They ain’t makin’ artists like Kinky Friedman anymore

 

(Kinky Friedman, 1974, Getty Images)

Well, a Brooklyn hipster in a stupid shirt

Was a-sippin fancy craft beer

Talking nonsense and uh-politics for all the world to hear

“You oughta read this Twitter thread, boy

Or listen to me, son

You just wanna provoke your audience,

And you forget that God is done.

I said, “has it occurred to you, you hipster

That that’s not very nice

We, artists believe it was Willie Nelson who defined the zeitgeist

You know, you don’t look artistic, he said

Near as I could finger

I had you stamped for a slightly sophomoric

Well-dressed country singer

No, they ain’t makin’ artists like Kinky anymore

They don’t write funny songs the way they done before

He started in to shoutin’ and a-spittin’ on the floor

Lord, they ain’t makin’ artists like Kinky anymore

He says, “I ain’t pretentious, but

Johnny Cash is one singer we don’t need

And them fiddlers, okies and old folkies 

All they ever do is read

And dopes ‘n boobs ‘jokes ‘n rubes ‘n noobs

Are on my list

And there’s one little genius in the heart of Texas

Is there anyone I missed?

Well, I hits him with everything I had
Right square between the eyes
I says, "I'm gonna gitcha, you son of a bitch
For spoutin' that pack of lies
If there's one thing I can't abide
It's a pretentious ass
Now you take back that thing you said
'Bout Mister Johnny Cash

 

No, they ain’t makin’ artists like Kinky anymore

They don’t get irreverent, preferring to make 'em snore

You could hear that doofus holler like a typical college bore

Lord, they ain’t makin’ artists like Kinky anymore

RIP

Howard less than Stern

 

(Howard Stern, TV interview ca. 1986)

In a lavish radio studio somewhere in midtown Manhattan an aging shock jock slouches towards an overflowing bank vault. He’s far from his prime. He lost his fastball, opting no longer to ask softball questions, but rather, to deliver, the interview equivalent of sloppy burrata. Today, like all days, he’s surrounded of his erstwhile irreverence, as well as a pack of cackling sycophants, hanging on every syllable like a disciple of Christ. He wines, he dines. He whines, he dines. On this show, he’s speaking with a Generic Celebrity, committed to revealing just enough to appear polite.  

HLTS:   I consider you a genius. 

 

BC:       Thank you. Not sure that was a question. 

 

HLTS:   No, but this is. What your favorite place in the Hamptons?  

 

BC:       I don’t have much of a social life. 

 

HLTS:   I didn’t either until I approached one billion dollars in net worth. 

 

BC:       What are you doing after the show?

 

HLTS:   Taking my security detail to my limo to my private jet to my private yacht to…dinner with you?

 

BC:       That could work. I have an early evening gala. 

 

HLTS:   I go to bed early. Old morning radio habit. 

 

BC:       So now you put your audience to sleep. 

Tribes and vibes

(Klaus Kinski in Fitzcarraldo, dir. Werner Herzog, 1982)

Remote tribes are finally getting a little Internet and I can’t see a downside. But this development got me wondering all the same: what else do these folks really need? Besides a steady stream of hardcore pornography faster than the Amazon’s most impressive tributaries. How about a string of retail outlets, a cavalcade of fast-talking celebrity influencers, and one place to get a decent bagel. Who knows, they might even want to add a few nice shirts now that the whole world is watching. How oddly beautiful that only now, after all these years toiling in the wilderness, do remote tribes finally have the pleasure of using an actual remote.

Welcome to my Anti-Capitalist Small Business

 

(Stalin propaganda poster)

Greetings, comrades. I have a few items that may be to your liking. Material that’s anything but immaterial. Frankly, it’s how you can help support the means of my production. The first thing you’ll need is a collection of t-shirts, bumper stickers and hats that show the pesky bourgeois just what you have in store for them. After all, you’re a proletariat, not an amateurtariat. So start dressing like it. 

Because you can’t have a revolution without the proper attire. That’s why our incomparably breathable linen Balaclavas are moving faster than a breadline. It’s a luxury to revolt during the colder months. But with the climate getting warmer, every revolutionary must adapt. I’ve heard that the Siberian gulag is beginning to resemble Margaritaville. Hope you like vodka and cabbage.

Art is important. It’s why we’ve commissioned large oil paintings you can hang of yourself throughout your home. But before doing so, please enjoy a complimentary therapy session. Why? Because you can’t have a cult of personality without first having a personality.  

