August 19, 1969-March 15, 2011

Rap music lost one of the best, and most recognizable voices ever last night when Nathaniel Hale, aka Nate Dogg, died of a massive stroke.  Hale attended Long Beach Polytechnic High School in California, and it was there that he first met Snoop Dogg and Warren G in 1986.  He dropped out of school at age 16, and would go on to serve three years in the United States Marine Corp.  Nate Dogg hooked up with Snoop and Warren G after returning to California, and they formed a rap group known as 213.  After hearing a demo of the group at a house party, Dr. Dre soon signed Snoop to Death Row Records.  Nate Dogg first appeared in Dre’s The Chronic in 1992, and provided vocals on two of the album’s tracks, “Deeez Nuts,” and “Lil’ Ghetto Boy.”  His distinctive lyrical style and voice impressed both fans and critics alike, and Nate Dogg was then signed in 1993.  Although Nate Dogg only released three albums of his own, he frequently collaborated with a veritable who’s who of artists that included 2Pac, Ludacris, Mos Def, E-40, Eminem, and many others.  Nate Dogg’s health began to decline in December 2007 after he suffered a stroke, and he was hospitalized again in September 2009 after having a second stroke.  He will be deeply missed by his many fans, and also by an entire genre that can ill afford to lose icons like Nathaniel Hale at such a young age.

“Lay Low”:

“The Next Episode”:

…”Smoke weed everyday.”

December 10, 1965 – September 29, 2010

I was saddened to hear that Hater Hall of Fame member Greg Giraldo passed away yesterday from complications that were the result of an accidental overdose on prescription medication.  I have never understood how anyone who doesn’t have Alzheimer’s, amnesia or dyslexia can “accidentally” overdose on prescription pills, but I also have a hard time believing Giraldo would intentionally take his own life.  If you want to know more about the life of the undisputed King of Celebrity Roasters, or want to see him in action, you can check out his induction post from earlier this month.  Once again, the world of comedy has lost a rising star who was in the prime of his career.  But like those great young comedians who met the same fate – Robert Schimmel, Mitch Hedberg, & Chris Farley to name a few – Giraldo’s work will stand the test of time, and he will continue to attract new fans with each passing year.  If you would like to send words of encouragement or support to his friends and family, you can leave your condolences on his Facebook page.

It was one year ago today when the world lost the greatest actor who ever played a bouncer, or surfer/president mask-wearing bank robber.  I wrote the following material upon hearing the news of Mr. Swayze’s passing.

I turned on the TV when I got home tonight.  I did the typical turn it on, put down the remote and walk in the other room to take anti-break dancin’ pills, de-pant and play the latest episode of What Type of Lint Is In My Butt Crack?

As I’m in there doing my best impression of a pilled out, street proctologist with a sweet finger for himself, I heard a story about somebody’s death.  I didn’t really pay much attention at first, but I kept hearing words like “young”, “tragic,” and “great dancer”.  This all sounded like somebody I knew.  So I ran into the other room nude with my finger up my ass and a trail of Lamictal and butt lint behind me, and saw one of the most frightening sights I’d ever seen.  DALTON AND BODHI DIED ON THE SAME DAY!  I can’t believe that two titans of the bouncer and surfer guru genre gave up their chance at reformed health care in the same day.  Socialized as they were with bar flies and the wet-suited jobless, I guess neither of them wanted to stick around for the cures to their ailments.  If Michael Moore had only made one more film about healthcare somewhere else, they might have lived.

How could Dalton have went out to a “disease”?  I thought he was impervious to such microbes or pathogens, as evidenced by his ability to stitch himself up without antiseptic or disinfectant.  He scoffed at the potential of being infected with anything, other than a funky beat or that feeling that an ass kickin’ was necessary.  He was above things that a “doctor” could help him with.  His medicine was his meditation, and the strange secondhand airborne vaccination that involuntarily occurs when you live in such close proximinty to horse shit.  The most surly of people, parasites and inter-abdominal uglies can’t fight off the repugnant smell that is the end result of oats and hay.  Sure, you get a lot of big, green flies following you around, but being illness-free is a fair trade-off.

I could have seen Dalton taking one too many shivs to the body or kegs to the head, and turning in his Life Membership card.  That would have been somewhat expected for the best damn cooler in the business since Fuzzy Navel by Bartles & Jaymes.  Taking the dirt nap over something called “pancreatic cancer” just doesn’t fit his psyche.  It sounds like an ailment you get when flying a specific airline to Europe by sitting next to someone whose Zodiac sign was in between Gemini and Leo.  Pancreatic?  Ain’t there some kind of sporting event called The Pancreatic Games?  Isn’t cancer what you call the guy who crushes your aluminum cans at the recyclin’ joint?  Well, when all else fails and you don’t understand something, you can always resort to, “He was just too young!” while crying uncontrollably.  Pancreatic sounds like a psychological term for the state of anger one feels when he/she finds out that non-stick isn’t an exact science.

