop of hair for making a comment like that. Adults who still cling to the silly myth of marijuana overdose are too cute to take seriously. They are like little scamps at the family Christmas get-together who insist they have outgrown the company at the kiddie table. So precious! At first I wanted to tell him he was mistaken, and that the Tooth Fairy wasn't real, either, but I didn't have the heart to make a total stranger weep in a disillusioned fit. I could only snicker and marvel at the moral comfort some lies impose on feeble minds.

***

The drug referenced in the title of this essay, cocaine, is an entirely different matter. In the past I have decried the prominence of Phish, soccer, and the expression “It is what it is.” The time has come to defame a more worthwhile subject.

Rick James famously said, “Cocaine is a helluva drug.” It is a terse and truthful quote that has become a much-heard drug-adage. By invoking Hell in an appealing context, Rick James blended disparate notions of doom and punishment with rapture and celebration without contradicting himself. Cocaine functions in the same way. It hits with both doomed rapture and celebratory punishment and convinces its snorters to focus on the positives—to overlook an oxymoron in terms and a conflict in feelings because in time nothing will feel as vital as the dynamic mess of emotions induced by thin white lines of powder.

Cocaine abuse is sure to decimate anyone who lacks a sense of humor. Rick James at least made people laugh with dim recollections of how his cocaine problem led to wild tales of folly, mischief, and conceit on The Chappelle Show. The joke of coke has vanished on me, though, throughout the few times I stupidly put it up my nose. The most recent and final time I used it, I came to realize the appreciable difference between smoking a bowl and watching Half-Baked and snorting a line with Scarface playing on the TV.

The distinction isn't as simple as comedy vs. drama. Peril comes to both the stoners in Half-Baked and the coke-heads in Scarface, but the trouble is instigated by happenings that are absurd in the former and realistic in the latter.* In Half-Baked, a weed-addled kindergarten teacher overfeeds munchies to a policeman's diabetic horse and kills her by accident. His friend, a janitor at a medical research center, gains access to a large supply of marijuana thanks to a generous scientist, and decides to sling bags of the green stuff with help from his roommates solely to raise bail money. (Absurd.) In Scarface, a Cuban immigrant grows weary of his menial job at a restaurant and, in light of the restrictions and stigmas imposed on poor minorities from different countries, Tony Montana opts to sell drugs as a source of income. (Realistic.) When a deal goes awry in Half-Baked, a drug mogul in a wheelchair demands from a cohort of the main character** a sizable cut of the earnings. Discouraged yet unharmed, he is then dismissed. When a deal goes awry in Scarface, a cohort of the main character is flogged and strung up by handcuffs before a chainsaw carves into his side and massacres his internal organs. Aside from a horse and a dog, no one is killed in the film that features an abundance of marijuana. Oh sure, Chapelle and his stoner pals get busted by the Feds and tussle with nunchucks-wielding Amazonian hench-women, but those run-ins are trifles compared to the rampant homicides—and let's not overlook the hateful jealousy, EXCESS, and monstrous egos—that result from the cocaine-corrupted lives of Al Pacino and his supporting cast.

Am I embellishing an analogy for entertainment purposes and putting too much stock in the validity of movies? Perhaps. *** But I believe Half-Baked and Scarface offer rough microcosms of the respective drugs they represent. I stand by this: there are consequences for smoking marijuana as well as for snorting cocaine, but cocaine's consequences are much worse.

Suppose my old friend and I were discussing cocaine instead of marijuana on Facebook. The uninformed third party that I mocked would be validated. The insult I cussed wouldn't apply to him. No--I'd be the “ignorant dipshit” if I deemed it infeasible to overdose on cocaine. It is the difference between the rational judgment of a pragmatist and the misguided delusions of a moron. I have come to half-jokingly think of the weed-condemning stranger as an archenemy. It would be devastating to know that he is right. No kidding.

***

And another thing: There is simply no sense in putting a solid substance up your nose. The nose has no business as an importer/ exporter. It is designed to expel snot and boogers; to use it for ingestive purposes is unnatural. Not even the asshole can make such a bold claim. Nastier human waste emanates from our smelliest orifice, to be sure, but medical-health value can be derived from colonoscopies, colonics, and suppositories. What's more, sexual pleasure is commonly achieved by certain gay men and some straight women when a hard penis is imported into the anus. So what? I don't have a problem with it, and to think otherwise is either intolerant or religiously fanatical or both.

The mouth serves as a gateway to nourishment by means of food and drink. In less taboo fashion than the anus, the mouth can grant us sexual pleasure, too—as another importer of hard penises. The mouth can export a tongue to enhance smooching and/ or lick a lover's nude body, too. Don't reduce the mouth to a strictly beneficial hole, though; it is our most versatile orifice, in ways both positive and negative. Sickness, stress, and too much of the wrong kinds of food and drink can turn the mouth into an exporter of vomit, which is vile. Alcohol is among the pernicious things we import through the mouth, and the inhalation of cigarette and marijuana smoke is typically avoided by strong-willed advocates of salubrious living. Unlike cocaine, though, not even the staunchest health-nut can deny that (moderated) consumption of wine reduces the chances of incurring heart disease, or that marijuana is an effective treatment for certain cancer patients. Research proves that , as long as we are not reckless, mouth-imports laden with the likes of alcohol and THC can be good for our health.

Our ear canals import less tangible but sometimes terrific boons such as the sounds of music, conversation, and nature. When we are afflicted with ear infections, importing droplets of solution soothes the problem. Its export capabilities are limited to earwax—a gross yet useful sign that we must rectify an apparent neglect of proper hygiene.

I don't personally own a vagina, but I pay heed to the hype that it is the loveliest orifice in the import/ export business.

The nose functions much differently, though. Shoving a finger up your nostrils doesn't count as a valid import because the driving force between nose-picking is to technically export a booger. What's more, and closer to the point, no medical or sexual gain can be attained by utilizing the nose as an importer; its rational value is restricted to smelling scents. Not even a loony fraud like Dr. Nick Riviera from The Simpsons would attest to the physiological perks of cocaine—and that cartoon-quack once encouraged Homer to brush his teeth with milkshakes. Cocaine is only good for getting people high—in dangerous and addictive, all-consuming fashion. Tony Montana's mantra was, “The world is yours,” but that is a load of egocentric bullshit. The world is most certainly NOT yours, readers. You're a small part of it, and there is no cause to feel haughty about that. The world hardly even belongs to all of humanity—6 billion people and counting—and personally, I want nothing to do with a drug that embodies the sentiments of a fascist with delusions of grandeur.

