Too Many Jokes

When I'm asked why I've never tried stand-up comedy, I tend to stammer in my response. I say that I'm flattered by the suggestion, but then I cite my dread of bombing on-stage and my general distaste for public speaking. My inquisitor on the matter assumes that anyone who writes comedy must be able to perform it, too, and it's always disappointing to tell him/ her otherwise.

There remains a slim chance that I will one day change my mind about stand-up, that the size of my testicles will miraculously double and I will muster the fortitude required to tell jokes to dozens of drunks at a bar.

Until then, I leave you with a lengthy collection of the best stand-up material I have written but never performed on-stage. If your copy of There Will Be Blog has yet to be red-flagged by doo-doo residue in the bathroom, now is the perfect time to remedy that.

Instead of that long-winded Surgeon General’s warning on the side of a box of cigarettes, I think a more persuasive disclaimer would be: “There’s no cool way to wheeze, Olig.”

The other day I saw a heavyset girl wearing a high school track sweatshirt. A bit puzzled, I said to her, “Shot-put, right?”

I was at the grocery store the other day. By the entrance I saw one of those funneled coin deposits with a sign above it that read, “Your donations will help to feed animals at the local petting zoo.” I gladly donated all the change in my wallet. Let me tell you, it’s a great feeling to know that some adorable little bunny is going to choke on the quarters I donated.

Unlike women, most men don’t mind using blankets to cover up their windows. If there were no women on the face of the earth, blanket sales would skyrocket and curtain sales would plummet. And I shan’t consider the setback the tampon industry would endure.

The following are bad ideas for bumper stickers. 1.) My kid shot your honor student. 2.) I brake for child molesters! 3.) If you can read this, you're not from Alabama. 4.) Honk if you've blinked today. 5.) Follow me to where I hide the bodies!

If I had but one superhuman power, I’d want the ability to scratch my butt with my mind. ‘Cause let’s face it, we’ve all had that inopportune butt-itch at a wedding or funeral.

If Bette Midler named her son Adolf, the poor kid’s name would be Adolf Midler.


I was standing in line at the grocery store when I spotted a Cosmopolitan magazine on the rack. A nearly nude Megan Fox was on the cover. Underneath her picture, the caption read, “Hey ladies, doesn’t this bitch make you feel fat?”

The future would be less terrifying if our pubic hair fell out as we got older instead of turned gray.

G.P.S. Navigation Systems are a scam. Forgive me for pointing out the obvious, but it's impossible to get directions on the road from a plate of German Potato Salad.

I'm so sick of unrequited affection. The phone sex lady never calls me back. I gave that sultry voice the best years of my life!

Whoever coined the phrase “Smooth as a baby's bottom” sounds like a pervert to me. Why did we let a baby's ass-groping pederast coin a popular expression?

The one advantage the penis has over the vagina is the penis can answer yes or no questions. Have you ever tried to get a straight answer out of a vagina? It can be so maddening.

The Trench Coat Mafia really gave the Mafia a bad name.

If it's true that life is nothing but a dream, it's incredible to think of how many times you've unknowingly pissed the bed.

Something about vampires just doesn’t add up to me. Given the fact that they don’t appear in reflective surfaces, isn’t it strange that they’re all so primly groomed and presentable? Without a mirror to use for reference, you’d think they’d all be slovenly doofs with boogers in their noses and bits of jugular stuck between their teeth. Instead of handsome men like Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt and the guy from Twilight, modern-day depictions of vampires should resemble bedraggled misfits like director Tim Burton and mug shot Nick Nolte—people who obviously haven’t dared to look at their reflection in years. Self-reflection is at the core of vanity, and vampires completely defy that.

Robocop doesn’t scare me. I’d just shoot him in his vulnerable mouth area and he’d be a goner.

Remember when our grade school teachers told us we had to learn cursive because our high school teachers would forbid us from writing freehand? The fuckers lied to us.

I used to be enamored with a girl who told me that even though she thinks she might love me, she didn't want to give me a hug. That's when I realized I was chasing a lost cause. “I might love you but I don't want to hug you?” That's the same agreement I have with my dad.*

In the future, bathroom walls will be equipped with spell-check devices. This will prove invaluable considering a lot of guys have a habit of misspelling the word “masturbate.”

Sometimes when I’m eyeballing a gorgeous girl in a Maxim spread, I wonder if she’s secretly got a Siamese twin that was airbrushed out of the picture. Because, as my female friends keep insisting, they can do some pretty amazing stuff with that airbrush technology.

You don't see too many deaf third base coaches, do you? That's because the batter wrongly assumes the hit-and-run is on every time the coach mimes the words, “Damn, these polyester uniforms really chafe my nuts.”

When you’re walking back to your car in a parking lot late at night, do you ever pretend there’s a knife-wielding serial killer nipping at your heels and you’ve got to unlock the door and drive off quickly in order to survive? I do, only instead of rushing urgently, I take my precious time getting into the car because I’ve always dreamed of being stabbed to death.

Watching war movies has taught me that soldiers are more likely to run out of ammunition than cigarettes. The battleground is no doubt a nerve-rattling environment, and cancer sticks provide a brief reprieve, but soldiers in war movies should be more practical and replace a few boxes of cigarettes with some clips of ammunition. Although it’s true that you can kill a Nazi with second-hand smoke, the
process takes decades, and it’s much simpler to pump his chest full of bullets.

Whenever an athlete who wears the number 69 engages in mutual oral sex, it’s got to mean a little extra something. And while we’re on the topic, the next time you’re in the midst of sixty-nining, I think it would be fun to abruptly scold your partner by screaming, “Hey, you’re doing it all wrong! You’re supposed to be the six and I’m supposed to be the nine, not the other way around, stupid!”


My secret to happiness? Oh, I owe it all to that pillow I own with the phrase “Hooray for Love” sewn in the fabric. It's just that easy, people.

Why do the Spanish feel the need to attach gender to inanimate objects? The Spanish live in absurd fantasy world where the computer menstruates and the hammers obsess about baseball to keep from ejaculating too soon.