As if Dalton’s demise wasn’t a big enough kick to the crotch of humanity, Bodhi’s life bank was robbed by death.  Reaganomics are no longer lifeanomical.

Bodhi was the epitome of what is both good and bad about surfer/bank robber types.  The good was he had a six pack, took stubble to its extreme limits, wasn’t scared to rock the mullet, had a mystic outlook on life and never wanted to kill anyone while pointing a Dirty Harry Stick in their general direction.  The bad was he didn’t have a real job, befriended undercover FBI agents way too easily, had a liking for cummerbunds and spoke in a terrible British accent while addressing a crowd that he was robbing.

Again, how could this mysterious disease take down two of the men whose movies make up the bulk of the core programming on TBS, and all incarnations of STARZ on the same day?   According to E! – which is the number one source of all medical information for celebrities, celebrity stalkers and the unemployed – the disease has something to do with your pancreas.  It may occur at a higher rate in people with flat asses, I’m not sure.  At first, I thought it might be that thimble like thing that blows out on your turd tunnel, but I was assured by my wife – who may or may not know what she’s talking about, because I truly don’t know where she goes everyday or what she does – that it was an appendage.  She explained to me that the pancreas is actually what is known as an “organ,” and it helps your body regulate…..blah, blah, blah, Ben Stein’s voice this, Bueller that and a splash of wah wah wah wah.  I zoned out after hearing it was real.  I really didn’t care at that point, because I knew its failure to man up and kick out The Cancer had taken one of the greats from us.  My wife came back to it, and just told me the pancreas looks like a spongey, yellow rock with tiny little holes all over it.  That’s great.  So, Spongebob Death Pants killed Bodhi.

In all not-so-seriousness, Patrick Swayze has taken the Dirty Dance nap.  He’s had the best time of his life.  Considering how he went out – shriveling up, gettin’ jaundiced, having to lower himself to A & E and starring in a movie called The Beast – I hope, prior to gettin’ cancer, he never felt that way before.  I swear.  It’s true.  I bet he felt like he owes it all to you….the family members that survive him via his will.

This cat gave a righteous return to Bill Medley by allowing his over-singing old ass to belt one out for the Dirty Dancin’ soundtrack.  He gave Wicked Witch of The West-nosed Jennifer Garner fame before she ever turned to plastic surgery to de-witch herself.  But this led to her becoming commercially un-viable, since no one could tell she was the chick Swayze threw around the dance floor like a bag of nosetaters.  Swayze also helped to stereotype a large group of Kentuckians by playing Truman Gates, a hick who went to the big city and got himself a law star on his chest.  Not every Kentuckian has a brother murdered by the mob who then sets out on a “blood feud”.  A large number of them simply let the mob get away with the murder, continue to run pizza places and buy large amounts of real estate.  If it weren’t the mob, it’d be the pancreas, so you go on with your life.

It is with great, bad-but-good-B-movie sorrow that I bid a fond farewell to Swayze.  I had hoped he would have played a cameo in the long rumored sequel to Road House that was to be filmed, Road House Redux.  The Internet says they were close to being in production for Point Break 2 back in 2008, but Swayze wasn’t going to have a part in it.  Ain’t no self- respectin’ Swayzenator (as his militant fans are called) gonna put up with a Bodhi-less flic of those proportions.  If there ain’t no Bodhi, you can hit the roadi.

One thing is for sure, heaven – or at least some kind of celestial rest stop in between here and there – just got a little more nimble.  And you can be sure there’s a lot of business going on up front, and partying in the back.

Before I go, what the hell was “She’s Like The Wind” all about? A gassy encounter with a post-burrito vixen?  It is just a testament to Swayze’s star power that he could make a song about a chick with the winds reach #3 on the charts.  Flatulence never smelled or sounded so sweet.  Whatever my world’s equivalent of R.I.P. is, I hereby officially extend such an abbreviation to Mr. Swayze.

January 16, 1950 – September 3, 2010

I was saddened this morning after finding out that unheralded – and highly underrated – comedian Robert Schimmel passed away in a Phoenix hospital on Friday after being involved in a car accident.  As far as tough times go, Robert faced tremendous trials and tribulations throughout most of his life.  After graduating high school, he decided to join the Air Force and ended up serving one year during the Vietnam War.  While he was there, Schimmel received a blood transfusion and subsequently contracted hepatitis C as a result.  In 1980, he left Scottsdale, Arizona to visit his sister in Los Angeles, and she urged him to get on stage while they were at the Improv comedy club’s amateur night.  After his performance, Schimmel was immediately offered a regular time slot by the club’s owner if he would relocate to California.  So, the aspiring comedian quit his job and moved with his wife and two young kids to pursue a comedy career.  When they arrived, he drove by the club to show his family where he would be working, and soon discovered that the club had burned to the ground the night before.

