The article below was originally written for and published by Crawdaddy! in two thousand ten. Since that time my appreciation for the enormously absurd album discussed has only grown deeper. Just call me Stretch Nuts.
Quality, essence, virtue—terms that, by this point, are rarely (if ever) debated when it comes to Insane Clown Posse, the ultimate bastard sons of music. True Juggalos have already unconditionally accepted the alleged greatness of rapping jesters Violent J & Shaggy 2 Dope like the most fervent born again Christians, while those outside “The Dark Carnival” have difficulty thinking of a more pathetic and misguided social subset America has produced. Even Civil War re-enactors rank higher than Juggalos, mostly because of their stately 1860s facial hair and the vintage weapons they brandish that could blow your spleen across a Long John Silver’s parking lot.
The Juggalos are one thing; overzealous fans of any entity (Paul McCartney, the Green Bay Packers, the Twilight franchise) can be intolerable. Is it fair, though, to automatically malign and dismiss the Wicked Clowns themselves? I was viewing the much-ballyhooed video for ICP’s “Miracles” the other day, and I have to say, aside from the LOL-inducing, are-they-serious? lyrics, the song is pretty boring. Straight up, “Miracles” is a boring ass song. The clowns aren’t even really rapping, they’re just kinda talking softly (save for that jaw-dropping “fuck scientists” bit). The beat in “Mircales” is equally flaccid. The sub-mediocrity I saw before me got the rusty gears in my brain turning.
These guys weren’t always this bad.
Yeah, yeah, Insane Clown Posse used to be, like, kind of exciting. Actually almost insane, even. 1997. The Great Milenko. Everyone I knew had that album. Everyone I knew loved that album. It was funny, it was weird, it was stupid, the songs had legitimately cool beats. The clowns had dreadlocks. They relied heavily on the term “stretch nuts.” They screamed shit like their trashy Midwestern lives depended on it.
What happened? Am I crazy? Is this selective amnesia?
As my steam-powered noggin began chugging, I remembered that I had very similar thoughts of disappointment when ICP released the limp single “Let’s Go All The Way” in 2000. It sounded like fuckin’ half-assed 311. Where was the evil calliope music? I was dumbfounded when I saw Violent J in the video with closely cropped bleach blonde hair. Were the Wicked Clowns selling out on the final Joker’s Card?
I’m not sure it’s possible to sell out when your group is named Insane Clown Posse and you’ve been signed to a Disney subsidiary for an amount of time that can be measured in hours. Hollywood Records paid $1 million for the rights to release The Great Milenko in 1997 after a groundswell of industry buzz. Then, someone in khakis actually listened to the thing, and Disney realized these clowns were insane in the stabby killy way, not the wearing-Hawaiian-shirts-to-business-meetings way. Hollywood withdrew Milenko the same day it was released (even though it had already sold nearly 20,000 copies and was climbing up the charts) and canceled all future plans for ICP. The Clowns were at an autograph signing when they learned they were no longer part of Donald Duck’s extended family.
I can think of ten thousand hardcore punk bands who wish they could say they were kicked off a major label like that. Let’s face it: ICP were the Clinton Era’s Sex Pistols, and Disney was their great rock n’ roll swindle.
Though nowhere near as invigorating or groundbreaking as the Sex Pistols, the Insane Clown posse of Great Milenko remain worthy of more praise than they’ve ever received. Milenko offers the same template of boiling suburban rage, infectious beats, hilarious rhymes, and comically graphic violence that Eminem rode to global renown just a year or two later. Granted, Eminem is a better rapper than either Clown, but as far as gimmicks go, Em’s reference-every-current-tabloid-headline approach probably dates his material more than ICP’s insistence they belong to an evil carnival from another dimension. Besides, Eminem was already complaining about the pressures his superstar lifestyle on his second album. Marshall Mathers gets on “TRL” a couple times and bro-ham can’t handle the pressure. Boo hoo. Didn’t you fool around with Mariah Carey? Yeah, you don’t get to complain about anything.
The Great Milenko is Insane Clown Posse’s fourth album, and never again would they sound this legitimately disturbed, hilariously demented, or crazy frightening. Possibly the greatest example of this comes almost midway through the “House Of Horrors,” when Violent J intones the following:
“Lemme show you something—[makes high-pitched raspberry noise] / You know what that means? it don’t mean nothin’! / But it scared you, ’cause people don’t be doin’ that shit / But me? [makes noise again] / Bitch, [makes once noise again] I’m all about it!”
