Beside himself watching this video, Pal kept on murmuring “come on — this is what it’s all about.”
“This is pure. This is what being a human is. Or should be. What it ought to be all about. Being passionate. Having a passion. Loving it. Like this Mark here.”
Pal is lukewarm on the sneaks. He digs the commerce however. The hardscrabble marketing. “Ain’t a sucker though,” he said at the end of it.
Pal got a note from one of his best good buddies that he was listening to this song in the car, driving around Colorado, stomping with the beat because it’s that damn good.
“Shit, was he ever right.”
One of the clowns had his music playing in the shop this afternoon — vinyl and turntable setup. Pal dug one of the songs so he picked up the album cover and, after two beats, yipped.
“This guy. Yeah, yeah. This is the guy from the ahhhh. You know. The uhh … ”
“The minstrel. Nepalese coins.”
Elvis Presley was “The King”. But then, Pal says, you read about Arnold Palmer after he passed away, and how his nickname was “The King” too. And there’s LeBron James also.
“Gimme one,” Pal said. “Gimme one. Only one. Enough already.”
“Gimme the suede shoes. The bananas and butter. Vegas. The pomp ‘do. Graceland.**”
** – Pal said he went to Graceland when he was younger and it was terrible. And expensive. “It was like going to someone’s grandmother’s house, only you don’t know the someone and you sure as shit don’t know the grandmother.”
Pal thinks these Jamaican musicians poured lemon on the original recording, which he said is “Scottish in its weather.”
Tonight, Pal was happy. He was juiced about Bobby’s prize. Even cracked some cheap beer to celebrate. And, of course, ripped through his dearest Dylan tunes.
“I’m not saying these are Bobby’s best songs, because who the fuck am I to say that?” he lectured the clowns, can in hand. “But they are the coolest ones he wrote.”
Pal remembers the guy in this video, sitting on the couch in his underwear. Ober was his last name. Ken Ober. He looked him up on Wikipedia only to discover he passed in 2009.
Regardless, this is a humdinger of a tune. A composition that’s actually a burlesque of Pachelbel’s Cannon. And itself. A triple-platinum trick.
Things Pal brought up at his Saturday afternoon roundtable: chalkboards, imitation crab meat**, wallpaper, rapid eye movement, Robert Shaw, ziggurats, airfare.
It was just him, at a tabletop he found on the street the day before, cinderblocks for legs, stuffed animals sitting next to him/facing him, staring blankly as “placeholders”. He said it’s just a taste, a run of what’s on the pike. A Meet the Press for those who don’t go to church. Don’t eat doughnuts. Or donuts. The sportos. The motorheads. Geeks, sluts, bloods, wastoids, dweebies, dickheads. Greasers. Old men selling poppies. Tramps. Toast makers. Spot jockers. Googers. Wheatpasters. Joggers. Stinkers. Homemade mascots. Priests who don’t believe in anything but whiskey anymore. The cooper who no longer wants to swing his hammer.
Pal doesn’t care to know who Banksy is. Besides, he said (to the plush), it’s stencils, so for as long as he (or she) wants they can hand off to kids and have them spray the things.
**: pollock or cod or croaker or bigeyes or bream, milkfish, whiting, shark, swordfish, tilapia or bass.
It’s the not there, not then, middla meat-sorta-month. With the pepper and salt slathered, spiked, in millions, each with their Lilliputian torches burning.
Also: that ole Northern Irish song from the Belfast kids that never played piano.
Tonight, Pal piped up and said he likes the Maryland birds to usurp the Canadian birds.
One of the clowns looked at him, pregnant pause, then said two things.
“Long live Chris Farley,” he said.
Pal wants you to hear Jimi. And watch the girl in the red polka dot dress.
Pal saw this on Twitter while he was watching America wrap up the cup and already has it down. Said he’s going to use it, on the public, immediately. If Mike is doing it, he said, then it’s gotta be cold.
Rickie stunned the golfing world (and Vegas) by besting his foe, Justin Rose, Sunday afternoon in singles. Bubbly.
Highlight of the weekend — and probably the entire year — was Rory and Patty Chains on Sunday, on the eighth.
Pal sings this in the mid to late morning. Second or third cup of coffee. Says it loosens his stool. And opens his heart.
Pal heard. Followed. The dalliance with the Franco-‘razzo that bloomed into nuptials. The cuffs at the border. Brief crash in the cooler. Pokey. Jugging in Texas. Plunked for the hay. That harris. No flutter bum — more a hub cap? She? Always Dolly. Radioactive.
Pal. Pa. The cube. Forevermore.
When the Pawn Hits the Conflicts He Thinks like a King What He Knows Throws the Blows When He Goes to the Fight and He’ll Win the Whole Thing ‘fore He Enters the Ring There’s No Body to Batter When Your Mind Is Your Might so When You Go Solo, You Hold Your Own Hand and Remember That Depth Is the Greatest of Heights and If You Know Where You Stand, Then You Know Where to Land and If You Fall It Won’t Matter, Cuz You’ll Know That You’re Right.
Plenty of middling quarterbacks in the league. Decent. Mediocre. Ordinary. Think … Chock full o’Nuts coffee.
