I ♥ the Internet
So we decide to change the radio station that wakes us up every morning from 1010-WINS to some classic rock thing because even though the former's offer to give us the world in 22 minutes is nice and all, quite frankly we're tired of waking up to shit news. When the alarm goes off this morning, we are greeted with the strains of Bad Company's “Rock n' Roll Fantasy,” and while we nearly fractured an ulna in our haste to silence the cacophony, something about the song haunted us while we scrubbed away our mean gin hangover in the shower.
See, the thing is, singer Paul Rodgers uses the song as a platform to delineate his ultimate rock n' roll fantasy--hence the clever title. But a close listen to the lyrics reveals that a key component of said fantasy is the presence of men dressed in circus motley:
“Here come the jesters, one, two, three.
It's all part of my fantasy.”
What, may we ask, the fuck? Are we to seriously believe that Paul Rodgers thinks that clowns = balls-to-the-wall rock n' roll, a brand of rocking so intense and concentrated that the “a” and the “d” in the word “and” come flying off and skittering away, like the propeller of the plane that killed Randy Rhodes?
Maybe it's just us, but your old pal Sakebomb has a radically different idea of what a rock n' roll fantasy is all about, involving a suitcase full of Peruvian cocaine, a mandrill that's been dosed to the gills with LSD-25 and an icy cold case of Zima. While the resurrected Joe Strummer reforms the Clash in our sensibly decorated living room, we backdoor last year's red-haired, pneumatic version of Lindsay Lohan, while Fez looks on, helpless. As the mandrill challenges Topper Headon to a spirited game of Challenge Yahtzee, Beck slinks into the room, head bowed, apologizing for not being good any more and vowing to quit playing music forever. Just when our seed begins to take purchase deep within the unquiet confines of Lohan's carnal crevasse, a caffeinated Henry Rollins bursts through the door with a slab of semtex stuffed down the front of his gym shorts, screaming about the death of Joe Cole. The ensuing explosion kills Beck, Fez, Rollins and the mandrill, as well as anyone else who thinks we'd actually drink Zima.
On a (mostly) unrelated note, we were farting around with the Internet, looking for pictures of Eastern European women dressed in beekeeper outfits, when we stumbled across this sonic nugget from Silver Jews warbler David Berman and his old pal Steven Malkmus. First released in 1993 as a 45, “Old New York” captures Berman and the Prince of Pavement at what appears to be the tail end of an Alize bender, riffing back and forth about the joys of doing time in glorious Gotham. These include: the possibility of running into Joe Namath or Larry Brown--who Berman misidentifies as “a football player who sometimes comes out and he'll drink with you”--in a bar, “coming home at 3:00 a.m. when the snow is blowing down,” the Times Square Howard Johnson's, chestnuts, midtown lairs, reading Edith Wharton in Central Park, fashion models and the imperishability of the Chrysler Building.