***

Last Friday night I babysat my baby nephew while his mom and dad enjoyed a rare night of freedom at a dinner party. For an hour or so, he drifted into foggy content as I held him on the couch. After a while I got up with him cradled in my arms and crept into his bedroom. He woke up and glared at me warily just before I could lay him down in his crib. For another hour he did this adorable routine where he mistakes me with a ruthless kidnapper and hollers for his mother with spasms of deafening gibberish. In time he tired himself out, finally took solace in the bottle of formula I had offered him, and succumbed to a deeper sleep.

When I was sure he was at peace in his crib, I stepped outside to smoke a cigarette. I took a few drags and reveled in the prolonged silence.

“I'm an uncle now,” I mused.

The stakes of my life had been incrementally raised, I realized, and I felt compelled to dismiss the final and fleeting allures of yet another vice. I wasn't going to miss that repugnant aftertaste of something like battery acid in the back of my throat, anyway.

“I shall snort no more forever,” I said.

The cherry on my cigarette had nearly retreated to the filter. With satisfaction, I ground the tip into a patch of dirt beside the front porch, pressed and twisted until the spark was gone, maintained pressure long after I was sure the embers had been snuffed. I sat on the concrete stoop for awhile, just smearing the ashes of the stub into the dirt. I thought about temptations and wondered if I was really satisfied.

* Comedies are not inherently absurd just as dramas are not inherently realistic, by the way. The movies of Christopher Guest and Michael Bay offer proof of that.

**Confoundedly enough, the nickname of this cohort from Half-Baked is Scarface...and he is also Cuban.

***Almost certainly, actually.

Sports Entertainment

2011-05-04T18:49:00.001-07:00

"I'm slowly turning into you/ But you don't know this to be true"--The White Stripes

I had something to say during the pre-game chatter of football analysts who know everything 52% of the time, not long before the kick-off of a much-touted Packers-Vikings match-up. Anyone with the slightest interest in football was talking about Brett Favre and we were no different. I turned to Becker, a friend from college who, like me, wrote humor columns for the newspaper at UW-Oshkosh.

“Favre is just like Harvey Dent in The Dark Knight. He used to inspire mortal worship. We believed he stood for virtue and courage. Seeing Favre in a Vikings' uniform reminds me of Harvey's quote from that movie: 'You either die a hero or else you live long enough to see yourself become the villain.' It turned out to be a self-fulfilling prophecy for Two-Face, nee Harvey Dent. Just like Two-Face, Favre validates that quote. Their character arcs are about the same.”

He seemed complacent with this observation and nodded. Then he offered his own take on Favre.

“I can see that. But to me, Favre's deliverance to evil in the eyes of Packer fans is more like Hulk Hogan, the eternal good-guy in pro-wrestling, turning into Hollywood Hogan, the leader of a group of bad guys.”

“The New World Order.”

“Right.”

“Did that gang of wrestlers ever conquer the world as they had originally planned?”

“Almost. But then I think Razor Ramon pussed-out right before they were about to invade China.

“Anyway,” he went on, “The Favre fiasco reminds me of something out of pro-wrestling. It has been like watching that dramatic transformation of a hero into a villain, for sure, but the saga has become such an unreal farce that to me it feels more like pro-wrestling than a Batman movie. It's closer to pro-wrestling in that the madness is being presented as authentic. Narratives that stem from comic books offer fiction that doesn't try to pass itself off as reality.”

On that Sunday in November, the Packers lost. Favre, aka Two-Face, aka Hollywood Hogan, shredded the Packers' solid defense. Whereas my creative ego had fallen victim to a snap-suplex of wit and left me to ponder the unsavory notion of humility, the Packers fared much worse. They were routinely body-slammed and whacked in the head by a steel chair in a no-holds barred match and then pinned by their most-despised rival. On the long drive home, I wondered if Becker's Favre-analogy was to mine as the Packers were to the Vikings in 2009, if I too was good but not great, bound for the playoffs but clearly no match for Super Bowl contenders.

Years later, I have decided to rip off Becker's idea. I asked him in an e-mail to send me the gist of his argument, but he never delivered on the request.

My old friend Becker was granted enough time to respond. I am free of guilt on the frivolous matter.

###
This in not entirely another essay that compares Brett Favre to a seemingly unrelated subject. It is about more than that. The emergence of WWE characteristics is not restricted to one professional athlete; the trend extends past just football and casts a pall on the credibility of other sports, too. The actions of Brett Favre evoke a contrived and grandiose storyline. Beyond that, many of baseball's most notable stars have been busted for abusing steroids. And in the NBA, at least one referee was in on the fix to determine who won. The line of distinction between real and fake sports is fading. Authenticity and farce are moving toward a common ground. The three athletic leagues that I care about and Vince McMahon's theatrical charade of violence are bleeding into each other, swapping genetic traits (the defects, mostly) and spawning mutations for sports entertainment purposes.

Making a guest appearance on a broadcast of Monday Night Raw has become a common and validating perk for a high-profile football player whose team just won the Super Bowl.

Grown men who called themselves Macho Man and Sergeant Slaughter are now more respectable than Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa—national treasures in 1998.

It's as if Koko B. Ware and Kobe Bryant have dressed-up as each other at the same Halloween party and no one can tell them apart.

One by one, let's cover the ways in which World Wrestling Entertainment has infused the three major sports leagues in America.