I was very disappointed by the contents of a compilation CD called Monster Ballads. It was filled with melodramatic '80s crap from the likes of Poison and Cinderella; there weren't any songs that lamented the woes of monsters such as Freddy Krueger, Swamp Thing, The Wolfman, and former vice-president Dick Cheney.

In the event of a zombie uprising, the best mode of transportation is a snowplow. And don't give me that monster truck bullshit; everyone knows those things have terrible gas mileage. I've put a lot of thought into this, so just trust me on this one.

For the life of me, I can’t comprehend this cultural hard-on for expensive car rims. I’d rather splurge on calf implants than pay five-grand for a set of hubcaps. These grown men have a toddler-like obsession with meaningless shiny things. Why stop at hubcaps? Go duct-tape some Christmas tinsel to your riding lawnmower, ya spoiled-rotten stooge.

What is it the Bloods and Crips disagree on? I’m no expert on the matter, but from what I gather, both gangs embrace hustling, hos, rap music, tattoos, malt liquor and territoriality. Members of both gangs were born into underprivileged neighborhoods that are mostly neglected by outsiders. Bloods and Crips both despise and fear the police. It seems like they’ve got more in common than they care to admit. Is the whole dispute centered on color preference? Do you have to spray a man with Uzi fire because he likes to wear red as opposed to blue? I’d like to see the two gangs reconcile and unite against a common enemy: The Amish.

My grandma is in the throes of Alzheimer's Disease, which isn't a funny notion on the surface, but I'll tell you this: Watching baseball on ESPN is more entertaining when someone in the room keeps getting shocked and spooked by a computer rendering of the strike zone (the “K-zone”). I can't help but grin wickedly whenever she asks, “Did that man just swing his bat through a magic window?” No grandma, magic windows don't yet exist, God bless your heart.

Phone sex is all right, I guess, but you haven't lived until you've tried Morse Code sex.

I bought a season of Teen Mom on DVD just for the deleted scenes. My favorite clip that got cut is called, “A shred of human dignity.”

No one ever said that life is easy, but sometimes, on serene summer twilights, when the charcoal embers in the grill get slowly extinguished like the gleam in the eyes of tuckered-out toddlers, and a flock of graceful birds fly straight over head, I just think to myself: “Am I gonna get shit on?”



*Hey. Yuks aside, I really do love my dad.

Coach, the Short Story

Craig T. Nelson is an actor in his 60s best known for playing the title role of Coach Hayden Fox on an ABC sitcom that peaked in popularity in the early '90s. (He was the embattled dad in the movie Poltergeist, too.) What follows is an account of what happened on his trip to the Atlantic coast of Florida to take in the Daytona 500, a major NASCAR race.

Inside an Applebee's, Craig sits in a booth, alone and solemn, gazing absently at a menu. Suddenly a clamor arises in the pocket of his khaki pants. It's his cell phone, blaring the theme song from Coach—a marching band anthem that flourishes with all the gusto of a John Phillip Sousa arrangement. Craig urgently digs for the cell phone, brings it into the light. Meanwhile, a burly and excitable man in his late 20s overhears the music from his perch at the bar. He sits bolt upright, swivels around, and turns his focus toward Craig. The fight song ceases abruptly, though—an indication that Craig has received a text message rather than a call. He frowns as he reads the text.

“It's over, Craig. Move out by end of month. Goodbye. --Diane.”

His shoulders slink. He groans weakly. On the brink of catatonic despair, he slips the device back into his pocket and stares at the empty seat in front of him.

The young man at the bar approaches, his mouth agape, his eyes bulging in increments with each step he takes in his leather sandals. His t-shirt bares Greek letters; stitching beneath that reads “2001 Pledge.” He grins broadly, tucks his hands behind his head and squeezes the bill of his backward-turned cap. When he gets within an arm's reach of the table, Craig finally notices him.

“Coooaaach!” the young man bellows.

A willowy waitress with a golden ponytail strides over, shaking her head.

“Inside voice, Mike. Please. Tone it down.”

Craig smirks wistfully, a bit revived but still weary.

“It's all right, miss,” he says. “I guess the fanfare is nice sometimes.”

She peers at Craig quizzically. After a moment, she nods with vague recognition.

“Oh—my goodness. I do know you—from television. Yes. A sitcom. What was the name of that program?”

“Coooaaach!” Mike informs her.

“Yup. That's the one,” Craig says, chuckling.

“Well, I've never waited on a celebrity before. How neat! I'll be back to take your order in a minute, sir.”

She walks away, flashing her teeth. Mike lingers, awestruck and vibrating with cheer. Craig extends an open hand to his admirer.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mike.”

Startled by the greeting, Mike gulps anxiously, convulses out of his stupor, and shakes hands. He nods reverently.

“Coach,” he says in a dignified manner.

“Have a seat.”

Mike exerts a quick gasp and then obliges. He slides into the booth and faces his idol.

“You know,” Craig says, “I hate to be needy, but it really is refreshing for an actor to find someone who really likes his work. The years I spent playing Hayden Fox were some of the best of my life—professionally, personally, financially...you name it. Sure, we were never quite as popular as Full House or Seinfeld, but do you know which show had the sixth-highest ratings in prime-time from '92 'til '94?”

“Coach!”

“Bingo! Holy smokes. You really know your Coach facts.”

The waitress returns, poised to jot down Craig's order. As she addresses Mike, she motions toward the bar.

“I think your beer is getting warm...”

“No, it's all right,” Craig insists. “Mike, care to join me for dinner? It's on me, bud.”

Overcome with gratitude, Mike pumps his fist and nods effusively.

“Coach!”

“That's the spirit,” Craig says, squinting at the menu. “I'll have a T-bone steak, rare, with a baked potato on the side. And for my new friend...”

Mike bows his head and gestures to Craig; he defers.

“Coach?”

“You want me to order for you? Sure. Mike will have the same. And a few rounds of beer for the both of us.”

The waitress says she'll be back soon with their meals and departs.

Craig leans forward, raises an eyebrow.

