Many have wondered how the band Coldplay came to name one of their hit singles “The Scientist”.  It turns out the song gained it’s moniker due to Chris Martin’s groundbreaking discovery that pure estrogen could be turned into lyrics.

In a remote part of southwestern New Mexico, the famed outlaw “Salsa” Sam Lawless is sitting around a campfire with the men he has chosen to form his new posse.  His old one was wiped out in a deadly shootout with the Pinkerton Detective Agency of Chicago during an attempted bank robbery.  It is a solemn moment as he inducts them in one of the wild west’s most sacred rituals.

“Alright, men…  After a lot of a deliberation, I have chosen each of you to be a part of my new posse.  Now, I’m going to officially welcome you by giving you your outlaw nickname.  As you all know this is probably the most defining moment in your career as an outlaw.   This is the name history will remember you by…  the name that will appear on wanted posters throughout the country…  the name that one day will be etched on your tombstone.  Ok, you there…  you come from the brushy regions in southern Oklahoma…  I’m going to call you “Brushy” Bill Roper.  And you over there, you made your name hunting buffalo on the great plains…  I’m going to call you “Buffalo” Bob McRee.  And you…  you’re probably the deadliest man in the gang now…  you’re known for your custom pistol with the hammer filed down extra short so that you can cock and shoot faster than any man alive…  I’m going to call you “Short-Cock” Steve.  Alright, now you over there…  (Sounds as “Short-Cock” Steve tentatively interrupts) Huh?  No, no, no…  we can’t call you “Fast-Cock” Steve, my friend…  all guns cock fast.  No, no…  what makes you so unique is that you filed that bastard down short.  “Short-Cock” Steve it is.  And now you over there…  I’ve gotta confess the only reason you’re here is that we needed one more man.  You’re cowardly…  effeminate…  and you’re about the least physically intimidating man I know…  but we gotta give you a nickname so we’ll call you “Deadly” Dan Nash, “the Fastest Gun in all the West”.  (Sounds) Hey…  hey…  where are you going, “Short-Cock” Steve…   “Short-Cock”…  come back!

He heard it. The gritty, quick sound as it drew across the strip of flint. He smelled it. Smelled the sulfur burn. But he couldn’t see it. At least not more than a dim orange momentary glow to the blackness behind the blindfold. In that moment his heart raced, he had to admit. That match could have been just lit to see him or to light a fag, but it could also have been to torch the place. And him with it. It would have been the smart thing to do. It would have been what he would have done. But 30 passing seconds told him it wasn’t what this man had done. After 30 seconds another similar smell started wafting over. A cigarette after all. Tinged with menthol. He could tell it was coming from his left. He could tell by the strength of the scent that it was coming from no more than 7 feet away. He could also tell that it would be his captors last, but that wasn’t from the strength of the smell or the direction it was wafting. No, he could tell that by the strength of the smell of his rage and the way his bloodlust was wafting toward this FUCK. The last word he had yelled out loud, involuntarily. He could hear the man jump a little at the sudden outburst. And that little jump told him all he needed to know. This man was not the man who would finally stop Jack Grabber. With a sudden lunge forward and an even louder yell he burst the chains at his chest, ankles and wrists and – not even stoping to take off his blindfold – reached out with complete surety, grabbed some hair at either side of his captors head and pulled each side out and back savagely in a rear fly arc, the motion ending with him standing (still blindfolded) in a crucifix-like pose with one half of his captors facial skin in either hand. He shoved the pieces in his pockets and removed his blindfold. The body stood there a moment with it’s fleshless face still smoking the menthol cig. A woman. He looked her up and down. “Nice tits” he grumbled, “but I’d put a bag over that face”. She fell, lifeless and insulted, to the ground.

A bird in the hand is better than two in the bush, little lass
Remember these words t’ be true
For though they both may fit, though tightly, in that sodden grass
In the morn’ you’ll be black ‘n blue
Nay, sweety, one in the hand is the way t’play
Even naughtiness has degrees of class
So although you have two boys with whom to pass the time away
Make ‘em form a single file line for your *ss

A guy who, despite living in our modern era quite well beyond the industrial revolution, still has a dawn-of-the-industrial-revolution mistrust of machinery. For example, watching suspiciously the man who is making copies of his house keys: “Now explain to me what that infernal machine is doing now? Why must it raise such a racket? How do you ensure that this contraption doesn’t fall into the wrong hands… think what could happen if it did!”

A particularly enterprising member of the Crips builds a rocket and takes a chapter of the gang to the moon.  All hell breaks loose when the US attempts another Moonwalk and the Crips mistake the American flag for a Blood’s do-rag and open fire. 

Review of the production of “Boredom Visits the Artist” by H. “Henrik” Stencil (Oct 3rd 2008, Chicago’s Cul-de-Sac Theatre)

Now, it is not my “job” per se to review theatre performances (at least not in the strict sense of the word which could be used more accurately to describe me as “a kiosk vendor”) but I feel compelled to weigh in on the recent performance of H. “Henrik” Stencil’s latest effort. Stencil’s name is, of course, familiar to all. To some it is even known in whole and for it’s connection to him and his works, while to many others it is familiar in a more piecemeal and tenuous fashion owing to their recognition of each individual letter of which it is comprised.