I. NFL: John Cena blitzes from the blindside to force a sack-fumble on Jay Cutler...

Of the three leagues in question, commonalities between the NFL and pro-wrestling are the most obvious. First off, both entities appeal to our lust for mayhem and violence. Secondly, many Pro-Bowl caliber players have incurred the worry and dismay of their coaches, General Managers, and fans--at least the ones that stopped watching pro-wrestling when they were fourteen--by putting on tights and tangling with the likes of Bam Bam Bigelow in pay-per-view events. Perhaps the most conspicuous example of sports entertainment overlapping with football can be seen in the career of Steve “Mongo” McMichael. Mongo played 15 seasons as a disruptive defensive-tackle whose career was punctuated by a Super Bowl victory as part of the '85 Bears and their legendarily dominant defense. Not long after he retired in 1994, McMichael traded in his pads and uniform for a pair of sleek trunks and achieved middle-tier status as part of the Four Horsemen stable. His stint in the gaudy limbo zone between athletics and acting came to an end in 1999. His legacy in the ring pales in comparison to that of 15-time World Champion Ric Flair, “The Nature Boy,” who entertained and exclaimed “Wooo!” until old age and gravity slunk his pectorals down to mere inches above his navel. But Mongo is at least more fondly remembered than Chris Benoit. Refraining from double-murder-suicide of the most heinous and tragic kind always benefits one's legacy.

These points of comparison are superficial, though. In retrospect, Brett Favre's entire career seemed to adhere to an epic script conceived by Vince McMahon and his cronies. Favre's dramatic legacy wasn't exactly too good to be true; it was simply too outlandish to feel authentic. Merit and perseverance factored into the Brett Favre storyline every bit as much as betrayal and moral corruption. The most dynamic, profound, and hyperbolic legacy in the history of sports entertainment cannot be claimed by hacks like Bret “The Hitman” Hart, Andre the Giant, or even Hulk Hogan; it belongs to Brett Favre.

The young Gunslinger shot blanks early on. In his rookie season as a backup QB for the Falcons, he played sparingly and with comic ineptitude, failing to complete a single pass. In his forgettable season as a bench-warmer, Favre meant no more to the NFL than the Brooklyn Brawler did to the WWF. Both entertained, ingloriously, as bottom-feeders in the big show.

In what would later be deemed one of the most lopsided trades in league history, Favre was sent to Green Bay. An injury to Packer's incumbent Don “Majik Man” Majkowski forced Favre into action against the Bengals in week 4 of the '92 season. He seized the opportunity with bravado and lead the Packers to a late-game comeback win that culminated in a deep touchdown strike to Kitrick Taylor.* A year later, the WWF's 1-2-3 Kid seemed to crudely trace that era in the Favre storyline. The 1-2-3 Kid likewise showcased youthful exuberance as he battled with grit against improbable odds. Both withstood humble and fledgling beginnings and then launched their careers on the strength of surprising victories. (The Cincinnati Bengals= Razor Ramon.)

Favre's consecutive-games played streak of 297 is mirrored in hype and endurance by a bald beast in a black Speedo named Goldberg, who began his career in the now-defunct WCW with 173 victories in a row.

Triumph in Super Bowl XXXI solidified Favre's status as football's answer to Hulk Hogan (the good guy—or baby-face, in pro-wrestling terms). The mature gunslinger had won league MVP for the league's best team; he was effectively the face of the NFL by 1996. His loss to the Elway-led Broncos in next year's title game emulated the Hulkster's narrow defeat at the hands of the Ultimate Warrior in Wrestlemania VI. (John Elway= The Ultimate Warrior.)

In 2003, not even a broken thumb on his throwing hand could scratch Favre from the starting lineup. This feat stands as his most impressive display of toughness. Like Steve Austin, a different bald beast in a black Speedo, Favre's competitive drive and hubris caused him to prefer blood loss and agony to the humility of tapping out. “There is not a human being on the face of this Earth who can make me say, 'I quit.'” Stone Cold said so, but this quote could have just as easily been proclaimed by Favre.

The Old Gunslinger staged phony retirements just as the Nature Boy and the Macho Man did. Truly, Number 4 reneged on vows and delivered shams with the greatest of sports entertainers.

Then came Favre's descent into villainy, his mutation into Hollywood Hogan, the bad guy (or heel, in pro-wrestling terms). After that, the news broke that he had sent lewd texts and a video of himself jerking-off in Crocks to a buxom sideline reporter. The scandal had all the tawdry sizzle of a WWE storyline founded on the appeal of degradation. We were surprised, but in hindsight, we should have seen it coming.

Flaws, sins, and interceptions notwithstanding, I no longer see the sense in resenting Brett Favre. I can't begrudge a man for following the script. A long-time baby-face turned into a heel and ratings soared. Nothing more. It seems as though some of us are simply bound to fatalism, and that God must be a fan of sports entertainment.

II. MLB: Roger Clemens hangs a 2-2 curveball to the Undertaker, who mashes the ball deep into the upper deck in left field...

In 1994, Vince McMahon was accused of distributing steroids to his wrestlers. The case went to trial and he showed up to court wearing a neck-brace, as if the jarring shock of the allegations had caused him whiplash. He was acquitted of all charges. The Hulkster was the key witness who testified on behalf of McMahon's innocence. McMahon avoided a jail sentence and probation. He was left to grumble about the hefty fees he paid his lawyers, fire a few defiant rogues and snitches, and move forward with the worst of the P.R. nightmare behind him.

No fuss is made when a pro-wrestler who has been suspected or convicted of abusing steroids is elected to the WWE Hall of Fame. To suspect that a pro-wrestler has at least tried steroids is as sound a judgment as suspecting that someone in a Pink Floyd t-shirt has at least tried marijuana. It is accepted and beside the point that the wrestling Hall-of-Fame is not without a few men who took steroids.

Baseball is similar in the first point, but different in the second.

In my lifetime, the motto used to promote a few years of the most popular and retrospectively tainted baseball was, “Chicks dig the long-ball.” An abundance of home-run hitters in the league generated ticket sales and TV revenue. Later on, though, the motto was amended when wives and mistresses found out about the side-effects of steroids. The time for decadence had passed and focus shifted to the fact that, “Chicks aren't crazy about these shrunken testicles.”

2005 saw the testimonies of three of the greatest sluggers of their era—Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa, and Raphael Palmero—who either equivocated or lied when questioned by Congress about steroid use. Despite suspicion, and later confirmation of doubt, none of the mashers in question received a penalty worse than a likely ban from baseball's Hall of Fame.

