Friday, May 21, 2010

Sweet dreams are made of these, who am I to disagree?

What the, what the, what the woot, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers

Everyone is excited over the finale of “Lost” Hope I don’t ruin the ending, but I know what the final scene is. The final scene of “Lost” has the Fonz waterskiing in his leather jacket and jumping a shark.

Richard Blumenthal, a candidate for the Democratic Senate in Connecticut, lied about serving in Vietnam. Blumenthal could have sworn he survived hand-to-hand fighting amid horrible screaming and agony, but it turns out it was a women’s shoe sale at Bloomingdales.

New York Giant great, Lawrence Taylor, denies having sex with an underage prostitute and claims he just pleasured himself. That noise you hear is Vince Lombardi spinning in his grave.

The Gulf oil disaster is bad. The spill is so oily, so slimy, so putrid, so disgusting it is going to guest star on “Real Housewives of Orange County.”

Democratic congressman of New York, Eric Massa, resigned after sexually harassing a male staff member, now Indiana republican congressman Mark Souder resigns after having an affair with a female staff member. Wait, I’m confused, I thought democrat male politicians had affairs with women and republican male politicians had affairs with men.

Family values Indiana Rep. congressman Mark Souder resigned after having an affair with a staff member. Have you seen this guy? Power is not only an aphrodisiac, it’s apparently blinding.

Family values Indiana Rep. congressman Mark Souder resigned after having an affair with a staff member. Have you seen this guy? He makes Carl Rove look like Johnny Depp.

In Paris, a brazen thief broke into a museum and stole five paintings, including a Picasso and a Matisse, worth hundreds of millions. Kind of makes the Nebraska guy who robs 7-Elevens with toilet paper wrapped around his head almost look like a loser.

Since you asked:

It has literally been a dream of mine to create a comedy album or movie ala “Exile On Main Street” style: rent a villa on the ocean in Santa Barbara and stock it with comedians and comedy writers – sans the drugs – and have jam writing sessions.

As the amazing songs on “Exile” attest, there is something magical that happens to creativity when you blend the creative process with real living, eating, sleeping, working out, partying.

In the dreams I am in a communal college campus-like facility complete with funky bars and restaurants, we surf, play football, barbeque, dance, play music, drink wine, cook in the kitchen and combine all of that with creative think tank group meeting sessions. Or if you feel like it, you go off with your computer and work alone.

The problem is the dreams often morph into a bit of an anxiety dream because I suddenly remember I don’t know what kind of movie or project I am supposed to be working on, and if I tell the head producer I don’t know what I am doing, I’ll get canned.

So I sort of move around the campus trying to look busy. The dream begins with me being about age 21, pole vaulting, playing tackle football, racing on the track. But as the dream evolves I realize I am getting older. Eventually I realize I am happily married and have a kid back in San Diego and I really want to leave and go back home to them. That is usually when I wake up.

But it is a cool dream. Some of the other people on the project are people I went to high school or college with, some of them are famous comedians. Some of the people I have never seen before.

The landscape in these dreams is so surreal and yet real. It is as if downtown State Street in Santa Barbara ran along the cliffs above the beaches. The dream’s local combines elements of UC Santa Barbara with a very hip and futuristic Spanish/California open mall area. It’s essentially a hippy mountain/beach town filled with hip and talented people. The anxiety aspect is when I question my qualifications for being there. Plus I have no idea what the hell I am supposed to be doing.

The buildings and surroundings in the dream are so real, when I see something in real life that resembles it, I think of the dream. For example, a restaurant in a beautiful house in Santa Barbara basking in the glow of Sunset one block West of State Street is a fixture in the dream.

Like the "Exile" villa Nellcote in Nice, there are no fixed room assignments. There are beds and couches spread all over if you want to get away and snooze. No set working hours, people just gather together when they feel like it, after breakfast, after dinner.