Think about that for a minute. An overweight harlequin with dreadlocks invites you into his dark, foreboding fun house. Suddenly, he turns to you amidst the dry ice and strobe lights and starts excitedly making noises with his mouth. Can you honestly say you wouldn’t vigorously soil your Tommy John boxer shorts at that very moment?
The Clowns’ bizarre viewpoint also pops up in the slow, introspective jam “How Many Times?” At first, it seems like this song is just another chill rap tune about dealing with life’s smaller aggravations (particularly highway traffic). Then, apropos of nothing, one of the clowns starts losing his shit because he cannot pay for fast food by imparting scientific knowledge upon the cashier (“Can I walk into McDonald’s to the counter / and tell ’em you can make limestone from gun powder? / Will they give me a cheeseburger if I know that shit? / Fuck no, fuck you, and shut your fuckin’ lip!”). That ICP favors the barter system comes as no surprise, as I don’t believe psychotic circus workers generally keep bank accounts.
I’d call it a double standard that people have been regularly eating up GWAR for so many years when their musical output is at least equally as stupid as ICP’s, but everyone involved here is a white male from flyover states. GWAR wears foam rubber cocks that shoot fake ejaculate all over their audience and they get more respect from the outside world than ICP. Does that make any sense? Perhaps ICP lowered their market value by aligning themselves with an off-brand soft drink like Faygo. Winn Dixie brand doesn’t cost much more, and it carries a less backwoods stigma. Good rule of thumb: if they can afford to put a NASCAR driver on the bottle, you won’t look stupid drinking it.
Another point to ponder: if the Insane Clown Posse is so bad, how come legends like Alice Cooper and Slash make appearances on Milenko? Those guys don’t necessarily go around lending their legacies to crap (Alice Cooper was in Wayne’s World, for the love of Chris Farley). What could Slash have to gain by appearing on the major label debut of some rapping clown band? Nothing, really, aside from a paycheck he probably didn’t need. He’s Slash! He must have simply dug the hot circus jams.
Perhaps it’s all a tomayto / tomahto thing. I believe there’s some kind of genius in lyrics like “He eats Monopoly and shits out Connect Four!” (Violent J’s description of an average ICP fan in “What Is A Juggalo?”). If you can’t see that, I guess we’re just in opposite time zones. This entire debate brings to mind an astute remark usually attributed to actress Mary Woronov: there is a difference between art and bullshit; sometimes, bullshit is more interesting.
Yes, The Great Milenko is targeted at people who would rather spend a Saturday afternoon watching “Charles In Charge” and doing whippets as opposed to visiting the nearest Christo exhibit or foreign film fest. Yet you can’t view this album through the same “OMG, irony fail!” prism as “Miracles.” Milenko is a finely-tuned, gratifying journey through the admittedly low brow genre of horrorcore, second only to the first Gravediggaz album in terms of relative greatness. Juggalo fervor has overshadowed ICP’s music in recent years, be it good or bad. No one seemed to bat an eye when the Clowns released 2007’s The Tempest, possibly the first hip-hop album featuring a song about a roller coaster. Seems like they had to make a crazy joint like “Miracles” just remind people they’re an actual musical group and not just some out-there trailer park cult.
Hopefully one day bizarre and sickening minutia like Juggalo baby coffins will be separated from ICP’s musical catalog and The Great Milenko will garner recognition as the worthwhile exercise in cathartic silliness it is. If Music From “The Elder” by Kiss could eventually find a home in our shared cultural circle, there’s hope yet for the fourth Joker’s Card.
The following piece was originally published in a slightly rawer / clunkier form in 2008 via the Crawdaddy! website. Though the careers of both Van Halen and Weezer march on (inexplicably, almost vexingly) I believe the core truth here continues to ring true.
The biggest mistake my generation ever made, aside from dismissing funny man Norm MacDonald once he left “Saturday Night Live,” was believing from day one that Weezer was just kidding around about all those 1970s hard rock references. Oh, those jokers, we thought upon hearing “In The Garage.” No way do they have KISS posters on their walls. It’s probably all Frank Black collages. We were similarly tickled when the Weezer logo was unveiled, a giant W that aped the flashy symbol of party metal gods Van Halen. Finally, Gen X had taken a direct shot at those Dutch assholes, and it felt so good.