Admittance into the palace of ego-stroking that is the Hall of Fame is permissible for the Junkyard Dog and Mr. Perfect, but the same is not true for McGwire or Sosa. Time will tell if two other alleged juice-injectors, Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens-- probably the most exceptional hitter and pitcher in a span of twenty seasons--will be denied entrance, too. My hunch, of course, is that the bonding force of sports entertainment will overpower the distinction between real and fake and either Bonds or Clemens—maybe both—will be inducted in spite of their transgressions. Voters for baseball's Hall of Fame have taken a staunch stance against PED offenders, but they will sometime soon gulp glumly in defeat and raise Bonds' and/ or Clemens' hand in victory.

III. NBA: Steve Nash lobs an alley-oop to Jimmy “Superfly” Snooka, who finishes with a tomahawk dunk...

The integrity of NBA referees became the subject of scrutiny in 2007. Tim Donaghy, a whistle-blower for 14 seasons, was forced to resign following indictments that he had made biased calls to benefit whichever team he had placed a bet on. His vice for gambling in a most crooked and high-stakes manner prompted an FBI investigation and a trial. The Hulkster wasn't there to save Donaghy. Larry Bird did not walk through the doors of the courtroom to aid his defense, either. Donaghy was found guilty and incarcerated for 11 months in federal prison.

His ego shattered like a Shaq-abused backboard, Donaghy squealed accusations that he was not the first nor only referee to thwart virtues of impartiality in the sport. He charged that the 2002 Western Conference Finals were slanted by corrupt refs to ensure victory for the Lakers over the Kings. According to Donaghy, the order came from Commissioner David Stern to sabotage the Kings' chances—in game six, in particular— because the Lakers were the more popular team and promised to deliver higher TV ratings in the NBA Finals. In the decisive 4th quarter of game six, the Kings were called for fouls with much greater regularity than their opponents; the Lakers' free throw attempts outnumbered the Kings' by a prominent margin of 18. LA went on to win the series. Though disgraced and imprisoned, Donaghy's bitter condemnations seem valid.

Just as WWE refs have been oblivious to a match-winning steel-chair-whack to the cranium on countless occasions, evidence shows that NBA refs were consciously looking the other way as Chris Webber was hacked unmercifully by Shaq. David Stern commanded his underlings to influence victory for the Lakers at the expense of the Kings. That is no different from Vince McMahon commanding a ref to influence victory for the Heartbreak Kid at the expense of the Hitman. Under pretenses of human error, refs in both the NBA and the WWE have defiled the notion of fair officiating.

###

Simon and Garfunkel once sang about a baseball legend. Joe DiMaggio had gone missing, and they wanted to know of his whereabouts. Joltin' Joe, a bastion of athletic purity, didn't really leave us, though. I think he just transformed into a heel and became unrecognizable when sports turned into sports entertainment.

*Who?

My Best Dreams

2011-04-20T18:36:00.000-07:00

Point: “Dreams are the touchstones of our characters.”--Henry David Thoreau

In the grips of a fever dream years ago, I was having a mundane conversation with a friend when a stranger burst into the room to ask us a pressing question.

“Does anyone have a thumb or a rectangle?” he said.

That's when I woke up, sweaty and vexed. It seemed my mind was vomiting nonsense, and a short while later, as I knelt over the toilet, my digestive track followed suit, by way of my gagging mouth.

So many dreams account for little more than neurotic gibberish. When we dream, anarchic madness tends to hinder any semblance of reason. In my estimation, that sort of lawlessness of the thought process entertains more often than it enlightens. What's more troublesome, some dreams are mere bothers, surreal annoyances that serve as the mind's answer to getting stopped at a lengthy red light late at night when it feels like you must be the only one behind the wheel of a car in the entire county.

Dreams are not always without merit, though. In fact, I would go so far as to write that a cosmic disservice is incurred when we ignore the significance of the best of the bunch. With retrospective grandeur, I must confess that I owe the idea for “The Dark Knight and Brett Favre” to a dream. In a haze of awakening from that otherworldly mush, it struck me that one of the lines from the latest Batman flick could be applied to the career arc of the Old Gunslinger.

And I went from there, just as I'm about to go from here. These are my best dreams.

I. For reasons I can't recall, I got into a scuffle with the Undertaker.

The menacing pro-wrestler who tells his opponents they will “rest in peace” before he (pretends to) drive their skulls into the mat? Yes. The very same.

Rather than inside the squared-circle, the nasty dispute between the Undertaker and me took place in a disused warehouse. He lunged at me with those balled-up purple gloves flailing viciously. And since the Undertaker has never been known to inject performance-enhancing drugs, we have to assume Natural rather than 'Roid Rage was the catalyst of his attack.

Luckily, I was armed with a shot-gun. The Undertaker gave me no choice. I didn't want to get Tombstone Pile-driven—not even in a dream. I blew his head off. It combusted not with shards of grotesque brain and skull fragments, but in a burst of confetti.

It quickly dawned on me that if anyone found out about the murder, I'd be kicked out of college. The bleak prospect of imprisonment never came to me, for some reason; it was only the dread of being expelled (for the homicide of the Undertaker) that struck me with worry.

I realized I was going to have to change my residence and rushed home to the apartment I shared with my roommate Pat (my actual roommate in college, years ago). Confused and offended, he wanted to know why I was so suddenly intent on moving out. I dodged the question and continued to hastily gather my belongings. Instead of practical things like clothing and toiletries, I focused on rifling a vast mound of Lego's into an opened suitcase.

“Why do I own so many damn Lego's?” I wondered resentfully.

Rarely does a dream adhere to guidelines of dramatic form. Our subconscious scribe is not likely to present a cohesive narrative in three acts. Convention is not merely circumvented or even bucked; it is massacred—as though an eccentric hack who writes and directs community theater debacles has wrenched the script away from a more reliable source. Dreams tend to devolve into experimental theater in which the experiment goes awry and something abruptly vanishes into nothing worthwhile.

Accordingly, my hurried packing of Lego's is where the story of my killing of the Undertaker and the cover-up that ensued concludes.