Need to indoctrinate an infant? Go home with a bag of red diapers. Taking a hike to a remote portion of our nation’s vast wilderness? Well, fellow traveler, try this frame pack large enough to hold any struggle. Doing yard work this weekend? Then you’ll most likely need a nice hammer and sickle to separate the neighborhood wheat from the chaff. And why not take a great leap forward with a pair of running shoes? Feeling an overwhelming sense of capitalist malaise? Try Uncle Joe’s cup of Joe. Can't finish your meal? A rare feat here, but if it's the case, enjoy a takeaway glass box where your leftovers are entombed just like Lenin. Eat it tomorrow or in a century, it'll taste about the same.

Hold on a second. Breaking news, we’re closed indefinitely due to my employees staging a little workplace revolt. 

The Real Catch

 

(Willie Mays at the Polo Grounds, New York, September 29, 1954, Sports Illustrated/AP)

 

“There's a long drive, way back at center field, way back, back, it is - oh my! Caught by Mays. Willie Mays just brought this crowd to its feet with a catch which must have been an optical illusion to a lot of people.” 

-Jack Brickhouse

 

When I go to the beach in spring and summer, I don’t bring a football. Because It’s not football season. I bring a few mitts, a few extra baseballs, and a small radio to listen to the ballgame amid the thundering beat of surfside dance music. Because it is baseball season. 

 

It takes a certain level of proficiency to play in an area as crowded as the Rockaways in high season. There are, what people of a certain age, might refer to as plenty of bogeys. This might explain the extra balls, there to guard against water logging; a risk I take as seriously as any rip current. So you don’t want to drop too many throws your way. It’s both embarrassing and dangerous. There is something special about hurling a fastball as the tide rolls across your feet and nothing else. 

 

All of this is to say, when my friends and I do it, it’s just "a" catch. Joyous, restorative, timeless, but a catch all the same. “The Catch,” is reserved for one man and one man only. 

 

Willie Mays. 

 

In the years since his ur-catch, the lore surrounding it has only grown. But only Willie Mays could make a grab like that in the World Series and have many remark, “it wasn’t even his best.” He had it all the way. See how he tapped his glove beforehand? It was his rookie year, back when he still played stickball with the Coogan’s Bluff faithful. The truth is that the real catch wasn’t that one. Or one while combatting the twisting wind of Candlestick after the Giants abandoned New York. Or one in the hard-fought ’62 series against the Yanks. Or any one of the seven thousand times Willie Mays made a putout. No, it was none of those.

 

Willie Mays himself was The Catch. He was a real catch for all of us fans. Even those who never saw him play. We caught enough of him to understand that what he meant cannot be summed up in statistics. Yes, 660 is important, but Willie Mays is not a number. Unless it's 24. He engaged in breathtaking theatrics because this game is supposed to entertaining. It's meant to be fun. He wasn’t in a factory; he was in the outfield. And he never forgot that. 

 

RIP

The ledge of entertainment

 

Entertainment has come a long since the days of gladiatorial contests. When the crowds of spectators really were out for blood. Amazingly, this happened in a time without any jumbotron to relive the top plays again and again. If you missed it while chugging a goblet of wine, you had to ask your neighbor to describe the scene in gross detail. At some point, we got television. And at some point, after that, we got tired.

I now look to a different screen for joy and amusement. It’s the one between my windowpane and moderately fresh air. It’s a perspective that is always changing and always interesting. I don’t change the channel; the channel changes me. 

Here’s how it works. I open the window and like so many people before me, I stick my head halfway out of it, looking down on the cars, passersby, birds and all the rest. There’s risk inherent to this, which is why I specified “halfway.” There is a uniform that most similarly minded folks have adopted over the years. It’s either an undershirt or no shirt at all. 

There’s no binging, unless what I just ate decides to make a cameo. There are stars, but from this angle, pretty much everyone looks the same. And that’s how I like it. Small and inconsequential. I don’t have to worry about missing something important, since the street will be there tomorrow and the day after that. It’s waiting for me, to entertain, to distract, and if it’s anything like modern TV, to bore.

Light of my life

 

(Forest Hills Stadium, 2024, Photo by the author)

When mullets were ascendant and gas was not, concertgoers displayed their passionate incandescence by igniting lighters in unison. Waving wispy flames as the musicians on stage looked in with a curious mixture of confusion and pride. At least there was some danger wrapped up in the fire. But today, as safety-proofing has sapped so much joy out of life, it’s a relic of an earlier epoch. 

Today, people raise their most prized appendage, the illuminated screen of a smartphone. It signals the forfeiture of risk and joy. 

We could easily solve this dilemma by creating a bonfire of cell phones, melding modern and retro conceits to fuel a global tour.