RBM

From time to time, I have asked these questions. Who exactly is this Rubber Band Man? And, for what in God's name are we preparing ourselves?

Is Keith Richards the Yogi Berra of Rock?

In 1978, when Richards was asked why the Stones called their new album “Some Girls,” he replied, “Because we couldn’t remember their fucking names.”

BOOKS | Groovin’ High

in the The Critics section of The New Yorker

by David Remnick

This Ain't No (Tea) Party This Ain't No Disco

I had an uncle once who was really smart and crabby all the time. He seemed like a good guy, but he just couldn't stop complaining. Whining really. Let's call him Uncle Johnny. I'd say, "Hey, Uncle Johnny, things aren't so bad." And, he'd kick the cat and complain about the mayor. I'd say, "Hey, Uncle Johnny, how about those Mets!" And, he'd go on and on about how lazy people are and how they were always sticking it to him.

Now, I'll give it to you that people are lazy motherf*ckers. But, stop spitting on me and pass the butter. Okay, fine. Maybe a government study on which brand of sex gel is better for your complexion seems a bit wasteful. At first. But, you just took an extra helping of mashed potatoes. Don't deny it. You did. I saw it.

So, you know, the Tea Party. Really unpleasant. And, not that funny either. I mean most of their jokes would be rejected by the Golden Girls. Show me the funny already. You call this a Tea Party? Where are the scones?

Remember Ronald Reagan? He was totally invited to Thanksgiving dinner. Everybody's happy grandfather. Old and wise and smelled nice. Those people on cable news? I'm not sure what they had for dinner, but they definitely clear the room.

But, at least they have the homecoming queen. Jesus is going to have a helluva time running against her two years from now.

Singing "Imagine" In The Subway Station Is Depressing

Don't sit on a cardboard box and sing a karaoke version of John Lennon's "Imagine" at the Union Square subway station. Because it's depressing.

I know this because sad waves of the sh*t came down at me as I climbed the L Train stairs with the masses this morning.

It wasn't ironic, or poignant, or sweet, or any other bullsh*t word you can think of to make a depressing moment more meaningful than it is. It was just depressing.

The mobs of people trampling over each other to the 6 train are about as far as you can get from a brotherhood of man. They're not going to live life in peace, or share the world. And, they sure as hell aren't going to join a karaoke singer wearing a faux gold crown or any other "dreamer" to live as one. Because in Union Square station on a Thursday morning at 8:30 a.m, believe me, he is the only one.