II. It was a picturesque summer day and I was lounging on the beach when I spotted three gorgeous women in bikinis. The women were half-encircled by a film crew intent on capturing every frame of the enchanting lust they exuded. It soon occurred to me that I was viewing the production of a porno flick of the all hole, no pole variety. I realized I was dreaming and could not recall delivering a pizza to any of the actresses and was therefore content to sit this one out and watch from the fringe. It seemed my subconscious was treating me to a trial run of late-night Cinemax.

From a stagehand I was told that in the upcoming scene the brunette was to have a frightful brush with a killer whale about 50 feet from the shore. The killer whale was to be added with CGI technology in post-production. Her girlfriends, a redhead and a blond with lithe and buxom figures to match the brunette, were to watch the encounter from the shore, dumbstruck by nervous concern. Thankfully, the CGI killer whale would swim away, having caused fear but no harm, and the brunette would wade in, rattled but without wounds.

The brunette's anxiety was to be subdued by her friends through seduction. Yes, there was going to be chicks making out with each other, some serious tongues-to-hooters action, and maybe even mutual going down while the blond did her best to keep busy.

I was cool with that. Six boobs and three vaginas and butts? Beautiful faces, trim physiques? Thumbs up to this dream, I thought. I plopped down on the sand and sat Indian-style with a clear view of the women. The brunette was all-done panicking about a make-believe killer whale. She swam toward everyone.

Then the director yelled: “Cut!”

They took a break in filming just before the lesbian three-way scene. I watched on, mouth agape, as the redhead sat down on a lawn chair and sipped from a bottled water. The blond's cell phone was brought to her so that she could send a text message as a middle-aged, scruffy man held up an umbrella to shade her from the Sun. My treasured brunette wasn't doing anything especially sexy, either. She covered herself from shoulders to shins with a tightly drawn towel as she gazed down disinterestedly.

The director had picked a lousy time to announce a break on set. I had to laugh. Tickled by the joke that had unfolded and free of inhibitions, I approached the brunette. She had the appeal of a sexy wet taco wrapped in a shell of cotton.

I struck up a brief conversation of simple verbal volleys exchanged with casual interest and coy smiles that culminated, rather quickly, in me asking if she wanted to make out.

She giggled and peered upward in the way women do when they mean to say they like you but you simply must work on your timing. She conceded that she could remember my phone number if I told it to her.

Because it had clicked that I was asleep, I didn't see much use in getting the digits of a porn star I met in a dream. It seemed futile, like committing to memory the password to a Nintendo I hadn't played in years and was not inclined to ever play again. I came up with a fib.

“Sure. My number is 6-1-2 etc.”

With that I walked away and sat back down on the sand. I figured maybe I could wait it out until filming resumed, but I had a weird hunch I was bound bound to transport to somewhere else soon—whether it be consciousness or a different dream. A rueful grin spread across my face as I glanced adoringly at that brunette and, in Quantum Leap fashion, consumed by zapping-electric shocks, suddenly inhabited a fresh and random environment that was not at all as sexy as on the beach with three frisky vixens. I think it took place inside a dimly lit piano bar, where Urkel was trying to convince me we were both born in Fond du Lac. I called bullshit on Urkel's claim and longed for my previous dream between outbursts of his nasal yammering.

III. Although imagery provides the basis for most dreams, once in a while a weird succession of thoughts steals the show during my REM sleep. It's as if sunlight is pouring in through the windows of a classroom to diffuse the stills displayed by an old projector and the ramble of my own voice comes to the forefront.

I saw a faint image of my brother Dave and recalled with a tinge of resignation that the two of us share little in common. On a given night, while he handcuffs and wrangles abusive husbands and degenerate drunks into the back of a cop car, I'm immersed in yet another daydream holiday, ducking responsibilities in a basement or a friend's house. We are bereft of similarities—whether physical, temperamental, or political, but he was on my mind because he had just visited along with his wife and infant son. When in each other's company, Dave and I constantly banter quotes from The Simpsons as a sort of fluent second language to counteract the distance between us. One of our beloved exchanges is excerpted from an episode in which Homer happens upon a mound of spilled sugar on the highway and shovels the load into the trunk of his car with dreams of selling the “Texas Tea Sweetener” to make a cushy living. In his obsessive devotion to this goofy scheme, he neglects his job at the nuclear power plant. Marge confronts him while he's playing hookie from work in the backyard.

Nick, mimicking Marge: “Homer, the plant called again today and said if you don't show up tomorrow, don't bother coming in on Monday.”

Dave, mimicking Homer: “Woo-hoo! Four-day weekend!”

Nick and Dave laugh--giddy, revived, and indifferent to the groans and rolling eyes of other people in the living room who don't care much for The Simpsons and have been subjected to this same routine so many times before.

In my dream, the indistinct still-frame of a zombie flickered on the projector screen and I was reminded of a chat Dave and I had the day before. The ghostly picture of the zombie soon disappeared and I was left with the memory of Dave telling me that he too is a fan of the AMC series The Walking Dead.

Although I have no inclination to memorize lines of dialog from The Walking Dead, I was satisfied to find another way to bond with my older brother. In the unlikely event of a zombie uprising, he will be better prepared and enlightened on the ways of survival, he will be a capable protector of his wife and son. He owns a handgun and has access to a police station rife with shotguns, ammo, riot shields, and—if real life is anything like Resident Evil 2—cans of first-aid spray that cure zombie bites. I made a mental note to remember to call and meet up with Dave moments after my first encounter with a Walker.

Dave would be a worthy ally in the unlikely event of a zombie uprising.

I spotted an image of the Ghostbusters logo, the spirit encircled with a bold diagonal line slashed across it, and then the idea took off and I was left to frolic in offbeat thought.

If zombies did exist, there is no guarantee their presence would lead to Armageddon, as is the case in The Walking Dead. Nor is it a certainty that mankind would in no time snuff out the rise of the zombies, as is the case in Shaun of the Dead. There is a solid chance neither of these extreme cases are likely, that the reality would be somewhere in the middle, and the real upshot is that zombies would be like public nuisances, supernatural pests, that a crew of wisecracking cut-ups will have to be called in to exterminate, as is the case in Ghostbusters.

