From a mailing list, where I expand upon the idea of lying about people to create comedy. It’s true, by the way; you can make everything funnier simply by fabricating and inserting random bullshit into any conversation.
This is also how you get from the Mael Brothers to Pink Floyd to The J. Geils Band in two easy steps, made that much easier by the fact that The J. Geils Band is funny in every possible context you can articulate:
‘Well, it’s a two-pronged joke, you see, relying on the non-identical twin comedy precepts of … I’ll use the technical term here … “making shit up.” (editor’s note: here I forgot that “twin comedy precepts” should actually involve two of them) I can outline this process for you using words, and if I’m still not making myself clear (because of this terrible heat) I can create a Venn Diagram that will explain everything.
1. The first part being that [Name Redacted] is a huge fan of prog rock. I do not know that this is true, but it’s personally amusing to me to think so. He played some Traffic on my iPod once when I threw it at him in a car and demanded that he make music play out of it. Then he didn’t do it right and no music happened and he got very flustered so I had to rip it out of his hands and make Traffic (which he was trying to select) come out of the speakers, after which he seemed to calm down some and his attention turned toward observing and collecting rock specimens. So I can only assume that “Name Redacted loves prog rock” from this highly inconclusive incident which did not actually involve a) prog rock or b) loving a thing.
2. The second part being that the kind of prog rock that Name Redacted loves is Kansas and possibly Toto, if we’re willing to drag him that far into the hole.
3. We can make this go even further by claiming that a) the prog rock realm extends to The J. Geils Band, and furthermore is prog rock because b) Name Redacted claims it is so or b) anything Name Redacted loves must deductively be prog rock; or we can whisk straight past that to c) loving The J. Geils Band is kind of hilarious in the year 2010 so fuck all the other letters up there. We could segue into Gerry Rafferty here but I think we’ll store that ammunition safely back in the footlocker.
4. Name Redacted is my brother. I do not wish to harm him or see harm come to him in any way. Please do not repeat this experiment without Gold Clearance from the Sector Three Marketing Team.’
Hey loud neighbor! Howdy! We haven’t met, but let me introduce myself! I’m the guy who lives near you and is quiet; you wouldn’t know about me because I’ve spent all my time in awareness of your presence on this planet listening to you sing VERY EARNEST FOLK SONGS to a group of people in your apartment in a VERY LOUD VOICE for what seems to have been HOURS.
A critique, you say? No, I’m just complaining about the hollering. OK, your singing is quite bad, but that’s not my main problem with it. It’s the fact that it’s 1) very loud and 2) quite earnest that bothers me more, frankly. Because I suspect that you may have been attempting to get laid with that voice, and further, there’s an outside chance that such an encounter might produce offspring, and there are some things we simply can’t allow, Mr. Geronimo Jackson Browne.
A Eugenicist? Shiver me timbers, no. We do have standards, however. Do it the old-fashioned way, man. Put on a Barry White album like the rest of the civilized world.
What? You say you’re under 30? OK… does R. Kelly still do it for the ladies? Try that. Or if she’s the sensitive type, I hear Conor Oberst works wonders. Scientists still aren’t sure why, but it does seem to work. Sort of like how you can trap snails with cheap beer, I think.
Also you could try: polka music. Trust me, if she’s German or a Latina, you’re totally getting lucky tonight. Just not Weird Al. That does not go over well.
My wife says my last post made me sound like a cranky old man so I’m just going to say:
Golden Gate Park is a very nice place for a dog to run around. If I had a dog I would totally take my dog to that park, and maybe even let him off the leash a little bit; he could chase squirrels, and I could chase him to stop him from chasing the squirrels, we would both get exercise, we’re out in nature when we’re getting that exercise, everything smells great, the ocean breeze is coming in over the eucalyptus stands, someone’s grilling meat somewhere, you have a dog, life is fantastic.
And your dog! Every weekend of the year — except the weekend they have Outside Lands there — he gets to run around and you don’t need to worry about him being trampled by hippies, hipsters, douchebags, skanks, fashion victims, scenesters, mooks, juggalos, frat boys, sorority girls, Phil Lesh fans, golf carts, Intel Zombies or overzealous minimum wage security types.
Win | win.
Alas, the beer is not free, and there is no Al Green. But you have a dog.
The only thing that bothers me…why do so many girls go to rock concerts and outdoor music festivals and then spend the entire time they’re there typing on their Blackberrys and iPhones? Isn’t there a concert or something going on?
And when I say girls, I don’t mean all of them, just a certain type of female type. You can close your eyes and probably see her. Long nails. Dark eyeliner. Scuzzy looking short skirt with expensive designer fake dirt patches. “Fashion boots”. Did your boyfriend make you come here? Because you are totally not interested in Cat Power. Seriously, shut up. Why even come? Give the ticket to somebody who won’t look like everything fucking bores them to tears.