A decade later, you’d be hard-pressed to find a Weezer fan from way back who isn’t infuriated by the trajectory their career has taken. The quirky little bubble gum grunge band behind such heart-on-the-sleeve anthems as “Say It Ain’t So” and “Tired of Sex” has become an arena-filling Top 40 machine, authoring vapid hits like “Beverly Hills” (the video of which was filmed at the friggin’ Playboy Mansion!). Shame on them for selling out? No, shame on us for not realizing much sooner that Weezer’s prime directive was never to keep the Cobain flame burning. Unlike their Seattle contemporaries, this slick, L.A.-birthed group never openly declared war on David Lee Roth and the spandex nation he begat because their dream was always to conquer it.
After all, lead Weez Rivers Cuomo started out in a heavy metal band, Avant Garde (later called Zoom), decked out with requisite poofy hair, severe facial expressions, and six string wizardry. Had the Nirvanas and the Pearl Jams not crushed the Sunset Strip’s skull with their Doc Martins and dropped D tuning, there’s a chance we’d know a very different Rivers C (whose “rocker” pseudonym was Peter Kitts). Luckily, Riv wasn’t just a flashy guitarist—he could also craft a heartbreaking melody. This would prove useful in the days of flannel and Luke Perry sideburns. Ultimately, it would make Rivers Cuomo the Clinton-era’s Eddie Van Halen (read: guitar genius with funny name).
At a time when Van Halen was floundering, wondering how they’d connect with the kids of the rabid fans they drew into football stadiums fifteen years earlier, Weezer burst forth with 1994’s Weezer; the album has its beautiful, introspective songs, but it also has plenty of rockin’ radio anthems teenagers loved to blast as they zoomed out of their high school’s parking lot on any given mid-nineties afternoon (“My Name Is Jonas,” “Surf Wax America”). It was definitely the record you threw on a party if you wanted to get people moving. Loud guitars, isolationist lyrics, earnest melodies, sitcom references—there was something for everybody. This broad appeal and demographic balance was something bands like Everclear and Silverchair couldn’t quite master. At a time when it was still slightly frowned upon, Weezer became America’s only bona fide rock stars.
The so-called “glory years” of Van Halen and Weezer were both relatively short. David Lee Roth exited VH after half a decade (give or take) and was replaced with Sammy Hagar. This was considered blasphemous to hardcore fans, many of whom disowned the band immediately and dubbed the new, mature Van Halen “Van Hagar.” The departure of Weezer bassist Matt Sharp after 1996’s cathartic Pinkerton didn’t illicit a comparable reaction, but it did close the book on Weezer’s “classic era.” What’s interesting is that while Van Hagar soldiered on making albums that bordered on adult contemporary and struggled for relevance, Weezer went on hiatus following Sharp’s take off, almost as if to say, “You know what? This might be it.”
Oddly, the disappearance of alterna-rock’s favorite sons allowed them to ascend to Van Halen-esque levels of reverence in the minds of anyone who was on the fence before. At the close of the nineties, lyrical couplets from Pinkerton were just as oohed and aahed over as any pentatonic explosion Eddie V. ever played. Emo bands proudly wore the Weezer influence on their sleeve in the same manner late eighties hair bands solemnly praised Roth and Co. in their prime. Would the now-legendary nerds ever return and grace us with their awkward pop laced with junk culture quips and wanky leads?
Yes, they would, at the exact moment the world was just bursting at the seams for more Weezer. In 2001, Rivers, rhythm guitarist Brian Bell, and drummer Patrick Wilson came out of hiding (with rookie bassist Mikey Welsh) and mounted the arena tour they probably always dreamed about. Fans made cross country treks and hung out in parking lots for hours in hopes of catching a glimpse of the sweater-wearing foursome in their giant Ecolounge bus. Sound like steaming heaps of rock n’ roll bullshit? It was.
Weezer could still put together a catchy tune or three, though, as evidenced on that year’s creatively titled Weezer (a.k.a. The Green Album) and 2002’s Maladroit. If those two were the Women And Children First and Fair Warning of the Weezer catalog, respectively, then 2005’s Make Believe was without question their 1984. The difference is, whereas Van Halen was praised for graduating to light, fun pop, Weezer was derided for not offering up more mopey opuses of regret and longing, the stuff many fell for in the first place.