It is hysterically bizarre how I can create in these dreams such wild abstract and random aspects, like wandering into a Spanish tapas bar with a bar fight underway, dodging thrown shot glasses and daggers, and walking up on stage to jam on my harmonica with the Eagles or the Stones. But mundane aspects in my life still apply like I glance in a mirror and remember I need a haircut or my jeans have a new hole in the knee.

Honestly, does it get any more psychotic to be dreaming I am on a stage with a cowboy bar fight raging below and jamming on harmonica next to Glenn Frey and Don Felder when suddenly I remember I forgot to floss?

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Now British Petroleum is going to take a giant hose and suck the oil out of the Gulf. I'm telling you, this Operation Paris Hilton had better work.

Exile On Lex Street

It is official, I am clinically obsessed about every thing to do with “Exile on Main Street.” Love the album, reading the book, read the “Rolling Stone” article, saw the documentary.

In a nutshell, while recording “Exile on Main Street”the Rolling Stones were literally exiled from England to France because they had more taxes due than money in the bank.

What makes it so fascinating is that all of the epic coolness of the Rolling Stones recording and partying in a former Nazi mansion in Nice occurred during an otherwise graceless era of popcorn ceilings, powder blue polyester shirts, Nixon’s sweaty upper lip and avocado green shag carpet.

What sticks out is the amazing relationship Mick Jagger and Keith Richards had. Stealing drugs, cigarettes and women from each other in a psychotically competitive, jealous and tempestuous dysfunctional pairing, they still managed to make great music. Maybe they made great music because of their utterly insane relationship.

Nobody on the planet is more obsessed and worried about their image and status than Mick Jagger. Someone described Mick as an actor who is playing the role of somebody they don’t really like, but for a lifetime instead of a movie. Keith Richards once said you think it would be a lot of fun being Mick Jagger, but Mick constantly worries himself sick about being Mick.

Whereas, with Keith Richards, there is nobody on the planet who could care less about their image or status than Keith Richards. This is the essence of Keith Richards’s coolness: Keith simply does not give a f**k about anything other than getting wasted and playing the guitar.

When Keith Richards flops shirtless and tan on top of a luxurious India-cotton-sheet bed with the bed curtains billowing in the Mediterranean breeze while eating slices of apple off the tip of his Moroccan dagger and slugging down gulps of Jack Daniels from the bottle, it’s because that is what he wants to do, his royal Keefers isn’t trying to be cool, he just is cool.

When Mick Jagger does the same thing, he is aping Keith Richards for dramatic affect.

From all that I have read, the creation of rock and roll is like law and sausage: if you want to continue to enjoy them, don’t see how they’re made. The tedium and repetition of recording and touring is mind-boggling. Just the description of mixing individual vocal, drum, guitar, base, piano, saxophone track upon track on to the final master tape can make your eyes glaze and cross. It is that tedium that often is the main blame/excuse behind so much substance abuse.

During the making of “Exile on Main Street” in the scary beautiful and creepy ocean-front mansion called Nellcote, the Stones averaged recording one song in the crypt/sauna basement every two weeks.

There are two ways of looking at that. A, one two-and-a-half minute song for every two weeks? That is an epic amount of drugging, boozing and sexing with little to show for it.

The other way to look at is, B, what classic piece of timeless art have I contributed to in the last two weeks? A “Paris Hilton is a giant slut” joke? Compared to the Eagles schedule, one song in two weeks is a torrid pace.

There is a rumor circulating that the dank, dark and hot and creepy basement used to record “Exile on Main Street” was used by the SS in WWII to torture prisoners. There are a lot of creative and stylish myths that stalk the Stones like this one. There are so many gloriously intriguing myths and rumors engulfing the Stones you begin to grow suspicious this myth-creating is the secret behind their well-manicured intriguing and mysterious public persona.

Take Mick Jagger’s dabbling into cross-dressing and rumors of bisexuality. In fact, it turns out Mick is not only the straightest man who ever lived, he is one of the horniest straight men who ever lived. Mick could not meet a pretty woman and not try and “do” her.