“I ordered the T-bone 'cause that was my nickname when I was about your age. Craig 'T-bone' Nelson.”

The gag is slow to register for Mike. A few seconds pass by, but then, with feigned understanding, he lets out a boisterous laugh. He tilts his head to the side and points to Craig.

“Coooaaach.”

Craig rollicks in his seat, snickering.

“Oh man, sharing some laughs with one of my biggest fans...This is just what I needed.” He reaches into his back pocket and makes a grand presentation of two tickets. “Do you like NASCAR, Mike?”

He nods repeatedly.

“I suddenly have an extra ticket for the Daytona 500 tomorrow. Tell you what: You can be my guest, but only if you pass the quiz. Ready?”

Puzzled but willing, Mike nods again.

“Okay. First question: What is the greatest TV show of all time?”

“Coooaaach!” Mike hollers.

“What was the profession of the character I played?”

“Coach.”

“And, last but not least, who's your favorite character?”

“Coach!”

“Really? Wow. Most people say 'Dauber,'” Craig says. He offers a high-five and is left hanging for less than a millisecond. “Congratulations, Mike, you passed with flying colors. Let's celebrate with some shots of Jameson.” He turns his head and says, “Excuse me—waitress!”

###

At the big race the next day, Craig and Mike are clapping elatedly, standing on their seats with the utmost expectancy. The surrounding spectators are no less enthralled. Craig nudges Mike.

“The last lap. I've got five-grand riding on Jimmie Johnson and he's making a late-charge on that bozo Jeff Gordon. Oh man, Mike—the racing, the gambling—it doesn't get much better than this.”

Mike nods in agreement. They watch the drivers round the final turn. Johnson is trailing Gordon by less than a car-length.

“You can do it, Jimmie!” Craig shouts.

Perhaps mystically spurred on by the Coach's encouragement, Jimmie Johnson indeed does it; he takes the checkered flag by a narrow margin. Bursting with triumph and passion, Craig and Mike hug each other. Craig pulls away and grabs a hold of Mike's chubby cheeks.

“Guess who just got five-thousand dollars richer?”

“Coooaaach!”

“You said it, Mike! Now we gotta celebrate.”

 I swear to God if you buy More Stories, and Additional Stories it will be the greatest decision of your life. Better than having a kid--which, let's face it, Tom and Judy, was really more of an accident.

We're an American Band, For What It's Worth (side-B)

Telling quote #1: “We are the innovators/ They are the imitators.”--My Morning Jacket, “Wordless Chorus”

Telling quote #2: “Question: Which bear is the best bear?”--Jim Halpert, impersonating and mocking his loony co-worker Dwight Schrute on The Office.

The four of us rode our bikes to the Ferg household on the southern edge of town. In reference to Mariokart, we hollered jokes about shooting red shells and dropping banana peels along the way. We were poised to play a friendly game of poker. I was the last to arrive at our destination and blamed my shoddy performance on a lack of Star power-ups, which I am wont to do.

We helped ourselves to bottled waters in the basement. Mr. Ferg came downstairs to greet us. Everyone said hello and in no time I was asking him questions about music. He gave me answers on Gram Parsons as well as the various lineups of the Byrds. Mr. Ferg is a great guitar player. He's in his mid-50s. We're friends with his two sons. When his workweek is through, he plays gigs with three different bands and covers songs by CCR, Elvis, Buddy Holly, and Buck Owens (to name a few) and performs originals like “Shit My Pants Polka” and “I Can't Sing Like Johnny Cash.”

My friend Wesley Tables got my attention.

“You should ask Mr. Ferg your big question.”

It was a reference to side-A of this essay. I had finished it the day before. I shrugged, nodded, and took a seat on a bar-stool with intent to pose my question to Mr. Ferg.

“OK. In terms of a rock band having a whole lot of impact on the world at large, the Beatles have got to be #1, right? They're British, of course. Who do you think is the most influential and significant American band? That's the big question.”

His prominent brow crinkled, owing to wariness more so than intrigue.

“I just don't think there's a real answer to that question, Nick. No other band left their mark in history quite like the Beatles—American, British...Irish, who cares? I don't see why there has to be a competition for second place. What does it matter? Now, a lot of people thought the Byrds were sort of like the American version of the Beatles, and there's some truth to that, but I have to say that my ultimate answer is that I don't have an answer for you.”

It should not be overlooked that my friends were overjoyed by this response. Dick Willy chimed in.

“That's a great answer, Mr. Ferg,” he said. “And you still don't know whether to count Nine Inch Nails as a band or a solo artist, Olig,” he added.

That was true, at the time. I pondered for a beat without hanging my head in dejection, which was a challenge. Tad Lightly spoke up.

“I'd go with Three Dog Night.”

Mr. Ferg snorted before he took a sip of beer. He shook his head.

“Three Dog Night,” he repeated—somehow marveling and dismayed at the same time.

Mr. Ferg and I agreed on something, at least. The problem with Three Dog Night and so many other popular American bands from the '70s is that they all tend to blend together in a hearty but generic stew of that musical era. To me, Steve Miller Band, Kansas, T-Rex, Grand Funk Railroad, Boston, and Three Dog Night all seem akin to sports teams that made the playoffs only to get knocked out in the first round. All of these bands made achievements, but the true champions of their era will be discussed later. Hopefully this is the last time anyone likens the dudes from Cheap Trick to the Yao/ McGrady-led Houston Rockets, circa '05.

In the basement of the Ferg household, I realized I wasn't making much progress. Basically, I had journeyed to consult the sage, only to be told that my pressing question didn't really merit an answer. I stepped outside to smoke a cigarette and contemplate as much as I could as the chips and cards were distributed for the poker game.

Later on in the night, the answer to a minor issue came to me. Belatedly, I thought of a reply to one of Dick Willy's many qualms with my latest essay. What I said seemed especially mistimed because I interrupted a chat that was mostly about Gilligan's Island.

