The Beastie Boys "Eggman"

What with Easter coming around again this weekend, I am pulling out the old playlist of only-tangentially-related-to-Easter songs.

I mean, Christmas has a pile of songs related to it. But (as years of church going in my youth taught me) Easter is a much more important holiday. Why are there no related contemporary songs?

That leaves the work to songs that really have nothing to do with Easter . . .

So you play Echo And The Bunnymen. Bunny Wailer. Eddie Rabbit. Jive Bunny and the Mastermixers. Or songs from Patti Smith's record "Easter," for a stretch.

And you can pull out all those candy songs you played on Halloween, like "I Want Candy," "Candy Everybody Wants," Iggy Pop's "Candy," Elvis Costello's "So Like Candy."

Did the Easter Bunny bring you Twizzlers? Add in Aimee Mann's "Red Vines."

You can scrape out a few lyrical connections, like the Sheryl Crow song that says "He's got a daughter he calls 'Easter,' she was born on a Tuesday Night." Or play The Black Crowes "Good Friday" and Tori Amos' "Crucify."

And then there are the Egg songs. Because nothing says Easter like eggs!

It's a good excuse to pull out my favorite record of all-time, "Paul's Boutique" and play "Eggman." And there's "Einstein On The Beach For An Eggman." Ryan Montbleau's "Eggs." And "I Am The Walrus."

Goo goo g'joob!

Being a DJ is fun. And silly. And seasonal!

Happy Easter to you!


See this video on Youtube.

The Beatles "I Am The Walrus"

This Week: Excerpts From That Novel I'm Never Going To Write.

One of the good things about this story/project was that the loose format allowed me to toss in all kinds of scraps of ideas and lines from elsewhere.

Because you could go in-depth on a subject (buttons, for instance) that were only tangentially related to the plot, I had the opportunity to shoe-horn in all kinds of jokes and vignettes and poems and such, that I'd had in mind, or had actually written, before I started writing "Fruitless Minutiae."

I've long had this idea of a book of children's rhymes that had more mature/nuanced-themed morals. And the poem in the section of story below was one of my favorites.


I know these excerpts are a little out of context, but basically, 30 pages or so into the story, I break to clear up the action. On the previous pages, I've been jumping back and forth between scenes of meeting a girl named Alison and scenes conversation/arguing with my large friend Reilly, who I have described as looking like a bear.


Reilly had faith in you. The editors of America do not.

Are you having trouble following this story? The editors of America are concerned you might be. I’ve got a bunch of things going on at once and the editors of America tell me that my timeline is random and confusing. But you’re probably used to that sort of thing in real life—I bet you’re the kind of person who can simultaneously drive, shave and/or apply makeup, and sing “The Humpty Hump” at 75 miles an hour on the freeway.

But for the sake of clarity and highway safety, let me give you an overview.

Reilly is my friend. I’m relating to you a story about the time Reilly and I took a trip to the stereo place.

I’m also telling you about Alison. In a completely separate series of events that took place on a completely separate day.

And then there are the random rants by me. I am the author. I am the protagonist. And I am the walrus. Goo goo g’joob.

So as not to confuse you, let me point out that I am not a walrus. I’m a man. The walrus thing was just a snappy Beatles reference. But seeing as how I’ve asked you to accept that Reilly is a bear, I suppose it’s plausible that I am a walrus. Which I am not.

But how about a quick poem, where you can imagine that I AM a walrus.

THE WALRUS AND THE BEAR

The walrus had whiskers but was otherwise bare,
The bear was quite furry and proud of his hair,
The walrus’ jealousy and the bear’s hirsute pride,
Set the stage for a scene called “The Day The Walrus Dyed.”

The bear he was coaxed to a place by the dockside,
Where the walrus produced a small flask of peroxide.
“Pour this on your fur and do not wash it out,
And the smell will react like a magnet for trout.”

The bear, unaware that he’d just been conned,
Took a flask full of liquid to turn his fur blonde.
The walrus he rolled on his back on the beach,
Laughing, “Who doesn’t know that peroxide is bleach?”

By morning, the bear, to the walrus’ delight,
Had turned from all black, to a milky off-white,
But the walrus, it seemed, he fell short of his goal,
When the bear said, “Hey cool! Like I’m from the North Pole!”

The moral of the story, and there is one of course,
Whether porcupine, person, pig, penguin or horse,
Know you can’t contend with another’s mane vanity,
If the real problem is you’re a bald, bucktooth manatee.

Now let me remind you, again, I am not a walrus.

I’m a handsome devil, a luddite, a modern day Deney Terrio, an occasional family embarrassment, a chocolate monkey enthusiast, a sub-genius, and an editor’s nightmare.

But definitely not a walrus.