Each year, all (entertainment-based) freelancers for The Washington City Paper are invited to contribute a fake band/artist/writer/event for the April 1st issue (streets today). The winning entry is thrown into the goodtime-haps-around-town section (“City Lights”) to confuse the reader. My entry did not win. Here is the weak-ass shit:
Andrew Dice Clean
Billed as “The World’s Only PG-Rated Andrew Dice Clay Impersonator,” Andrew Dice Clean (aka Andrew Dice Clean) jumps the tracks of his busy itinerary for two nights at (insert venue here). Normally, if one was looking, they would find Dice Clean tearing up Super 8 banquet rooms, corporate potlucks, rehab “special days,” youth group lock-ins, and birthday parties for the elderly or crippled. One thing he does “tear up” is his trademark foam “stress ball,” squeezed ad infinitum in place of his inspiration’s omnipresent (lit) cigarette. Don’t miss these “whelming” bits: “The Other Day This Female Acquaintance Is Signing The Invoice At My Courier Job,” “So This Girl Might Be Lookin’ In My Direction,” “What Is It With These, You Know, These ‘You Know What’s?’” and the highly controversial, career-destroying, “The Other Day, This Lady Friend Is Given’ Me What Might Be Termed An Over-The-Jeans Handjob.”
Tuesday night (3/29/05) marked my “triumphant” return to the folds of Tom Scharpling’s The Best Show On WFMU. For the past few months, I’ve been either MIA or, in my eyes, executing more than a few subpart calls. Warning: Insular humor awaits you. Take a chance at being one of the ten people on earth that appreciate this call, hence the “humor ghetto” tag up there. That being a good or bad thing to you, I nonetheless find this call to be one of my best. After I hung up the phone, my night was made.
Listen to it here:
“Crust Space” (March 29, 2005 show archive)
Enjoy the entire show, or, if pressed for time, my call comes in just after the 1:28:00 point. It’s what they call a “grower, not a show-er.”
I just found more discarded linear notes for the Killed By Absurdity 7″, released back when I had hope.
No matter how negative or positive, there will always be a reaction when this record is played. If you do not enjoy at least 60 collective seconds of this record, you have just lent truth to the rumor that you will die unhappy and alone in an apartment complex behind a dilapidated Chucky Cheese restaurant. Aren’t you glad that I chose this explanatory route for the cover art? This alleviates your need to bother the record store clerk with annoying questions like “What is this all about?”, “Is this a comp of some sort?”, or the granddaddy of all twitch-inducing, day-ruining queries: “Can I hear this first?” I would wager a guess that you are a tremendously irritating customer, so just keep reading and leave people alone. It is no coincidence that the person behind the counter magically gets on the phone every time that you enter the store. Feigning a conversation and listening to a dial tone for 15 minutes is preferable to a four second exchange with the likes of you. Next time you’re at a show and you see a local record store employee buying a beer or standing by themselves trying to relax, make sure and engage them in a conversation about some bullshit that you bought from them, our inquire about a piece that you have on order…do this because they stay on the clock 24/7. Buy your records and go rent something predictable like, say, Assassination Factor III: Picnic Of Seduction. Renting movies became fairly commonplace once your girlfriend split on account of you wouldn’t stop talking about records all the time.
…for more self-promotion. This is to go append the already growing four day break in The Cable Report.
I just received an e-mail (from my editor) with the subject line
LITG makes LA Times bestseller list
“Congratulations, all. Lost in the Grooves is #10 on today’s non-fiction
bestseller list for all of Southern California!”
I’m in that book.
Back soon with readable fare.