“Nine Inch Nails are a band, to answer your question," I said. "But they're a band with an identity crisis. Trent Reznor isn't a solo artist and Nine Inch Nails are a band in pretty much the same way that 'bra' should be plural and 'panties' should be singular—even though they're not termed that way. By a loophole of logic, Nine Inch Nails are more like the bra, plural, than the panties, singular. Got it?”

I felt satisfied and went all in with my dwindled stack of chips. My nines were drawing dead before the final, “river” card was flipped. After that, the upshot of my explanation was that I had to explain myself further. I felt accustomed to doing that sort of thing.

***

The point being: I really didn't get anywhere the night the big question was brought up. Sure, Nine Inch Nails may count as an American rock band, but they're definitely not the most historically relevant. The same goes for so many other bands because my point of comparison is unfair in nature. I have come to realize that Mr. Ferg is probably onto something...but that doesn't mean I won't try to meddle with the ludicrous notion of determining America's most comparable answer to the Beatles.

I get the maddening nature of it all, though. We're a country founded on the belief in the triumph of the individual, whereas the British put a higher regard into the collectivist spirit. Americans tend to feel like they have a band, but the British typically feel like they're in a band. Americans are more likely than other nationalities to lend prestige to one while lessening the contributions of others, and rock 'n' roll is but a microcosm of this truth. This is why so many Americans know something about Albert Einstein and Babe Ruth but have little to add about the Manhattan Project and the '27 Yankees. This why the president has more power than congress, whereas the British Parliament has more power than the Prime Minister and royalty. Great Britain and America were fundamentally molded into those paradigms, and the iconic music created in both countries has reflected that.

In recognition of this cultural chasm, I am hereby waving the surrender flag in regard to my original question. The ideal way to cope with all the flack I've been handed for raising such an absurd question (not to mention the dumb consternation the whole thing has caused me) is to strike up a compromise and admit that I too can't really provide a satisfactory answer. Instead, I have to offer an abrupt crossover into baseball lore. I'm going to compose a starting-lineup card of America's premier rock bands.

Baseball is, after all, a truly American sport; it has been deemed our national pastime, ad nauseam. It's also not as popular as football—whether it be American football or the painfully dull version of the game that Brits embrace. Just as American bands don't provoke as many “wows” from the casual fan, the same could be said about baseball in comparison to football.

Elvis is our quarterback and Creedence Clearwater Revival is our center-fielder--am I right?

As for the problem of equating plural entities (bands) to singular entities (individual players), refer to the Nine Inch Nails conundrum earlier in this essay.

Some significant bands must be left out of the starting line-up; they'll have to ride the pine in the dugout, chew and spit wads of snuff, and tell dirty jokes between innings. R.E.M. are critically beloved and forefathers of indie/ alternative rock, but their magnitude is just not on par with the bands in the starting line-up. Apologies for the snub, Michael Stipe, but you sang it best: “Everybody Hurts.” Lynyrd Skynyrd are quite popular, especially to southerners, but they're really more of a Confederate band. Benched! Van Halen meant an awful lot, but they lose points for interchanging lead-singers and thereby cheapening the value of their group by employing the likes of Van Hagar and later Van Gary Cherone. Journey is denied mostly because their most memorable music video—the one that featured them earnestly playing air-instruments in a back alley—cannot be appreciated by a self-respecting listener who has no sense of ironic detachment. The Eagles have a top-selling greatest hits album working in their favor, but too many fans of rock-music share the Dude Lebowski's conviction that they really sucked. Guns 'n' Roses disbanded an album or two before cementing a superlative legacy, and then their lead singer devolved into a pop-culture joke. Metallica doesn't quite mean as much to American heavy metal as KISS does (who hit the scene first), but I will concede that that was a very tough call to make...

For what it's worth, naturally.

And so, with "fuck yous" to further ados: Here is my starting line-up of the most iconic American rock bands.

1.The Ramones, RF. They played much faster than any other band in the line-up, and lead-off hitters are known for having great speed. The Ramones only required 2 minutes to blast eardrums with 3-chord ugly-bliss. They played at a frenzied pace and always hustled. They could easily stretch a bloop-single into a double. My friend Ziggy has to lend a great and insightful quote about why the Ramones are so crucial, and here it is: “Like most Americans, they're dumb and they don't care. They founded American punk.” Listen to Ziggy.

2.The Beach Boys, 2B. “They're probably the most suitable rock-critic answer to the question,” Ziggy opined, and, considering that Rolling Stone deemed Pet Sounds the second-greatest album of all time (behind only the Beatles' Sgt. Pepper), it's hard to disagree with him. Their early stuff seems so unduly fixated on the appeal of surfing and So-Cal babes, and I have to scoff at the likelihood of legendary Brits like Mick or Paul or Plant ever bringing their talents to a county fair in my hometown of Fond du Lac, WI—as Mike Love has done with his touring semblance of the Beach Boys—but that only serves to demonstrate the fact that our bands are less in-demand than their counterparts across the Atlantic. But within the confines of the debate, that hardly matters. “Good Vibrations,” “God Only Knows,” “Sloop John B.,” “Barbara Ann,” “Help Me Rhonda,” and a host of other melodic triumphs stand as proof that while the Beach Boys didn't slug very many out of the park, they still tallied singles with the greatest of ease.

More Stories, and Additional Stories. Oh, man, it's way better than the worst thing that ever happened to you. Eat your heart out, creepy scout master!

We're an American Band, For What It's Worth (side-A)

I don't mean to boast, but not long ago, I made practical use of a status on Facebook. This is a relative claim, of course; I'm comparing the question I posed to the likes of 1.) “My ex-girlfriend is a vile harlot”* and 2.) “man im so high right now!” Now, I can't prove the status I submitted was more substancial than either of those two offerings, but mine garnered over 50 responses, whereas no one had a word to say to the jaded lover or the non-discrete stoner. The point is not that I am therefore cooler than anyone else, but rather, that my hunch about posting something relevant on FB has been supported by evidence. This essay functions in much the same way. I seek validations for what strikes me as truthful, but I don't offer very many indisputable facts. Considering the following question that I posed...how could I?