And yet Jagger was so enamored of the vague coolness and mystery behind the obsessed followers of David Bowie, Jagger adopted that same campy, over-the-top style. Jagger adopted this feminine foppishness much to the discomfort of lovers of the straight macho rock and roll that was/were the core of the Rolling Stones fans.

That one music video the Stones did dressed in campy sailor suits with swirling stage fog was the stupidest marketing mistake Jagger could have possibly done given the homophobia demographic of his fans, but the Stones were so bulletproof they survived it. As stupid rock public relations mistakes go, that ranks up there with Dixie Chick, Natalie Maines, calling country music fans stupid red necks.

Like most people in this world, the Rolling Stones were their best when they were just being themselves: a bunch of talented and cool guys playing music and having fun. And that is what made “Exile On Main Street’ so powerful. Despite all of Mick's marketing posturing, "Exile" captured the Rolling Stones being the Rolling Stones almost by accident.

When I talk to the few people in the TV business I talk to, without any intention of disrespect or rudeness on their part, you can’t help pick up their “What is so great about famous people?” vibe. Part of it is it’s their job to be around famous people and part of it is that not all famous people are all that interesting or nice.

The more I am fascinated with learning about rock and roll in LA during the Sixties and Seventies – the Stones finished mixing “Exile on Main Street” in L.A. – the more I realize luck, timing and creating a popular image has more to do with being a famous musician than anything else, including talent. One word: Kiss.

Music industry insiders say every member of the band Crazy Horse was far more talented than Neil Young. But because of Young’s fame coupled with his ability to write popular songs, nobody remembers Crazy Horse for being anything other than Neil Young’s backup band for a couple of albums.

Using the Neil Young example, the more I read about the people and the music of this incredible era, the more I learn that, to continue to enjoy the music, you simply have to separate the song from the musician as well as the subject. “Cowgirl In the Sand” and “Cinnamon Girl” are epic rock love songs despite the fact Young wrote them about two of the most murderous and drug-addled Manson Family women.

Although the Rolling Stones are good musicians and are extremely talented song writers, their true gift is their timing, luck and ability to create a fascinating image.

Being able to create an interesting image and actually being interesting are two different things. As different as Mick Jagger and Keith Richards.

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

This low-down bitchin' got my poor feet itchin', Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers

A New York Vet prescribed two Viagra pills to treat an ailing pit bull. A pit bull on Viagra, gosh, what could go wrong there?

A New York Vet prescribed Viagra to treat an ailing pit bull. A pit bull on Viagra, who could have imagined getting bitten by a pit bull could be the second worst thing they could do to you?

B.P. was able to siphon some of the oil from the massive leak; in a related relative success story, Tiger Woods was able to order a grand slam breakfast without hitting on the Denny’s waitress.

We have made so many jokes about the KFC double down sandwich, two pieces of
fried chicken with cheese, cream sauce and bacon in the middle, that I decided to try one today. To my surprise it was pretty goo . . . ah, er, oh, ergh, ug, eww, phew . . . sorry, it just passed through my heart.

A woman at Buffalo diner told President Barack Obama he was a hottie with a
smokin’ body. In a related story, First Lady Michelle Obama just issued her first death sentence.

The next issue of Playboy is coming out in 3-D with the 3-D glasses. The “Playboy” 3-D glasses are amazing, you put them on and suddenly you see the words: “Why are you paying for this stupid magazine? Get on the Internet, you horny loser.”

Monday, May 17, 2010

Len and Bob bring it Sinatra style: Like it do be do be do

Hey, Chicago, whadaya say, the Cubs are gonna win today, Torn Slatterns and Nugget Ranchers

The Gulf is leaking so much oil it is making me sentimental about my first car. Bless you baby-poop brown Skyflea – Root beer brown Skylark – wherever you are.

Twice-sex-assault charged Pittsburgh Steeler, Ben Roethlisberger just finished a league ordered behavioral evaluation. It turns out Ben has a giant case of Schmuck-atosis.