Also you, guy wearing vintage 1994 John Starks jersey and sunglasses upside down on the back of your head, there is no possible way you came here to listen to My Morning Jacket. I want you to find one (1) of above ladies and have sex with her immediately, somewhere outside this venue. Where I cannot know about it. I command it!
And you, my friend, the one with the Justin Bieber haircut and the striped long-sleeved shirt, who weaved past me like a drunken sailor, spilling half the beer you were holding on your shirt, which had already been spilled on quite a bit, and then eventually you just spilled out the remaining half on purpose, because you realized you could not carry it, before heading thataway into mass crowd scene, looking for all the world like Custer’s Last Stand, or at least the 3 AM Grand Slam Breakfast at Denny’s that followed it, you, you I cannot help. You are beyond the scope of this assessment. I wish you luck, and an excellent dry cleaner.
And hipster d00d with the thrift store “rap” hoodie with machine gun print, the red vinyl disco pants, the gold lame $ sign hat and the Hello Kitty backpack? On behalf of the entire rest of the world, I apologize for stealing your lunch money repeatedly. It was an honest mistake. (when I was in junior high school, btw, I had my lunch money stolen all the time. Because I was a dink! There was a huge lunch-money-robbing ring in our school, and all of us dinks would walk solemnly through the front gates and fork over the lousy $1.40 in our pockets, and you know where that money went? To buy pencils. Because the other popular thing in that school apart from stealing lunch money from losers like me was: pencil fights. I believe I personally funded an entire season of Pencil Fight, and probably the playoffs and Super Bowl as well.)
(The first rule of Pencil Fight is you do not talk about Pencil Fight.)
(Oh yeah, also back there in Parentheses Land, we were going to point out that at least we didn’t pair red vinyl disco pants with a child’s backpack. I will cop to the white Member’s Only jacket, but it was a gift from my aunt, who did all her Xmas shopping via satellite television.)
Next time : we talk about hippies.
This blog is taking a few days off so it can attend the Outside Lands Music & Arts Festival in San Francisco’s beautiful Golden Gate Park. On a professional basis, of course, but that doesn’t mean this blog isn’t planning on running onstage during a performance by French indie sensations Phoenix and eluding security just long enough to launch itself into a sea of concertgoers, where it will float balloon-like over the heads and hats of the music-drenched crowd, transcendent in its ability to assert a tiny sample of its own individuality over a scene of ultimate group consciousness and collective arm-waving and shouting.
Not that this blog is planning such a thing, but just saying you shouldn’t rule out anything at an outdoor festival in the middle of August. Especially one with a “wine tent.”
Sore throat, packing, sore throat, packing, cough drops (the mediciney kind, makes your throat numb for a whole hour), packing, driving, random ear/sinus pain, sore throat, driving, getting lost, earhurt, tent building activities, food, beer, talk, beer, talk, SORE THROAT, go to sleep.
Wake on two hours sleep, sniffle, cough, coffee, eat cereal, blow nose, walk around, drain sinuses, eat lunch, beer, wash dishes, stuff kleenex up nose, nap, more stuff up nose, try to breathe, nap, wake up not breathing, nap, drain, replace kleenex, find iPod, DJ for naked people, dinner, whisky, change clothes, blow nose, sniffle, cough, take Ambien, sleep. But not before Ambien Walrus visits and makes a few suggestions, like “you should get in your car and drive around!” Ignore Ambien Walrus, sleep.
Sleep fitfully for 12 hours, wake up way past noon, miss breakfast, forget to drink coffee, try to get up, curse the sunlight, lay on table, groan, move to lawn, groan, go back to tent, sleep, groan, cough, shiver, fever, take ibuprofen, cough, shiver, blanket, sleep, get up before darktime, stare at food, groan, find out you’ve had another shift added to DJ list: “11PM – ???”; consider career as jedi and/or Ambien Walrus, complain to no one in particular, beer, chocolate, improbable comeback, mood improving, fever gone, (there may or may not have been dancing at this point), spin superhits of the Super 70s, “naked guy from hot tub thanks you for the Golden Earring,” thank them for their support by playing Mark E. Smith shouting over German techno, beer, talk, chocolate, klowns, talk, whisky, sleep.
Drive home. Sleep. Think about how much fun it is camping with friends.
Some guy once said: “There is a sound only teens can hear, supposedly. A high-pitched frequency that adults gradually lose the ability to detect as tiny hairs in the inner ear wear off over time. Justin Bieber is the musical equivalent of that noise.”
OK, that guy was me.
Also, I tested it out and it’s totally true. I can’t hear that noise or a lot of other ones! I have the hearing of a 97-year-old man, apparently! It is probably because of: iPods.
Soon I will be completely unable to hear Justin Bieber, but I bet I will still know that he is there. Somehow.