“I have a question about music. OBJECTIVELY speaking, it can be stated that either the Beatles or the Rolling Stones are the greatest British rock band. (Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd can't quite match the magnitude of their predecessors.) Which band best qualifies as America's greatest? Not necessarily your favorite, mind you--and please dear God nobody say Fish** (sic).”

My hypotheses are that 1.) the indisputably iconic rock bands from Great Britain are vastly easier to acknowledge than their American counterparts, and 2.) America's most influential and monumental musicians are all solo artists. Less vitally, it's also fairly simple to identify the solo rockers from Great Britain who have left the most culturally significant legacy. The greater question that I want an answer to is this: Why does it seem so laughably dubious to try to name the American rock band that truly resonates the most? I can't even compile a plausible Top-5 that would be remotely satisfying—which is vexing since I'm inclined to do such a categorical thing. How can this be explained?

I received plenty of solid answers and, predictably, very few great answers. Some replied facetiously. (“Cheeseheads with Attitude,” “America, for fuck's sake,” and “If only Nickelback were born in the U.S.A....”) Others provided sincere replies that strike me as ludicrous. (“Rancid—debate over,” “The Strawberry Alarm Clock...no contest,” and “The Grass Roots?”) Not everyone gave an objective rather than subjective response. (You're one of my favorite people, Hootie McBoobs, but that band who rocked us so thoroughly at Summerfest, “the Black Keys”...they're just not a viable answer to the question.) One person answered, “The Beatles, obviously,” and I don't know her well enough to tell if she was serious or kidding. I got a kick out of another comment, “Definitely Grand Funk Railroad, now that I think about it,” because that would be Homer Simpson's answer and Grand Funk were at least effusively proud when they proclaimed themselves an American Band. Aside from Fish (sic), I was relieved nobody mentioned bands I think are both quite shitty and poor answers to the core question. (Sticks,*** REO Speedwagon, and Bon Jovi.) I was rueful when bands that don't appeal to me but nonetheless merit consideration were brought up. (Journey, Aerosmith, and Van Halen.) The most rational and insightful contributor included in his Top-5 Sonic Youth—a discordant indie-band that has mostly disdained mainstream appeal since their emergence in the mid-80s. This baffles me as much as it validates my initial hunch. I couldn't believe Lynyrd Skynyrd, R.E.M., and KISS were nowhere to be found in the debate. These three American rock bands combine for nearly 8-million “likes” on Facebook.**** Astonishingly, Metallica is more popular than all three of those bands COMBINED on the same site—and they were likewise absent. Maybe I need new digital pals to better reflect our culture's classification of a truly great American band. Maybe I should offer superficial friendship to a random weirdo solely because he has a Gene Simmons tattoo on his chest. These are the fake problems I conjure to make life even more troubling.

My premise that Led Zeppelin can't match the magnitude of the Beatles or the Rolling Stones was disputed. This is a minor quibble and a tangential challenge. Regardless of whether you prefer Led Zeppelin to the Beatles and/ or the Stones, don't overlook the fact that the Misty Mountain Hoppers were not a part of the British Invasion—probably the most momentous development in the time-line of rock 'n' roll. I will gladly concede that, in terms of impact, Led Zeppelin vaulted over less iconic British Invaders such as the Who and the Kinks. Led Zeppelin may very well earn the bronze medal in the debate across the Atlantic, and—all things considered—that is an astounding achievement. But no matter how much you adore raunchy but sometimes sentimental hard rock that verges on heavy metal, please, don't shit yourself: Led Zeppelin mean a lot, but the Beatles and the Stones unequivocally mean more. As the time elapsed after the watershed moment of said Invasion, the limitations of cultural impact became more restrictive. (This also helps explain why Black Sabbath, Queen, the Clash, and Cream—while superior in impact to the vast majority of American bands—aren't the most sensible answers, either.) Perhaps I should have restated it all this way: In an encyclopedia that chronicles a slew of rock bands, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones must have the longest, most thorough entries. Which American band warrants the longest, most thorough entry?

And by the way, I do realize that equating sexy things like rock 'n' roll and Robert Plant's acid-washed pants-tent to scholarly things like encyclopedias and footnotes sort of reduces the appeal of what I'm trying to embrace. What can I say? Don't be like me. Shit, I can barely pull it off. It's a daily challenge.

The second problem people had with my premise was far more exasperating. Vance Flerny, among others, completely disagreed with me that Chuck Berry and Elvis Presley qualify as solo artists. After I commented that both are subject to a different (and less ambiguous) debate, he retorted with the following:

“That's weak. They both played with bands. Neither one just hung out by himself and played on-stage. I would hate to be the one to tell the 'band' backing a so-called solo artist that they actually weren't a band at all—that the only person considered to be the artist was the front-man.”

To my chagrin, Richie Chipworth concurred.

“Yeah. Why are solo artists disqualified? It seems like an arbitrary distinction.”

I spewed an exhausted sigh and tried to explain that there is a clear difference between bands and solo artists with backing bands that typically feature a revolving cast of players. Golly, what a fucking lost cause that turned out to be. And so I'll have to elaborate. Being in a band is not the same as having a band. While the former phrasing designates a partnership, the latter implies prestige for one and the subordination of the others. Chuck Berry is the easiest to dismiss because he never had a definitive backing band. He required interchangeable bassists and drummers, but, in essence, the man behind “Johnny B. Goode” played with his own Ding-a-Ling. As for Elvis, Bob Dylan, and Johnny Cash, consider their album covers for tangible proof. NO MENTION of the Jordanaires, the Band, nor the Tennessee Three, respectively, is printed on any of the studio album covers the three collectively released. This info was reflected by Billboard charts that marked record sales and radio play. Credit, acclaim, and fortune came to them in vastly unbalanced proportions compared to what their backing bands received. Hence: the King, the Voice of a Generation, and the Man in Black qualify as solo artists.

Beyond that, it's senseless and grammatically incorrect to say something akin to, “Johnny Cash was such an incredible band.” Or: “The Beach Boys are my favorite musician.” Sweet Jesus, people. If I have to explain to literate adults the difference between singular and plural nouns, I'll be forced to pursue a career as a merchant of suicide machines.