I'd love to be a wise-cracking zombie exterminator. Dave could be my sidekick. No. Scratch that. I'd be Dave's sidekick, as a respectful nod to his seniority and experience. Instead of proton-packs, we'd be armed with a shit-load of guns. Instead of sliding traps, we'd have body-bags. Instead of the Ectomobile, we'd drive in the ZomBMW to the entrance of an infested hotel or library. We'd have to recruit a Dan Akroyd lookalike and a black guy to round out the quartet. (I am now accepting applications.)

For our logo, we'd replace the spirit with a zombie and slash through it with a diagonal line drawn in northwest to southeast fashion rather than northeast to southwest to avoid a lawsuit. We'd get rich, save lives, become heroes, and annihilate the brains of the nefarious undead.

The name of our crew would be Zombiebeheaders.

When I woke up, I rolled out of bed and grabbed a pencil and notebook. It's my belief that it is a cosmic disservice to let dreams go to waste.*

Counter-point: “Dreams are what we wake up from.”--Raymond Carver, from the short story “The Bridle”

*Especially the ones about zombies.

McCartney's Beardo

2011-04-11T16:58:00.000-07:00

When I showed some of the ensuing lyrics to a friend, I had hopeful intentions of performing the song live for the cover band he plays in. With my notepad for reference, in a British warble, I recited a few lines of psychedelic nonsense meant to pay homage to classic rock icons from across the Atlantic. The bit about driving my lorry on the left side of the road induced a laugh, as I recall.

This glimmer of hope notwithstanding, my friend said he'd rather decline my request. He said something to the effect that playing even ONE novelty song can easily come at the expense of a group's integrity. Where credibility is concerned, four minutes of sonic gibberish compromises an awful lot, he felt. He added that even though he loved “Smells Like Nirvana” when he first heard it, Weird Al Yankovic has no place in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and the same goes for “Lunch Lady Land” and Adam Sandler. To conclude, he speculated that the threshold for novelty in legitimate music was marked by The Beatles' Sgt. Pepper album.

We were high. But it was only weed.

Deflated but comprehending, I tucked my note-pad back into the pocket of my jacket. I cast a peevish glare at him.

“Just you wait until my blog hears about this,” I said...

McCartney's Beardo (“Creep” in italics)

When I turned sixty-four
When you were here before
And looked behind blue eyes
I couldn't look you in the eye
Saw Mop-tops entangled
You're just like an angel
And Marshmallow Pie
Your skin makes me cry
In pants made of leather
You float like a feather
Major Tom Sold the World
In a beautiful world
He flew in a vessel
I wish I was special
Rocket tin can vessel (WAH-THUNK, WAH-THUNK!)
You're so fucking special

Guitars that weep
But I'm a creep
McCartney's beardo
I'm a weirdo
Can you help me get to Kashmir?
What the hell am I doing here?
I'm British, not queer
I don't belong here

Wembley and Leeds concerts
I don't care if it hurts
It's only rock and roll
I want to have control
I'm gonna drive my lorry
I want a perfect body
On the left side of the road
I want a perfect soul
Ramble On to chorus
I want you to notice
See Me, Feel Me sounds
When I'm not around

Poor Tommy was special
You're so fucking special
Deaf, dumb, blind and special (WAH-THUNK, WAH-THUNK!)
I wish I was special

Guitars that weep
McCartney's beardo
Who dug the holes in Lancashire?
What the hell am I doing here?
It was Belvedere
I don't belong here

He's worse than Voldemort *
She's running out the door
Once I stuck with this line overnight, this notion of Mr. Belvedere (namesake of a cheesy sitcom from the '80s people scarcely remember) being more evil than Lord Voldemort (the wicked wizard from the Harry Potter series that has never piqued my interest) for digging the holes in Lancashire that John Lennon referenced in “A Day in the Life,” it dawned on me that I was in essence straining my brain to create rubbish—more so than usual. I have therefore put my aspirations as a novelty song-writer on indefinite hiatus, effective following the second appearance of “Mr. Belvedere” in the stanza below.

The worst part about this failure is that now it appears my friend was right.

He's...(I got nothing)
She's running out
He...(Still nothing)
She runs, runs, ruuuuuunnnnnnnssssss

Guitars that weep
McCartney's beardo
How can pudding come before meat?
Mr. Belvedere
Mr. Belvedere

Yikes. Never mind that business about an Indefinite Hiatus. Mr. Belvedere has much in common with my plans of ever posting a novelty lyrics ever again. They've both been cancelled.

* Or, as a weak afterthought:
He's On the Run some more
Run Like Hell, you lout
Run, Run, Ruuuuuuuuunnnnnnnnnnn...

The Ultimate Warrior's Upbringing in Parts Unknown

2011-03-30T22:02:00.001-07:00

“Behold my presence, brother.” That is a common greeting where I come from, a town called Parts Unknown. We even say that to the women. Parts Unknown, I must confess, is not renowned for chivalry or equal rights among the sexes. The only thing our women can vote on is the name of their children. Their husbands also get a vote on the matter, which counts for 51% to the woman's 49.

It's a chauvinistic culture here in Parts Unknown. In my more idealistic teenage years, I felt gravely perturbed by my hometown's dismissal of all Progressive notions; shortly after graduation, I flew the coup. I didn't last too long on the outside, though. The same sensitivity that prompted my escape from Parts Unknown left me vulnerable to the judgments of Normals. They gave me the leper treatment. When I returned home, on the verge of total despair, I was not exactly welcomed, but accepted nonetheless. The elders decreed that I could stay, on the condition that I never leave again, nor foul the minds of the children with wild and foolish tales of life outside of Parts Unknown. I was given a menial job as a paperboy and a modest dwelling above an alchemy lab and put on probation for ten years due to my “Radical Conduct.”

Not everyone's departure from Parts Unknown was ill-fated, however. A few thrived, even. I have crossed paths with the subject of this letter and wish to tell you Normals about his upbringing in our mythically quirky town. The man made quite a splash in the pro-wrestling racket years ago. His name is the Ultimate Warrior.