Anyone who goes to see Van Halen or Weezer in this day and age is trying to recapture something from years past. With the former, it’s probably the beer-soaked nights of the Reagan eighties, when the sex was loose and pink mesh was not a crime. With the latter, it’s the self-conscious nineties, when the sex was a painful mystery and buttoning the top button was not a crime. Weezer as a nostalgia act stings for many people I know, people who were hoping the band’s 21 Century return would herald Pinkerton II. As much as we want Rivers Cuomo to be our Brian Wilson, that’s not the way he wanted it. Otherwise he wouldn’t have added those wings to the W in the first place.
Our shared frustration be summed up in a lyric Diamond Dave shouted on 1978’s Van Halen at the start of the ferocious “I’m the One”:
“We came here to entertain you, leaving here we aggravate you, don’t you know it means the same to me, honey?”
My name is James Greene, Jr. (please, call me James) and I’m a freelance writer. My work has appeared in such publications as Crawdaddy!, Orlando Weekly, New York Press, No Recess!, and Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader. I also wrote the liner notes to Gluecifer’s best of / rarities disc Kings Of Rock (currently out of print).
My first book, This Music Leaves Stains: The Complete Story Of The Misfits, was published in 2013. Please to be consulting the TMLS F.A.Q. for pertinent details. According to the Austin Chronicle I “pull no punches” as I “accurately and respectfully” relate the tale of these New Jersey punks. Superchunk drummer Jon Wurster told me he “really liked” This Music Leaves Stains.
In 2017, I had a second book published. It’s called Brave Punk World: The International Rock Underground From Alerta Roja to Z-Off and it’s all about the development of punk rock around the globe. Learn more here. “I loved this book,” said online rock critic Mark Prindle in a Facebook post. The guy who mows my mom’s lawn hasn’t read it yet but tells me it’s on his list.
Personals: I was born and raised in the southwest corner of Connecticut, the Nutmeg State. Oh, what a state of nutmeg in which we lived and breathed. Brooklyn, Albany, and Florida have also been home. I’ve never been married and I’ve never owned land. I’ve also never had my tonsils out. I had a dog once. Her name was Minnie. I fed her carrot sticks.
I have a BA in organizational communication from the University of Central Florida. Yes, the college where they shot “Superboy.” Somehow Disney still reigns as Orlando’s most popular tourist destination.
You can hear the sound of my voice on Yaxzon Jackson, the podcast wherein I discuss Michael Jackson with Rollie Hatch.
That’s all for now. Thanks for visiting.
This Music Leaves Stains is the first book I’ve had published but it is far from the first book I’ve tried to get published, or thought about trying to get published. Here now, an annotated history of never realized JG2 works.
Untitled Dead Kennedys Biography (2002) – Stalled during the research period thanks to several factors (college course load, punk rock politics, my debilitating lack of experience). I covered the nuts and bolts of this failure for Crawdaddy! in a feature called “Give Me Convenience, Give Me Death, Just Tell Me Your Real Damn Name.” The most interesting aspect may be that I put a letter in the mail addressed “East Bay Ray, San Francisco” and it actually reached the correct guy. Your tax dollars at work.
Star Wars Ruined My Life (2005) – Ten chapter essay collection covering the weirder aspects of Star Wars fandom, including my own struggles with George Lucas’s intergalactic money printing machine (#firstworldproblems). Hired a literary agent but no publisher on Earth was interested. I didn’t have a “built-in audience,” which meant my blog statistics were not impressive enough to warrant anything. This era was the beginning of “co-opt every popular thing from the Internet to stave print’s death!” I’m sure my medium talent was also an issue (I know the manuscript lacked punch / direction). I absolutely cannot remember why but for some reason I e-mailed Jay Mohr about this book; he sent a very encouraging reply peppered with some of his theories on Boba Fett, which justified my struggle.
Untitled Oral History Of My Middle School Experience (2005) – An interesting twist on the adolescent memoir (I think): interview a bunch of people I grew up with to see how their worldview around that time differed from mine, turning the whole thing into an oral history with several narrative tracks. My lit agent loved this idea and really ramped me up about it, but then Star Wars Ruined My Life didn’t go anywhere. Representation cut me loose and without a cheerleader I cooled on the concept. Compiled about a chapter and a half, though, and several people I hadn’t spoken to since 1994 taught me a lot about where we grew up and life in general.