Votes were cast for Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers as well as Bruce Springsteen and the E-Street Band. This is where it gets especially tricky. Explicit signs of prestige and subordination apply to both, but the line-ups of the Heartbreakers and the E-Street Band alike have remained (mostly) intact for over 35 years. Petty and Springsteen may be glory-hogs, but I think that's a major part of their American appeal, and furthermore, both are loyal glory-hogs who prefer not to play with interchangeable musicians. Does either qualify for the debate?

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers were marketed and therefore qualify as a band because three crucial words, “and the Heartbreakers,” were printed on the record sleeves of You're Gonna Get It!, Damn the Torpedoes, Greatest Hits, etc. Bruce Springsteen, on the other hand, did not acknowledge the E-Street Band on the covers of Born to Run, Born in the U.S.A., Darkness on the Edge of Town, etc. The Boss also played every instrument on 1982's Nebraska, which is widely regarded as his best (and definitely saddest) album. The E-Street Band are very rarely recognized on Springsteen's album covers.

Therefore, the poor neurotic hack trying to clarify this clusterfuck deems that Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers are in fact an American band. Bruce Springsteen is ultimately an American solo act, though. If I was to assert that the distinction lies in the album covers, would anyone believe me? Vance Flerny and people of his ilk would not; I can only hope to sway others.

Maddeningly enough, though, Tom Petty released a few solo albums. In fact, three of his biggest singles, “I Won't Back Down,” “Runnin' Down a Dream,” and (oh, sweet lord, how the gruesome plot thickens) “Free Fallin'” are all included on 1989's Full Moon Fever. By my logic, those hits would have to be stricken from the band's legacy. Infinitely worse, Wildflowers was marketed as a solo album, too. That one featured “You Don't Know How It Feels” and “You Wreck Me.” I type infinitely worse because—get this—ALL THE HEARTBREAKERS, except for the drummer, played on Wildflowers. Petty is damn lucky he didn't cause a rift in the space-time continuum with that move.

 More Stories, and Additional Stories. Who needs two packs of gum when they could purchase this eBook instead? Losers, that's who.

White Knows Candy

Four people sit behind a news desk, half-encircled by a camera crew. Only one of the four is a regular on television. His name is Marshall Storm, an anchorman known for badgering those he interviews with rude and prying questions. To his right, Mookie gestates peevishly. The middle of the panel is occupied by a wide-screen TV that displays a vexed and nonplussed Bill Cosby via satellite. To the right of anchorman Marshall Storm is Skip White, the frazzled and controversial owner of a local candy shop. Beside Mr. White, a fairly attractive but stern woman named Susan Grace glowers at him through wire-rimmed glasses.

Marshall Storm: Welcome to Hard Focus. I'm Marshall Storm. Grant Barker has the night off again; he was, if you recall, fired two months ago. Tonight the Hard Focus is cast on Skip White, owner of White's Candy Shop, a local business that has become the subject of controversy.

Skip White: There's that word again: Controversy. Skip White is now public enemy number one. I don't get it. I've done nothing wrong.

Susan Grace: On the contrary, Mr. White, what you've done is wrong and irresponsible.

Mookie: Yeah! You lied to me, Whitey.

Marshall Storm: Those are the outbursts of Susan Grace, concerned mother and moral crusader, and Mookie, a disgruntled cocaine addict. And joining us via satellite is a more esteemed African-American who serves as proof that Channel 6 in no believes all black people are like Mookie. Warm greetings to wholesome comedian and children's doctor: Bill Cosby. A living legend.

Bill Cosby: What? Doctor? No, that was just a character I played on the TV...say, what does this have to do with me? I heard some talk about a candy shop and drugs. What's all this about?

Marshall Storm: (bursts with laughter) Great stuff as always, Bill—and a fine segue, too. Let's take a look at Mr. White's latest commercial.

Skip White stands preening behind a display case of boxes of chocolate. A large spool of licorice, wound-up like a garden hose, can be seen over his shoulder.

Skip White: Greetings, candy fans! I'm Skip White. You know, people can buy a candy-bar just about anywhere these days, but what really makes my shop stand out is that I'm a certified expert on candy. The teenager in the baggy pants at the Wal-Whatever—has he memorized every single ingredient in Sweet Tarts? What about the heavyset fellow with the tattoos at the gas station—is he gonna explain to you the difference between Starbursts and Mambas? Heck no. You get the picture; I'm like a candy-sage. If you've got a craving for the stuff, you can trust me. Like my slogan says, I promise you: White Knows Candy!

Whoa. I changed the format so much on this story; it's remarkably better to the extent that it'll blow your fucking mind all the way to Heaven, where God will say, "Welcome my son, or daughter," and hand you an eBook copy of More Stories, and Additional Stories all over again.

Nick Again Lists His Favorite Albums

Where introductions are concerned, I am a writer of few words.

...

All right, then.

15.Jimi Hendrix—Are You Experienced? (1967): Judging by the plethora of singles that bolster this album, you'd think it breaks my rule of excluding Greatest Hits collections. Incredibly, though, “Purple Haze,” “Fire,” “The Wind Cries Mary,” “Hey Joe,” “Foxy Lady,” and “Manic Depression” are all included on the Jimi Hendrix Experience's debut. Hendrix was so talented that he could provoke baffled accusations of cheating from rock-and-roll mortals, and more than 40 years later, it's still stunning to consider the abundance of great songs that resulted from his first recording session with the Experience. Hendrix would later release Axis: Bold as Love and Electricladyland before his untimely death in 1970. Not even the Beatles accomplished so much in such a limited window of time. He wasn't cheating, but it sure seemed that way.