Stencil’s first play, “Apropos to Nothing”, was reminiscent of (and compared favorably to) Aristophanes’ ancient comedy “The Clouds”, in which the Greek playwright had skewered Socrates and other alleged Sophists as being out of touch with reality. In point of fact, the entirety of the premises and all of the jokes in the modern work were the same as those in the latter to the point that numerous pages bore the trademark signs of a photocopy, but it was generally agreed amongst critics that the passing of roughly two thousand and forty additional years lent “Apropos” a certain, if vague, originality. It was an enormous success and a star was born overnight.

However, after eight months the initial theatre mania the work had inspired died down in New York, Los Angeles, and then, lastly, rural outposts across the Midwest and Montana. Stencil had not followed up on this initial success well. At all. After eight years of complete writer’s block he suddenly struck upon the cynical notion of making his creative inertia the subject of a play by merely publishing his notebook of sentence fragments and doodlings, assigning each at random to one of 116 “main characters”. The result, “Boredom Visits the Artist”, which I had the ill fortune to attend here in Chicago at the historic Cul-de-Sac Theatre, did not go over well despite the intense and expensive efforts of a Madison Avenue marketing firm to frame it as somehow on the cutting edge of the avant-garde.

In the end its run lasted less than one full evening as two of the leading actors forgot altogether what they were doing on stage during a particularly ponderous dialogue, put their coats on, and left. The confusion, unfortunately, had arisen due to a dramatic pause. A very dramatic pause. Seven minutes. Unfortunately even this did not spare the audience as it was so in keeping with the utter randomness of what we had seen so far that it was assumed that it was part of the show and thus we stayed torturously put in our seats for the remaining scheduled three hours. For the last full hour there were no actors left at all, but the we remained put, mistaking the theatre’s cleaning crew for the third act. A brief altercation between the head janitor and his assistant did give rise to a few minor guffaws and all generally agreed that the old man’s last 15 minutes alone on stage with his mop were rife with sexual tension. The end of those three hours were rewarded with the standing ovation that is now seemingly mandatory at all modern cultural events, but it was markedly without enthusiasm and lasted less than 20 minutes.

There is one thing above all that led to Johnny Cash’s rise to prominence above his contemporary rivals like Buddy Holly, the Big Bopper and La Bamba: their collective death in a plane crash in a field in Iowa.

In his last year Johnny Cash famously recorded “Hurt” by Nine Inch Nails. The lyrics include lines like “I hurt myself today”. In the original version Reznor was referring to his frequent attempts at suicide. Cash’s interpretation had more to do with his strained attempts to move his bowels.

A little known fact is that Cash’s song “I Still Miss Someone” is sung from the perspective of his children as they thought about the father who spent no time with them and refused to pay for their schooling.

Back the it was known as “walking the line”. Now it’s known as “bisexuality”.

What’s the similarity between a record and Johnny Cash? Both are round, black and take steely rods in their holes.

When Johnny Cash’s brother died early in their youth two tragedies came out of it: 1) we never got to hear the songs his brother could have written, and 2) we had to hear the songs that Johnny wrote.

The Man in Black famously performed at Folsom Prison. Many commented on how notable it was to have a rebel perform in front of so many rebels. Few commented on how notable it was to have a rapist perform in front of so many rapists.

Over the years, biographies and biopics like Walk The Line have promoted the theory that Johnny Cash’s distinctive deep growl came about from years of abusing cigarettes, alcohol, and other substances, distracting audiences from the real sordid cause: nearly non-stop deep-throating.

It is ironic, when you think of it, how well known Cash became as “The Man in Black” when his bank account was “in the red” from years of abusing cigarettes, alcohol, other substances, and deep-throating.

In reality the closest Cash ever came to falling into a burning ring of fire was when he went down on June Carter Cash during her late-life, month-long outbreak of herpes.

Cash claimed that all his songs were written very quickly, most of them taking less than ten minutes to write and compose. No one was surprised by this.

In late life Cash suffered from diabetes brought about from years of indulgence and obesity (it’s no coincidence that Man in Black chose black – it’s slimming).

When asked toward the end of his life how he still continued to tour playing songs he had written nearly 30 years ago without forgetting a chord or lyric, Cash responded that it was not such a feat after all, as they are all exactly the same.

In one song, Johnny intoned “it’s dark as a dungeon, damp as the dew”. It was the only known reference he is known to have made in song to Willie Nelson’s anus.

What’s the difference between Johnny Cash and Buddy Holly? They both knew how to sing lyrics but only the latter ever learned how to write.

What’s the difference between a Johnny Cash original and a cover of his song by another performer? The latter is in tune.

At what age did Johnny Cash become an expert at guitar playing? It’s a trick question, this would have occurred if he had lived to be 100.

Why have none of Johnny Cash’s children followed in their father’s footsteps and become musicians in their own right? Because each was raised in foster homes amid squalor and dissolution.

In youth I dreamt, yea, that I saw two rising mountains
And to the South a cave whose walls were dewy wet
As if by the spray of some great fountain
And yet I confess I know not what these dreams mean
I knew only that I must explore and climb upon them
See what sighs would rise up from them
And when I’d penetrate to their depths
From somewhere North I would hear quickening breaths
And yet I do confess I know not what these dreams could mean
If some psychologist could look upon these visions’ doors
Study their shape, their locks and simply hand me the key
Then, then could this throbbing and longing cease within me
But until that day I can only sit in agony and repeat
Oh Symbols, Oh Mystery!

Why would I steal it
When you’ll give it to me for free
Toulera toulera toulera-e

Why would I grab
What you’ll hand over to me
Toulera toulera toulera-e

I’ll do the dance
I’ll wait in the line
I’ll only take it by force, my dear love
If I think it will ne’er be mine