Untitled Field Guide To Discontinued Soft Drinks (2007-08) – New Coke, Pepsi AM, OK, DnL…I thought the world needed a comprehensive encyclopedia of every soda that’s ever fallen off the figurative / literal map. Unfortunately, the stories behind these drinks are all more or less the same (they failed because they were bad and nobody bought them), and when it came down to pitching this book few people understood what exactly what I was talking about. “Oh, like a coffee table book with pictures of the sodas?” No, a field guide. Like for birds. Maybe this idea is terminally flawed.
Untitled “Gong Show” Episode Guide (2006) – An excuse to track down average weirdos and hear about their experiences on the greatest televised competition of all-time. I think I concluded too many former “Gong Show” contestants / employees would be dead, and I also worried about the book’s marketability. Chuck Barris was hot in ’06, but how long would that last?
Untitled “Simpsons” History (2009) – At the time a lot of rumors were swirling about “The Simpsons” finally coming to an end. That didn’t happen, but I abandoned this idea mainly because I heard Morgan Spurlock was making a “Simpsons” documentary. Had I known his end product would be some gimmicky forty-five minute nonsense instead of the in-depth feature length “Simpsons” doc we deserve maybe I wouldn’t have jumped ship.
My Life Is A Screenplay! (2010) – The high school teacher who semi-successfully sued 20th Century Fox for plagiarizing his Christmas comedy script read my post about Jingle All The Way being a cursed property and e-mailed me with an offer to co-write a book about his life. I had just started work on This Music Leaves Stains so I had to turn him down. There also didn’t seem to be much else in his life aside from “I sued a movie studio and won but then they took the money back.” Also, that title. Woof.
Naturally I reserve the right to resurrect any of these properties at a future juncture. You never know when Chuck Barris might be hot again.
Here I am, literally speaking in public at the Litquake Festival’s tribute to Crawdaddy! founder Paul Williams. Paul’s widow Cindy Lee Berryhill took this shot but she failed to capture just how spaced out I felt in this moment. I mean the whole thing was so trippy—in a good way.
The arcade cabinet I’m standing in front of is that ghoulish classic Ghosts n’ Goblins. Unfortunately, it was out of order on this storied night. Same deal with the Joust cabinet on the other side of the doorway (can’t recall what that third cab is). Such a tease. At least I got to look at them. I estimate it’s been more than two decades since I’ve seen either of these games in their most natural and wondrous state.
Can you spot cyberpunk architect Rudy Rucker in the crowd? I can!
Nothing pounds your brain into thin gruel quite like six hours on a plane. Here’s what I can remember from my trip to San Francisco for the Paul Williams tribute at Litquake.
“I wasn’t sure if you were being serious,” remarked my friend Wes as I entered his home, his gaze cocked downward at my electric blue sneakers. Prior notice had been sent out regarding the color of my footwear so I’d be easier to spot amongst the throng waiting for rides at the airport (Wes’s wife Erica was ultimately tasked with retrieving me). I guess this could speak to Wes’s suspicious nature. More likely it speaks to my infamous inability to project authenticity. Still, who would lie about such a thing? What’s to gain from giving your contact false clothing information, especially on the eve of a transit strike? Yeah, just look for the guy in the Big Bird costume. Contrary to popular opinion I did not want to spend my nights in San Francisco sleeping under the Golden Gate Bridge.
That night I had pizza from some generic pie place that didn’t totally offend the Brooklyn pizza snob in me. In fact, it was pretty darn good. Of course I had to go Hawaiian on the toppings, because pineapple is a fruit whose nutritional value is obviously not dulled by layers of molten cheese and slices of ham.
This fanciful dog is typical of the kind you see in San Francisco. You can’t really tell from this angle but he’s wearing a Darth Vader sweater vest.