Hendrix announces his presence at the party during rock's golden age with the psychedelic strut of “Purple Haze.” He wonders if he is “happy or in misery,” considers it a moot point either way, and translates to his listeners the spell his muse puts on him. Within the span of the incantation, images are conjured: tire tracks smeared across the backs of loose groupies who play hard-to-get, jealous lovers with blood on their hands fleeing for the border with embattled resolve, traffic lights about to turn the color of loneliness—all told by a weird gypsy who straddles an ignited Stratocaster as he charms and beckons the flames. Hendrix captivated with searing riffs without resorting to as much macho fluff as Jimmy Page. At times, he was as poetically engaging as Dylan or Lennon, and his feats of virtuosity on the guitar were of course unrivaled by either one.

He was such an extraordinary talent that it seemed like he was cheating, but in reality, that was never the case. Jimi Hendrix just set his own rules to play by.

14. The White Stripes—Elephant (2003): Judging by the album cover, which portrays two strikingly pale indie-rockers sitting on an amplifier, both stricken with despair, the White Stripes did not seem especially plussed by the widespread buzz wrought by 2001's White Blood Cells. Such trepidation may have been valid on some level, but Elephant, the duo's follow-up to the hype they generated for the garage-rock revival scene, marks a bold claim of their presence as an upper-echelon band in popular music. Elephant is less a salute to well-crafted trashiness, more indicative of the group's fondness for Led Zeppelin as opposed to Iggy and the Stooges, a stunning achievement of mainstream acclaim that never compromises Jack and Meg's core goal of maximizing the potential of minimalism.

The first track, “Seven Nation Army,” is the most duly overplayed single since “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” The 14th and final track is a cloying debacle. Aside from those extremes, Elephant leaves nothing to complain about. Among others, “Black Math,” “Girl, You Have No Faith in Medicine,” and “Hypnotize” scintillate with the Stripes' straightforward and biting approach. “I Want to be the Boy to Warm Your Mother's Heart” and “You've Got Her in Your Pocket” showcase Jack's nearly outdated pangs of sincerity. “Ball and Biscuit” is a bluesy odyssey of snide self-empowerment that finds a great guitarist who tends to favor simpler chords in the mood to puff out his chest and rip a few mesmerizing solos. In “The Hardest Button to Button,” Jack tartly makes amends with childhood squalor, as though he'd like to flaunt his middle finger to the whole world with the flippancy of fellow Detroit native Eminem...if only he wasn't such a gentleman.

Jack admits that he doesn't consider himself a genius in “The Air Near My Fingers.” Fair enough, but he sure is brilliant, and he chose a worthy sidekick (plus I'm a fan of her hooters). Brilliant minds still get bored sometimes—as he indicates earlier on the same track—but the notion that said boredom has to translate to the audience is as misleading as, say, an album cover that portrays two seemingly distraught indie-rockers who really didn't mind the spotlight all that much. The White Stripes told an occasional fib.

13. Weezer (the blue album) (1994): “What's with these homeys dissing my girl/ Why do they gotta front?” Front-man Rivers Cuomo begs this question at the start of his band's splendid breakthrough single. Similarly, there is no cause for derision of Weezer's debut because of the letdowns Cuomo and Co. have released for much of the past decade-plus. Chuck Klosterman, a more accredited writer on rock music, contends that Cuomo's songwriting skills have not diminished; rather, his persistent earnestness has become incompatible with the counterculture's increased longings for irony. I disagree. I never want anything to do with Dungeons & Dragaons, but when Rivers Cuomo began to favor his KISS poster “In the Garage” to his 12-sided die, Weezer's sound suffered. It's okay to blend KISS-like, pop-metal hooks with gnashing, Pixies and Nirvana-inspired angst; that is, in fact, what made Weezer such an appealing band in the mid-90s. The backlash against Weezer started when Cuomo—the Harvard graduate with horn-rimmed specs, an accidental founder of the Emo scene—adopted the overly simplified lyrical approach of KISS. The horribly embellished “Weezer Problem” has little to do with irony and much to do with wasted intellect.

That stated, the blue album stands as the first album I bought—on cassette, which would have presented the tedious issue of having to fast-forward (rather than skip) a track not worth the listen. Thankfully, the blue album is without a second of filler material; from the power-pop wallop of “My Name Is Jonas” to the extended, brooding trance of “Only in Dreams,” the geek-rockers find an exquisite balance of alternative sounds light on self-loathing and radio-friendly sing-alongs that are actually thoughtful. Cuomo somehow charms as a jealous and controlling boyfriend in “No One Else.” He convinces his listeners of the plausible nature of riding a surfboard to work. More candidly, he offers a quiet/ loud indictment of drunken stepfathers that serves as a generation's go-to anthem for the children of divorced parents; “Say It Ain't So” probably surpasses even Nirvana's “Serve the Servants” in that regard.

Which is saying something, when you consider that Cobain is remembered by many as the premier songwriter to emerge in the '90s. And who cares about all those post-Pinkerton letdowns?* Make Believe they were only nightmares, for “Only in dreams, we see what it means.”


12.The Strokes—Is This It (2001): An electric guitar mimics the sound of short-circuitry, drums thump a lax tempo, and then—with the conviction of a weary malcontent—Julian Casablancas pleads, “Can't you see I'm trying?/ I don't even like it.” Fittingly, the Strokes' rise to fame seemed nonchalant, as though they were resigned to ambition, already burned-out by partying and groupies in their early-20s yet doggedly set on going through the motions of stardom. Their debut LP garnered glowing reviews, inspired rock critics to employ the metaphor about “lightning caught in a bottle” ad nauseam, spelled the demise of goatee metal-rap, and redefined something obscurely known as the “cultural zeitgeist.” The Manhattan quintet foretold their response to such hype in their debut's opening/ title track: “Is this it?”

This album yielded three terrific singles. As is the case in “Last Nite,” the raucously tuneful strums of dual guitarists Albert Hammond Jr. and Nick Valensi interlace and build dynamics until the former exclaims with a solo perhaps too trashy for arena-rock but at least befitting of a much larger garage. “Someday” finds Casablancas longing for freedom via childhood nostalgia and subverting the Pink Floyd principle: “Together we stand/ Divided we fall.” (“Alone we stand/ Together we fall apart.”) “Hard to Explain” envisions space-rock without the hippies and relays a conversation between an adoring boyfriend and a skeptical father.

