ConstantCommentary® Vol. VII, No. 157, January 9, 2003
by Mike Jasper
I'm wearing one of my favorite tee-shirts today, a black number with "Musicians For MS" emblazoned on the front.
Not musicians against MS or musicians for an MS cure, just "Musicians For MS." I've been trying to decide whether it's a typo or not. After all, MS gave these sorry-ass, guitar-slinging schlubs at least one good gig last year, and you have to believe a few million more cases of the disease might give them two gigs a year.
See? MS is good for the musical community.
But that's not what I want to talk about. Recently, I heard from my old buddy Kenny L. (not to be confused with Kenny G., Johnny the C. or even that unfortunate Kenny on South Park... although that would be the best comparison). Kenny L. lives in Brooklyn, but works in Manhattan, and I was wondering if he survived 9/11/01. I figured it was up to him to make contact first, since the odds of me still being alive and able to receive email were much, much higher.
Apparently, he's fine and life has never been better. As a special added bonus, he met and spoke with Paul McCartney on the streets of New York a few months ago.
"I was at this cafe, but I decided I didn't want to be cooped up, so I walked around the corner to the alley next door to eat my bagel. Five minutes later, Paul McCartney comes walking into the alley with a mocha cappuccino, looking for a moment alone I guess.
"I told him, 'I just want to tell you that The Beatles were the best thing to happen in the entire 20th Century.' Paul said thanks and drank his coffee while I nibbled on my bagel. How cool is that?'"
Pretty cool. Unfortunately, Kenny went too far.
"Then I asked him, 'Hey, man, did you ever fuck Yoko? Is that why John didn't want to hang out with you? And did you really die in 1969, because a lot of your stuff hasn't really been all that good since then. Also, when you proposed to your wife, did you get down on one knee or would that be considered showboating? Hey, Paul? Where you going, man? You haven't finished your mocha cappuccino.'"
Back in the late 80s, Kenny and I met when he, me and Johnny the C. (bad grammar, but great rhyme) were all going through divorces and moved in with Gay Freddy. (He's not gay. We just call him that because he's so abjectly homophobic. Our worst nightmares sometimes come true).
As a group, we were pretty glum and depressed for the first six months, until the NFL playoffs came around. A weekly excuse to drink large quantities of beer will usually cheer up any guy.
Early into the playoffs, we were watching a fairly insignificant game -- Detroit vs. Philadelphia, I think, where the win would only ensure the victorious team a chance to lose to the 49ers -- when a knock came on the door.
"Oh, shit. She really did it."
"What? What?" I asked.
"My mom," said Kenny. "She told me she wanted to drop by today so
she could show me a video of my niece's Bar Mitzvah."
"You've got to be fuckin' kidding me!' Johnny the C. said.
"No," Kenny said. "Girls have Bar Mitzvah's now. But they call it
something else, I think."
Kenny answered the door and sure enough it was his mom. As she came in she said, a little too loudly I think, "Do you mind if we watch this video? It's the Bat Mitzvah of Kenny's niece Carla."
"As long as it's not a bris," Johnny the C. muttered under his breath.
We went along with it, reluctantly. Not too reluctantly, since it was only the Lions vs. Eagles and we still had plenty of beer.
Kenny put in the video and the show started. Not much else for the rest of us to do but watch it. Pretty soon, we got into it. The guy who shot the video knew what he was doing, and it was better than most Reality TV series (all of them on FOX) and the editing was excellent.
Carla's Dad: "Where did I meet my wife? At a bar. She was
shaking her ass and I said hello."
Carla's Wife: "He said what?"
Carla's Little Brother: "I either want to be a policeman
or.... maybe not."
What Kenny's mom didn't know was there was one family member we
were pretty familiar with -- Uncle Jack.
Kenny regaled us with stories of his Uncle Jack getting dressed up in top hat and tails to sing, "I'm Getting Married in the Morning." Uncle Jack's picture, in full monkey-suit regalia, was pinned to the refrigerator door and he had become the stuff of folklore around the house.
When he appeared in the video the crowd went wild.
"Uncle Jack! It's Uncle Jack, baby!" It was just about as good as a 40-yard run from scrimmage. We applauded and high-fived all around. Kenny's mom, at first grateful for our rapt attention, gave us a look that seemed to say, "Hey, hey, hey. You're not supposed to like it that much. It's a Bat Mitzvah here."
After the video, I took Kenny's mom aside and explained the situation.
"Kenny's told us so much about Uncle Jack, he's almost part of the household here. If he walked through the door, we'd fix him a drink and then sit down and listen to his stories. He sounds like a great guy."
Kenny's mom seemed relieved by the explanation. But then I went too far.
"So, did you breast feed Kenny? Because you've got some great tits for an old broad. Hey, you're from New York, right? Want to spend some time naked in a California hot tub? It's not like the old man will ever know, right? A little bumppity-bump, baby? Gay Freddy doesn't like people fucking in his hot tub -- says it clogs up the pumps or something -- but he ain't around and when's the next time you're gonna get a shot at some young meat? Hey, come back. You didn't finish your Cosmopolitan."
See? There ain't no cure. For MS or me or anything.
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STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own.
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| Mike Jasper is a writer and musician living in
Austin, Texas. Originally from the San Francisco Bay
Area, he has strong ties to Seattle, St. Petersburg,
Florida and North Platte, Nebraska. He can be reached at
column@mikejasper.com or PO Box 91174, Austin TX, 78709
or 24-hour voice mail at 512-916-3727. Accessible? I
think so.
© 2002 by Mike Jasper, All Rights Reserved. ConstantCommentary® is published whenever Mike Jasper feels like it. All material is the responsibility of the author. Special thanks to those who helped along the way: Jeff Cox, Susan Maxey, Catherine Clay, Cathleen Cole, Valerie Sprague, Ian Wolff, Laura Martin and Karin Stephenson. (You may download this article, print it out for personal use and e-mail it to your friends. But you must never, ever give Kurt Vonnegut the credit.) |