Bay Area Rapid Transit was officially on strike as of this day, so I caught a ride with Erica over to Amoeba Records, a.k.a. music obsessive mecca. I forgot how overwhelming that warehouse can be. The clearance section for rock CDs alone is the size two regular record stores. The clearance section for rock CDs is so big I actually got physically tired flipping through its racks. Didn’t find anything revelatory in that archive but elsewhere I found cheap as dirt copies of the MC 900 Ft. Jesus disc with “If I Only Had A Brain,” the Angry Samoans album with the graphic head injury on the cover, and some CD-ROM the Meatmen put out in the mid-nineties. Bought all those along with as much Rocket From The Crypt I could carry. Then I walked across the street with my unshowered self and used the facilities at Whole Foods. I looked beyond homeless but the employees remained cordial. They’ve probably seen worse.
“We’re taking you to this place where you’re gonna have the goddamn biggest sandwich of your life!” said Erica after my Amoeba excursion. The eatery in question is called Deli Board and while I’ve had bigger hoagies or grinders or whatever you wanna call ’em the bastard I ordered (the Zeke; turkey, sprouts, and some other yaz) was mad big n’ tasty. For reasons unknown Wes and Erica both saddled me with their complimentary pickles; not one to waste food, I stuffed the green spears in my pockets and they became my go to snacks for later in the day.
Riding around San Francisco via car is like being on a roller coaster that never gets out of its moderately-paced introductory speed as you cruise up and over utterly ridiculous inclines and around unbelievably sharp curves. It’s one of the neater urban experiences you can have here in the States. Have they already based a Grand Theft Auto on San Fran? If not, they should. Talk about character. Now, this is all coming from a passenger’s perspective. I remember actually having to drive around the city in 2009 and my stress levels piloting a rented vehicle were definitely at Code Morton Downey, Jr.
There is street art all over San Francisco. This Ghostbusters / Simpsons mash-up spaketh (bespoke?) to me.
Dinner (all anyone cares about is food, right?): I met my former Crawdaddy! editor Angie Z in the Mission District for Thai at Thai House 530. Amazing chicken pad thai at that joint, and we managed to get a window seat so we could pretend to be zoo animals for all looking in. It sounds like I’m dissing that table but I’m not; we sat there long after the bill was settled because it was cozy and chill. Topics of conversation included NBA superstar Larry Bird, deceased humorist Michael O’Donoghue, and the Carrie remake (Angie endorses it).
While waiting for Angie to arrive before our meal I was standing around the corner of 18th and Valencia, just minding my own business and probably looking like an out of towner via my trusty Mets cap. A couple rounded the corner; the male, a trim slightly graying gentleman, was deep in explanation with accompanying hand gestures until my sneakers caught his gaze.
“Ooooh,” he said quietly. “Look at those shoes.” His face snapped up to look at me. “I like your shoes!”
“Oh, thanks.” What about the rest of me, big boy?
A subplot I have neglected to mention until now is the fact Wes and Erica were in the midst of preparing to move to Oregon during my stay at their humble abode. Saturday morning they left; luckily three other people live in that house, so it wasn’t just me and the carpet for the rest of the weekend. Two of these residents, Josh and Scott, are guys I know from those years in college I had myself convinced I was the next Mr. T Experience waiting to happen. We all spent a good chunk of this morning waxing nostalgic about the Central Florida punk scene of the Y2K era. We each have our little victories to still brag on (Scott and Josh’s band got on a Sex Pistols tribute album; my band opened for the Nobodys…sure, I had already quit / been canned, but I’m counting it). Josh’s girlfriend Tav cooked a fine brunch of eggs and hash browns and thirty-five pounds of bacon which was all delicious and insured I’d be nice and logy for the rest of the day.
I tried to take a nap before the Paul Williams tribute at Aquarius Records but I was too nervous about having to speak there. Solved this problem by walking to Walgreens and purchasing a couple Mountain Dews. Old habits die hard.
If I were smart I would have gone to Aquarius an hour early so I could thoroughly dig through their stacks. Alas, I am not in Mensa, and I only gave myself fifteen or twenty minutes before the Paul Williams thing to peruse. Aquarius isn’t a terribly big space but they do have tons of totally oddball stuff you gotta take your time to consider. With more time allotted I could have come to better conclusions about the Chinese and Finnish rock sections I flipped through. I also found a copy of Move Back Home by the Queers in the used section but immediate memory failed as to which edition of this album I already own (the original or the deluxe bonus track edition).
Came pretty close to buying the vinyl reissue of the Last House On The Left soundtrack until I remembered I had to transport the thing clear across the country. Potential breakage via clumsy packing and/or airport mishandling scared me off.
