Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

Tag: beastie boys

It’s A Man’s, Man’s, Man’s, Man’s World

We did songs named after women, Enthusiasts, so now let’s hear it for the boys.

Holy shit, that was terrible.

I’m owning it. I stand by that sentence.

You shouldn’t. It was fucking dire.

You’re not getting pardoned. I’m pardoning everyone else–Red Metal Stool and Jenkins and everyone–and you’re going to jail.

For what?

“Hello, I’m Cher.”

THWOMP

“Oh, no, I’ve been shot by an arrow.”

FLUMP

You’re going to prison for killing Cher, dipshit.

I didn’t do that!

She was a national treasure!

I hate you.

That’s a given, but what did Cher ever do to you besides make you dance? And make you feel?

I’m calling my lawyer.

Your lawyer is Anthony Scaramucci.

Goddammit.

May I continue, or do I have to keep modifying reality around you?

Go on.

Thank you. So, Enthusiasts: let’s do guys!

Do you even hear yourself?

SHUT UP! Best song with a man’s name in the title is the question. Unlike the gynonymically-named songs, there’s not many where the name is strictly the dude’s name, so this time around there can be words other than the name in the title, such as Bad, Bad Leroy Brown or Careful With The Axe, Eugene. HOWEVER, we are still keeping the restriction on Dead songs, so no Casey Jones.

First person to suggest Hey Jude gets banned. Not even kidding. I would like to see someone try to argue for Jimmy Olson’s Blues by the Spin Doctors, though. Also: Dylan’s Joey is not making the finals because it’s not even the best song named Joey. (That would be the one by Concrete Blonde.)

Since it’s my site, I’ll go first.

Whatcha got?

Party People Going Places On The D Train

Exactly 14 billion songs have been written about New York City, and I’m not getting involved in the argument for BEST EVAR. This one’s good, though.

I’m About To Shake This Watergate

You’re not allowed to refer to the song without posting the video.

Thanks, MCA

MCA died today. Well, not MCA: I doubt MCA had been around for a year or so. Cancer strops that whimsical shit out of you, toot sweet. The horror, on its face, of cancer is the multiplying, the duplication, the encroachment. But it is a zero-sum game, there is only so much space in a person and every day there’s not even that space anymore. As the cancer takes over, you dissipate: ain’t you no more, that’s cancer where you used to be. The King is dead, long live the King.

So, Adam Yauch died today, and I realize all of our “how did you find out” stories are going to suck from now on: “Well, I opened my browser and there it was.” 

When Garcia died, people told each other, or it was on the radio. We still played those out in the street, especially in August. My RA from my freshman year called me. It was noon, so I was still in bed and I remember listening to the message he was leaving on my machine with a strange equivocation. I had seen them 5 times in the last year and hung a big Stealie flag by my bed, listened to the few tapes I had constantly (although I was developing an obsession with P-Funk, mostly the Eddie Hazel band version), and dated more than one full-on Hippie Chick. I was, you might say, a duck.

But no tears, nothing like that. Nor for when Freddie Mercury died, and there was no bigger fan in the greater suburban Essex County area then me. (A friend of mine has long been spreading a myth of some sort of “armband” in some sort of color, possibly “black” being worn by a certain bloggist  after the death of Mr. Mercury, but that so-called friend is a filthy-minded prevaricator and scofflaw. A penniless, poisonous, cretinous cur of a fool of an abolitionist of a suffragette of a communist of a fool. Double fool and a pox upon his tiny, tiny dishwasher-less apartment in Little Mozambique.  I say this about him: His drawers are wet and his blade is dry.)

47 is young, let’s not lie. Too young, although a 97-year-old would cane-whack you for suggesting that any age is the right age to go. Now, for certain occupations: not young at all. I am looking at a certain piano bench that has claimed far more lives than the Hope Diamond.

Thanks, Adam.

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