“The Modern Age” is a flourishing jaunt for slackers that verges on questioning if all relationships are doomed. “Barely Legal” comes across as a sloppy nod to surf-rock re-envisioned with NYC grit. And with lyrics such as, “I should have worked much harder/ I should have just not bothered,” it's easy to see that the Strokes are not easily appeased. Which hardly matters; their appeal lies in upbeat and unkempt musings on eternal dissatisfaction. The human condition has rarely sounded so infectious.

11.Led Zeppelin—Houses of the Holy (1973): Disregard the album cover. Dwelling on it inspires reactions such as, “Artistic, I guess...but mostly REALLY creepy” and “That avant-garde pederast really had a VISION.” If the whim strikes you, feel free to skip past “No Quarter,” a compelling but mismatched dirge that has Led to countless acid-induced horror shows. It is then feasible to regard Houses of the Holy as Zeppelin's finest, and less equivocally, their most vibrant. Houses then qualifies as my most-treasured album when I'm in the mood to appreciate life. Zeppelin's fifth offering finds the hobbits returning home safely from the darkest depths of Mordor. With the glowing support of their families and community, the group rejoices and gets down to mending the levee that broke at the conclusion of IV, rebuilding it with wizened minds and abler hands.

The musical chops of Page, Bonham, and Jones are unmatched by pretty much any other band you can think of. Robert Plant is not one of my favorite singer-songwriters, but the man undoubtedly 1.) has awesome pipes,** 2.) OWNED his role in the spotlight of the biggest band of the 1970s, and 3.) should in no way be denounced as a liability. Bonus: He sounds decidedly less sleazy, not as easily parodied on Houses.

“D'yer Mak'er” is the Zeppelin tune I catch the most guff for loving. In the ensuing sentences I will be defending my opinion in transposed pro/ con fashion. Con: The words “mad,” “bad,” and “sad” are perhaps rhymed gratuitously. Pro: “D'yer Mak'er” delivers an eargasm. Con: It's an eargasm induced by a blatantly simple groove that serves as Zeppelin's answer to the missionary position. Pro: Missionary can still deliver an eargasm, so shut your ugly face, naysayer. Get yourself a blog so you can tell me how much "D'yer Mak'er" sucks. I dare you!

ELSEWHERE, the rickety structure of “The Crunge” hints that the same blokes responsible for “Stairway to Heaven” have a penchant for farce and levity, too. “Over the Hills and Far Away” and “The Ocean” are jubilant blasts of arena-rock that even fussy cynics can embrace. If you take into account the “No Quarter” exception I mentioned before, the most somber sentiment on this glorious LP can be heard in “The Rain Song.” “Upon us all, a little rain must fall.” Just a little rain? I can live with that. 

*I will allow that 2002's Maladroit is a fine album.
** It's a good thing I pluralized "pipe." I was one Freudian misspelling away from raving about Robert Plant's "awesome pipe."

The Soil Satan Goes out of Business

“Going out of business” commercials are made especially sad by the fact that the disenfranchised owner has to muster a smile for the camera during what must be an arduous time. These ads are akin to capitalistic concession speeches for defeated entrepreneurs, and while politicians who find themselves in a similar situation tend to land on their feet, I usually get a premonition that someone like the protagonist in this story may find himself stealing pills from a pharmacy and peddling them to teenagers in order to survive.

I've always wanted to see a brutally honest “going out of business” commercial. Hopefully I'm not the only one.

###

A middle-aged bald man wobbles in front of a cameraman, a director, and crew. The onlookers remain hushed and awestruck by the spectacle. The man is shabbily dressed in a sleeveless t-shirt with fringed edges and suspenders that pinch his flabby chest and gut. Atop his head is a crudely assembled dunce-cap with the word “Bangkrupt” (sic) printed on it in black marker. A display of red and black vacuum cleaners are racked behind him. He blows into a noisemaker, inducing a flair of short, colorful tassels and a high-pitched, outrageous toot.

Howdy-do, cruel world. I'm Vince Wally Vincent, the Vacuum Guy, owner of the Soil Satan Outlet—which is bad news for me, 'cause the place is going out of business! My soon-to-be ex-wife had her doubts when I spent most of my rich uncle's inheritance on funding the Soil Satan Outlet. Well, honey, I sure hope you can pry your head out of your new fling's lap long enough to glare at the TV screen and say, “I told you so.” How the hell is Chad, anyway? Still the day manager at the Blockbuster across the street with a penis reportedly wider than mine? What a catch. The son-of-a-bitch is practically the reincarnation of James freaking Dean.

Any-hoo, by now, you have all read enough newspapers and Internets to know the story of the Soil Satan Outlet. In 2007, yours truly, Vincent Wally Vincent, a lowly worker of the Dirt Devil corporation, worked up the balls to start his own line of vacuum cleaners. I designed and crafted a mechanism to enhance the suction power of the standard Dirt Devil. Having one-upped my ungrateful employers, I decided on a name that admittedly sounded similar but was more emphatic. I mean—if you really want to erase every trace of that dog-barf stain before the company arrives, which seems like a stronger option: The Dirt Devil or the Soil Satan?

I had faith that American consumers would salute my clever touch of wordplay, that the gag would be understood and nobody was going to protest my very existence with charges that I'm an “Occult Monster” or a “Doomed Heathen.”

Yikes! Having faith really backfired on me that time.

Vince exerts a concerted gust of air into the noisemaker.

In the early days, my business attracted a great number of Satanists. The Godless hooligans clamored in vain for black cloaks, jugs of goat's blood, and Slayer albums. Few showed any interest in buying a vacuum cleaner. Some purchased key chains and spare parts on occasion—and I shudder to think of the horrible things those degenerates did with all those extension tubes.

More Stories, and Additional Stories is my eBook, and I honestly don't know what more you could possibly want from me. More Stories, and Additional Stories... Plus Stories? To hell with that last part. It's gratuitous, ya know?