My friends have excellent taste in decor. I have near excellent taste in haircuts and Army jackets.
The tribute itself, “Paul Williams’ Greatest Hits,” went pretty well. I felt a little weird speaking because I think I was the only orator who hadn’t known Paul personally, but it seems like I did okay. No one threw rotten garbage at me. I just briefly talked about why Paul Williams is important to me personally and also our culture as a whole. There’s a slight chance I wasn’t speaking anywhere near the microphone for most of what I was saying but I think Aquarius was small / quiet enough to hear anyway. Thanks again to Denise Sullivan for inviting me out to participate in this event. Still honored and humbled to have been included.
We (the speakers) all got V.I.P. passes to Litquake’s after party, so we went to check it out. Open bar at a funky night club is cool, but not as cool as the cheap Mexi-Vietnamese tacos Powered By Pork were selling on the street outside. I was in fusion heaven. Aside from that, the highlight of this after party had to be hearing a few Clem Burke stories. Apparently the drummer from Blondie gets it done, by which I mean he doesn’t ever take no for an answer. So if you think you’re gonna be able to keep Clem Burke out of your son’s bar mitzvah, well, think again.
Super early flight home. Watery orange juice is $4 and change at San Fran’s JetBlue terminal. Worst part of the trip by far.
Thanks again to my hosts in San Francisco and all who came out / met up to party. Be back soon.
I’ll be speaking at this thing tomorrow night. Come celebrate the legacy of Paul with us. Thanks to Yasamine June for making the cool poster. I’d be more loquacious but my brain is stunned from several hours of flight.
I’m thrilled to announce I’ll be speaking at this year’s Litquake Festival as part of their tribute to Crawdaddy! founder Paul Williams. Swing by San Francisco’s Aquarius Records at 8:30 P.M. on 10/19 to hear a gaggle of us rhapsodize Paul and his remarkable contribution to rock criticism. I don’t have any other details about the event at this time but I’ll be sure to update as they trickle out. I also can’t tell you how long I’ll be in fabulous San Fran but hopefully long enough to see some of you jokers from the other side of a coffee/chowder table. Can’t wait. Viva San Fran, viva Paul Williams.
A: Oh, my child. My sweet, innocent child! Yes, in 2011 I wrote sixteen hundred or so words about Max Rebo, his band, and their deleted-from-history hit “Lapti Nek” for Crawdaddy!, and they even paid me for it! Can you fucking believe it? Dig in:
Yes, you should read them in order. Yes, if you have some special acetate of an unreleased “Lapti Nek” dance mix featuring Harrison Ford on vocals I want you to send me the MP3. No, I have no idea where Max Rebo’s magic space keyboard is today.
Despite four years of college and employment as an Editor at both the College Board and Houghton Mifflin Harcourt (then just Harcourt), I didn’t learn the difference between hyphens and em dashes until Crawdaddy! hired me as a blogger last year. Don’t ask why—you’re talking to the same fool who still has to consult Google to figure out the time difference between New York and California every time he has to call Los Angeles or San Francisco. Some knowledge just slips through the cracks, or simply can’t be retained.
The evidence of my sad hyphen/em dash ignorance is all over JG2Land. While I firmly believe language is a thing to be teased and played with and that rules in general were made to be broken, when I go back and see that I was using hyphens in place of em dashes…well, at this juncture, it just bothers me. It screams something false. I gotta go back and fix all that baloney, especially if places like Slate are going to insist on linking to pieces from the Pre Em Dash Knowledge Era (I have of course corrected the post in question, “Seven Ridiculous-Ass Sequels Hollywood Almost Foisted Upon Us,” lest Slate’s readership think I some sort of buffoon).
Side note: It’s a really nice feeling to be cited. Thanks, Slate. I feel validated. I am a reliable source when it comes to never-produced Back to the Future prequels, not to mention never-fulfilled Mickey Rooney Jaws cameos.
Another thing Crawdaddy! taught me: Words (like that one!) should be capitalized after colons. I’m not as dumbstruck by that grammatical revelation—I actually kinda disagree with it—but it still proves you can always be learnin’ no matter how accomplished you perceive yourself to be in your respective field. To think, I interviewed the Encyclopedia Britannica Kid for Geek Monthly, and I had no idea what was going on with hyphens, em dashes, or capitalization after colons. How was I not drummed out the door like so much fast food refuse?