Eli Manning is one of them — in spite of his two Super Bowl rings, and the portable peroxide playboy.
Kirk Cousins of Washington, another. Jay Cutler. Matt Ryan. Flacco.
Pal says the man who beds Olivia Munn (with Brady “in the weeds”) is the exception.
Pal says buying the cap a year ago was funny. At the time, a goof. Now, who knows? He tells the clowns over and over, however, that more than anything he’s exhausted with “him”. The pork boy in the orange hat (which, in almost Matryoshka doll style is, itself, wearing that aforementioned red hat) he says, is annoying. A predictable villainous algorithm of a man. A child in the corner. Squawking. Without end.
“This guy picked up the guitar one day and for him, it felt like this fat fruit. A large citrus acorn, but in that axe form. And with the rind on it. Tough — not too tough. The outside layer. When you scrape it, you get that zest. But inside, was juice. He knew it, too. Just squeezed the shit outta it for years and years,” Pal said.
“Chuck Berry punched him in the face. Decked him. Took it. Look at his face now, you can see it. In between the crannies. Then he got arrested on LSD and thought the cops were dwarves in suits. So he tried to hug them. Got arrested. ‘Jumping Jack Flash’ was a gardener he knew. Jack Dyer. Think it was Redlands where he tilled and all that. The place with that roof. Moat, too.”
Pal thinks Madonna, in talking about how she got into music, *nails* what it’s like to be raised Catholic:
Because in Catholicism you are a born sinner and you’re a sinner all your life. No matter how you try to get away from it, the sin is within you all the time. It was this fear that haunted me; it taunted and pained me every moment. My music was probably the only distraction I had.
The clowns had Howard on when this aired and Pal couldn’t believe this “crap line”, as he called it, worked — eventually — on Wilde.
“The guy didn’t bag her with the this and the this. He threw her ego in the egg mixture, fried it. Cutlet. Drenched it in that stinky cheese. Turned her into Jessica Fletcher. She wanted to live on Cabot Cove.”
When Pal was younger, his pop’s buddy snuck them both down to the catacombs of the Meadowlands’ Brendan Byrne Arena during a Nets-Bulls regular season game. Two life-changing things took place in those tunnels that linked the locker rooms.
Mookie Blaylock defied the rest of the lowly Nets’ team and introduced himself AND Michael Jeffrey Jordan (*does the sign of the cross*) walked by him — mere inches away — on his return to the court for the beginning of the second half.
A few times a year, in the shop, Pal reminds the clowns about the experience, and how it wasn’t at all like seeing a normal person in person. It was almost … religious. Almost.
Funny, because over the weekend — while giving his Hall of Fame induction speech — Allen Iverson described his original encounter with MJ similarly.
In a rare fit of magnanimity, Pal said the former Georgetown Hoya did a superior job in articulating the “corona” that enveloped him.
Pal wants to spill beneath a gleaming canvas, stare daggers at what’s before him, while two excommunicated nuns bookend his pose, peel back his eyelids with silly glue and fishline and hum him hymns that are really just forgotten ELO songs.
Pal had four or five vodkas and Beyoncé came up. Must’ve felt loose and conversational because he laid it on thick.
“I’m not a fan of everyone’s girl, yeah? The world kisses her ass on a regular basis and like, methinks most of it is outta fear. What happens if you trash her? You get yer legs split? Zeus feeds you bolts? Don’t get it. She gets treated like she’s fugging Mandela and all she ever did was sing decent.”
Pal said if he ever gets online, he’s going to write everything in caps and put “BROTHER!!!” as a closer for each sentence. The clowns told him he’d be a copycat droog, cribbing off the original golden juice brother, Hulk Hogan. Said he doesn’t condone peddling smut.
Pal has this one tabbed for all time. He says to give it up for Howard, because he’s hanging out with Stevie just calling out tunes and Stevie thinks the scene’s righteous enough to play along with it.
“He’s Stevie Wonder. He certainly didn’t have to if he didn’t wanna.”
Also, had to play this in full (you hear the snippet in the interview and are left with a robust desire to hear the whole thing):
According to the internet, prison wine is made from the following ingredients: fruit cocktail, candy, ketchup, sugar, milk, breadcrumbs and sometimes sauerkraut. Put it in a sock, run some hot water over it, and wait.
Or, read Jarvis Masters.
Pal can’t grasp. “There’s millions of people in this country who want to watch this guy, and, they won’t give him to ’em.”
One of the clowns brought up the part about the National Football League/Major League Baseball being — more or less — merit-based organizations. Pal put his hands atop his head and answered (very measured and steady, though) “go recite your fortune cookie bullshit somewhere else.”
Last Thursday Pal said he entered a fantasy league. Football. Said it was around the corner and that he didn’t know who the quarterback for the Rams was. We told him they moved from St. Louis to Los Angeles this season. He wasn’t aware, but said he wasn’t surprised. He hates their “red baseball team” and didn’t think much of the city itself. “If it were so great I would’ve been there already”, he told us.
We threw the name “Jared Goff” at him — the starting QB for Georgia Frontiere’s old team.
He shrugged and said he wanted a Snapple. Then left the shop.