Born on the 16th of June in the Year of the Minotaur to parents Mighty and Athena, the first and only addition to the Warrior clan uttered his first words without delay. In a spasm of wiggling limbs, moments after his umbilical cord was chopped off by the ceremonial ax, he bellowed, “The Intensity of Gorillius, God of Combat, courses through my veins as Summer Slam draws nigh!” He made this announcement many years before Summer Slam, the WWF pay-per-view event, was first held. The Ultimate Warrior claims he had an unforgettable and profound vision inside his mother's womb. What may have seemed like complete gibberish back then is now heard as mostly gibberish to the ears of most Normals.

His mother wanted to name him Doug, by the way. Fortunately, his father voted otherwise.

The closest thing we have to baptism in Parts Unknown is the Newborn's Rite of Power. There is no Holy Water involved in the Rite. Instead, once the newborn can stand on his own feet, he must body-slam a baby rhino for initiation into the Church of Brazen Souls. The Ultimate Warrior still holds the record for youngest Parts Unknowner to accomplish the ritual. What's more, he executed not a mere scoop-slam but a gorilla-press slam on the baby rhino, hoisting the beast above his head and posing for ten seconds before heaving poor Rambi Jr. onto his back.

As a toddler, the Ultimate Warrior's favorite toy was the tusk of woolly mammoth, which he discovered while digging a hole in his parent's backyard. He loved to throw it like a spear and impale bee hives, as well as treat the tusk like a baseball bat to club the skulls of decomposed Bigfoots in an astounding arc of height and distance. When I was just learning how to fly, one of those airborne Bigfoot skulls clipped my wing and sent me into a frantic tailspin. I crash-landed in the Warrior family's backyard, badly bruised. Athena rushed outside, took the tusk from her son in a frenzy of motherly admonishment, and tended to my wounds. I whimpered meekly as she dabbed the blood-soiled feathers of my left wing. The Ultimate Warrior seethed from across the lawn, no doubt cursing me under his breath for being so foolish as to get in the way of a skull he had launched so impressively. His mother noticed this, too. An indignant tear trickled down her face-paint, rolling into a glob of radiant color that dropped from her cheekbone as she turned to him.

“You have brought harm to a fellow creature, Ultimate, for careless and vain reasons the Gods of Combat now frown upon. May the shame dwell in your heart until you know what it means to be contrite.”

Her words vexed her son. He took a knee in grave contemplation and nodded. When he looked up and looked me in the eyes, I could see a wild transformation had taken place. With a stolid strut, he walked over to his mother and me.

“I have insulted the Gods of Combat,” he said. “From this day forward, you are my friend, noble bird. You ride on my back for my protection.”

This declaration struck me as a reversal of logic, the sort of expression the Ultimate Warrior would be criticized for saying years later by the likes of Bobby “The Brain” Heenan and Jesse “The Body” Ventura. But that hardly mattered to me; I had just made my first friend.

The mayor of Parts Unknown is a homely and wise ogre who dwells inside a cave made out of sweet, delicious chocolate. His name is Kruffmobler, the Elder, and to reinforce his value of discipline, he only allows himself to snack on his dwelling once a year, on Halloween—the most sacred of holidays in Parts Unknown.

Ultimate dressed-up as Tarzan every year that he went trick-or-treating. It is rare for a film made in a faraway, ritzy place like Hollywood to filter into Parts Unknown, even rarer for it to be embraced by the population. The residents of Parts Unknown were smitten with Tarzan, King of the Jungle, and Ultimate was no different. Our friend Juno*, an adorable and spunky cyclops girl, always fulfilled the role of Jane. It was known in our neighborhood that the Ultimate Warrior lacked a sweet tooth and instead preferred red meat rich in protein. While the other youngsters loaded up on chocolate bars and taffy, an exception was made for Ultimate and he was given slices of roasted duck, veal cutlets, and mastodon burgers.

For show-and-tell in kindergarten, the Ultimate Warrior made the same presentation every time. When it was his turn, he charged to the front of the class with his trademark fervor and flexed and displayed his muscles for us. To conclude the presentation, he would tell us, without fail, “This freak of nature right here is just beginning to swell!”

In a grim recognition of predator-prey relationships, bullying is commonly practiced in Parts Unknown. Goro, a massive four-armed beast who would later gain notoriety as a villain in the arcade classic Mortal Kombat, harassed and pummeled the weakling creatures of our town—including me, your humble chronicler. On one occasion, Goro dunked my head into a tin waste bucket (what we use as toilets in P.U.) while greasing his pony-tail and juggling daggers. Ultimate barged into the bathroom at the precise moment I realized Goro might be so incurably cruel as to drown me in filth. As the Ultimate Warrior seethed at the fringe of the bathroom stall, I'll never forget the words he barked to Goro.

“Now you must deal with the creation of all the un-pleasantries in the entire universe as I feel the injection from the Gods above!”

Thus ignited a ferocious battle between the two. The fight lasted for 2 hours and sprawled from the bathroom to the gymnasium to the boiler room to the playground. They broke through walls, tore down ceiling fans and ripped pipes from the beneath the floor to use as foreign objects, and demolished the jungle gym. The damage inflicted on the school was exorbitant. The havoc they caused exceeded even the cost of fixes and renovations that amounted after the Great Hail Tornado of the Year of the Hydra.

Eventually Kruffmobler, the Elder, was called to the scene to put an end to the bloody fracas. He broke up the fight by hurling a pail of leeches on the boys and then posing the question, “Vile mischief-makers, what is the sound of one hand clapping?” Ultimate and Goro puzzled over the query for a moment, allowing the mayor to dart in and apply chloroform-soaked rags to the boys' faces.

Ultimate once said in a WWF promo, as he ranted about his upcoming opponent Hulk Hogan, that the only way for an Outsider to gain entry into Parts Unknown was to overpower the pilot of an airborne plane, grab hold of the controls, and guide the plane into the side of a mountain.

That was a load of bullshit, as I told Ultimate in a phone conversation not long after he said it. In reality, Parts Unknown is located 60 miles southwest of the Spirit World. Type that into your primitive GPS navigators and see if you can find our homeland.

The chief exports of Parts Unknown are Devastation in Pursuit of Honor, the creator of ABC's hit series Lost, and dragon hormones. The chief imports of Parts Unknown are wrestling Speedos, medicine balls, and swimming pools filled with gravy.