Accused rapist Lawrence Taylor told TMZ he only pleasured himself, not the woman. In legal circles this is known as the Pee Wee defense.

The next “Playboy” is in 3-D issue complete with 3-D glasses; the 3-D makes the naked women look lifelike and real. Is that a good idea? If “Playboy” subscribers wanted to look at real women, they wouldn’t be looking at “Playboy.”

The next “Playboy” is in 3-D issue complete with 3-D glasses; the 3-D makes the naked women look lifelike and real. This is going to scare the heck out of a lot of regular “Playboy” fans.

The next “Playboy” is in 3-D issue complete with 3-D glasses; the 3-D makes the naked women look lifelike and real. It’s part of “Playboy” goal to make its subscribers realize how much they’re missing out by not having sex with real women.

The next “Playboy” is in 3-D issue complete with 3-D glasses; the 3-D makes the naked women look lifelike and real. It even has a sound chip that has the woman say: “Why don’t we ever go out?” “Would it kill you to put the toilet seat back down?” “Does this make me look fat?” “Why don’t you like my friends?” “Is that what you’re going to wear?”

Since you asked:

Man, I really like the Cubs this year. Love Alcatraz (Byrd man) Always have loved D “-lerious” Lee. Love sweet, sweet, sweeter than sweet sweet Lou Piniella. Love Bob and Len in the booth and out in the bleachers. Fukudome is my homay. F- note and The Riot are awesome, I hope the Note gets more starting time. Like “Shumway” Alfonso if he would stop d*cking round in the outfield. Love the new owner, Tom Ricketts. Man, Tom reminds me of a bunch of my old Chicago boys.

But mostly I love that Milton Bradley is not on the team.

You want a simple and easy recipe that will make your steaks and potatoes taste like a dream?

Slice a head of garlic in half sideways, drizzle both halves with EVOO loosely wrap in tin foil and place in oven at 400 for about 35-40 minutes. Let the browned cloves cool. Squeeze the garlic – keeping out the paper-like shell into a small bowl. Mix in three tablespoons of butter. Big splash of Worcestershire sauce, big ol’ dollop-o-mustard, mix well mushing the garlic cloves smooth with a fork. Put it back in fridge to get slightly hardened.

Serve liberally on hot beef or potatoes.

Man, do I like the cut of Chicago Cubs owner, Tom Ricketts jib. (Did I just say I like the cut of his jib? Yikes) Ricketts seems so familiar to me. Either I have met him in Chicago, or he is just a down-to-earth classic, nice, smart, funny no-b.s. Chicago guy.

Yo, T-Bone. (Ricketts looks like a guy who can handle a nickname) Here’s the deal. You’re a smart guy, I’m a smart guy. You love the Cubs, I love the Cubs. You’re a happily married guy with a family, I’m a happily married guy with a family. You’re a stock broker, I was a stock broker, you’ve got a sense of humor, I’m a funny guy. You’ve got a billion dollars . . . OK, here’s the deal.

Hire me, moi, as a comedy writing consultant for the Chicago Cubs. Cubs fans at their very core have a wonderful sense of humor. You needed a sense of humor if you were a Cubs fan in 1969 and 1984 or you would be dead. Hire me to write jokes, quips one-liners for your speeches, for Bob and Len to use on the air, or in press releases, whatever you need.

Stop laughing, I am being semi-serious here.

Make no mistake about it I am a comedy writing whore who can be had for a price. From e-mails or text messages or phone calls I can be contacted to come up with quips or jokes on a moments notice making them appear as spontaneous and improvisational as humanly possible.

And all of this service can be had for a mere $50 K a year, the price of one of sweet Lou’s company cars. (Hey, I said I was a comedy writing whore, I didn’t say I was a crack ‘ho)

Call me or email me at

Let's put some air under this pig and make it fly.

Oh, and Nike, the offer to stop making jokes about your pants unzipping man-whore stable of skank humpers, like Woods and Roethlisberger, still stands. Let's say $100K.

Two words: Kah and Ching.