In high school, I was part of a Saved by the Bell sort of clique of friends, along with Ultimate, as well as Gene Mann: Cousin of He-man, and Juno. Xena: Warrior Princess and the lost daughter from Family Matters rounded out the crew. We were best of friends who had some wild times and learned some life lessons along the way. Dick Cheney was our irascible principal.

Saying that Ultimate and Juno had a Slater-Jesse, love-hate dynamic to their relationship would be inaccurate. Ultimate and Juno predated Slater and Jesse, so it's more like Slater-Jesse had an Ultimate-Juno sort of thing happening—not the other way around.

I once won a beauty pageant at Thor High School. Me: a skunk-colored Griffin with the voice of comedian Emo Phillips. Beauty pageant winner. Big self-esteem booster for me. I don't recall the details, but remain certain I learned some sort of life lesson.

Our high school prom was held inside a Thunderdome. The Ultimate Warrior pinned all challengers in a 30-man Royal Rumble to win the Prom King Championship Belt. He kicked Goro in the balls when the ref, Mr. Cheney, wasn't looking to notch the win, but so what? That hardly tarnished his victory; Goro would have done the exact same to him.

The Ultimate Warrior lost his virginity that night—to Juno. Afterward, he told me they made love at the foot of a volcano, and that his climax happened at the exact moment the volcano erupted. He then picked her up and ran her back to safety from the approaching lava, laid her down, and again kissed her tenderly. I couldn't believe it.

“Really?” I asked, intently leaning forward on a medicine ball I was perched on in his family's backyard.

“Na,” he said. “We did it in the back seat parked outside a bowling alley. Warrior came way too soon.”

Shortly before graduation, Ultimate showed an interest in music. For an entire summer, he was a member of Gwar, the shock rock band. He played the wood-chipper. Jackyl, with their wild yet tasteful chainsaw solos, had a profound impact on Ultimate's musical sensibilities. Ultimate believed the wood-chipper could expand on the cacophonous snarl established by the chain-saw.

On one fateful night, Ultimate got into a dispute with the lead singer about which type of wood should be fed into the machine. Ultimate insisted on Strack, a genus of wood unique to the Forest of Tortured Souls on the outskirts of town, while the lead singer debated the simplistic merits of oak.

The Ultimate Warrior quit Gwar during sound-check that night at Sludgemaster's Bar. Ever since then, Ultimate has despised those bizarre heavyweights of metal. In a letter he wrote me recently, splotched in chicken blood, Warrior mocked Gwar, still bickering that oak “sounded too mainstream.” He added, “The band sounds soft to Warrior, soft like 'Ravishing' Rick Rude, may the Gods have no mercy on his cowardly soul.”

My best friend began to see that, for good or ill, Parts Unknown wasn't big enough for him. Whenever I slept over at his house, he fell asleep first, and in no time was rambling nonsense about steel cage matches at Survivor Series and “sending the power of the Warrior down everyone's throat in the WWF until they become sick of it.”

Yikes, buddy. Those are some peculiar night tremors.

He did once, however, say something wise and heartfelt during one of his boisterous sleep-spasms, and I'll never forget. I'm not allowed to forget much, actually—as Parts Unknown's official historian, it's my job to remember that somewhere beyond that fog of incomprehensibility, Ultimate would utter words of great magnitude. So, before you read the post-script that counts as the true and somber conclusion to this document, it may be wise, the source notwithstanding, to consider the following:

“Intensity enslaves the impossible!”

The words of the Ultimate Warrior.

Warmest Regards,

Crumbwell, the Griffin

* No copies of this particular movie, for instance, exist in Parts Unknown. The film's namesake strikes too sorrowful a tone for us. Years ago, Juno, our Juno, never knew she had high blood-pressure and was therefore at a greater risk to the effects of caffeine pills. She stayed up late studying for an entrance exam to an Ivy League school and took one too many of the vile things. She died of an irregular heartbeat. Ultimate boarded a plane to leave Parts Unknown forever the morning after her funeral. As I kicked the dirt of the runway in despair, I found the only thing he left behind after the plane had taken off. It was a glob of radiant-colored face-paint that dripped from his cheek.

Bonus: A Brief Correspondence with the Ultimate Warrior

The Ultimate Warrior, who now refers to himself as Mr. Warrior, maintains a blog. On this blog, he posts artwork of primal-looking sketches accompanied by motivational quotes from historical figures. Without too much irony, I'll type here that his offering to blogspot is legit and interesting.

I sent him some a comment, which he promptly returned. You can read the exchange below. The Youtube videos I mention, by the way, are a real source of some of the bizarre sayings attributed to the Ultimate Warrior. (For instance: "This freak of nature right here is just beginning to swell.")

"Persistence. The only thing that will piss-off failure enough to get
the fuck out of the way of your success."

I love that quote!

The quotations you apply to your artwork from other bold and
imaginative minds are great, as well. The Frederick Douglass quote
about inucurring ridicule from others for not conforming to their
expectations, for instance. Incredible stuff.

I have to confess, I get a kick out of watching interviews from your
tenure in the WWF on Youtube. They were quite silly and eccentric. But
more than that, they were wildly ENTERTAINING. Plus, you don't seem to
be troubled by the negative things people happen to think about you.
Maholo for that, Mr. Warrior. Focus on the positive: I am a cynic of
the pageantry of pro-wrestling, and yet, after browsing through your
blog, I have gained a newfound respect for you. In addition to the
quotes, you seem dedicated to the deft creation of heartfelt artwork.

Best wishes to you and your family.

Take care now.

Sincerely,

Nick Olig

Nick, hello. Thanks for taking the time write and comment.

My career creating and performing Ultimate Warrior was an great and inspiring time -- yes. also, wildly ENTERTAINING. A huge amount of creativity USED TO go into developing your ring persona. Things have changed in that regard. I'm very proud of what I achieved in the business -- more proud of how I've moved on in my life and used the experiences and life lessons form that time in my life to stay creative and inspired. Still being ALIVE is a good thing. Different than most believe, intensity for life is NOT an act for me. This life I have is NOT a dress rehearsal, and I will NOT disrespect it that way.

Always Believe,

Warrior