After hearing of this ordeal, and listening to his material, Rodney Dangerfield invited Robert to perform on his HBO Young Comedians Special.  His stand-up career began to flourish, but his material was still largely considered to be too explicit and raunchy for the mainstream.  He made unsuccessful appearances on Late Night with Conan O’Brien and The Hollywood Squares, but his controversial brand of humor did make him a fan favorite on The Howard Stern Show. In 1998, the comedian suffered a heart attack – an event which he would later joke about by saying, “You know you’re out of shape when you have a heart attack while watching television.’’  In 1999, he was offered a development deal for a sitcom by FOX, but soon after it was picked up in 2000, he was diagnosed with non-Hodgkins lymphoma.  He underwent lengthy treatments, but then would later reveal on Stern’s show that he had also contracted cirrhosis, and it had progressed to the point where he was put on a waiting list for a donated liver.  Yet despite this myriad of health problems and career struggles, Schimmel never lost his sense of humor or the ability to spin his own tragedies into comedy.  His manager Lee Kernis had this to say after the comedian’s passing, “Robert was always the butt of his own joke.  When he would talk about the failings of his marriages, his relationships, or having kids, he always made the joke about his inability to ever win at the end.”  The comedy world lost a unique and brilliant representative on Friday, but I have no doubt that Schimmel’s past performances will continue to provide laughs, and hopefully influence future generations of comedians as well.

Schimmel’s breakthrough performance on Rodney’s Dangerfield’s HBO special (NSFW language in the following clips):

A clip from a 1994 performance in Las Vegas titled “Guilty as Charged”:

More Robert Schimmel on YouTube

I met George Steinbrenner once – well, sort of.  Ed, a guy named Boone (not the one from Animal House) and I were at Yankee Spring Training back in 2004.  The weather was kind and the outlook was saucy, for the beer tender was less than attentive and bleach plus flatulence isn’t far off of a chlorine leak.  We were at Legend’s Field in Tampa Bay, F. L. Eh.  That’s Tampa Florida to you and me kids.  It is now known as George M. Steinbrenner Field – there is still debate out there as to whether the “M” stands for “motherfuck you” or just “Mannish,” but it doesn’t really matter.

Dialect aside, it was near the end of some game.  We had been consumed hop fermented beverages like there was going to be some sort of BP enforced shortage.  I don’t know if it was Miller Lite or if we were much wiser for drinking Bud, but it wasn’t as if we had discriminating tastes.  As a matter of fact, after about inning two, I’m not quite sure any of us had any taste in general.  I do remember Boone licking a pole at some point until I informed him metal was not a flavor of popsicle.

So, it was about the 7^th evening.  In case you didn’t know, spring training games can end at any minute.  The rules of the regular season road do not apply.  If there is a tie, they walk off like a recently freed gimp.  If there is a shortage of players, it’s like there is a oompa-loompa exodus out the backdoor past the 6^th inning.

On this particular moderately hot day, I had encountered a regular up by the dugout begging for autographs.  He sayed sooth to me he’d been coming to train for Spring for 20 years or more.  Sir Memory-a-Lot waxed memorial about days of yore – without Zepplin backing him up – when the stars were galactic and the access was easier than that offered by tnaflix.com (don’t search this site if you’re at work, unless you’re employed by Hustler, Vivid or the like).  I’m just sayin’.  Most importantly – no, he did not buy me a beer – he explained that the one, the only George “The Boss” Steinbrenner liked to appear live and in person outside his box during the later innings of home Spring training games.  By live and in person, I surmised he meant that whatever appeared was not a stunt double for his likeness at Madame Toussand’s creepy waxzeum.  I figured outside his box meant he either was throwin’ down on Taco Bell or he was tongue deep up in some kitty chow chow.  All that fucking stupidity aside, I corrected my uninhibited, frontal lobe injured brain to assess he simply meant that G.M.S.  appeared like a late inning vampire at Spring training games.  I would have merely delegated this info to the “old foggie off his Tempurpedic” file, but this cat had an aura to him that could only be described as a less demanding, more sentence completing Mr. Mi-Yankee.  Believe in Derek Jeterson.  Show me, Mariano Rivera!  Andy Pettite the fence!  Posada you need to work on your form more, eh?

After consuming an enumerable amount of Busch’s bounty, I membered what that salty geezer told me a few hours earlier.  I looked up off my left shoulder.  This wasn’t as easy as it would have been if his box had been the right field line, because my left shoulder is normal height.  Childhood baseball and gaying it up playing tennis has caused my right shoulder to drop like a pirate’s bad eye.  You can’t patch a shoulder though.  Well, maybe you can.  If you do, you’ll be begging for change during some kind of holiday television special in the name of some disease you probably don’t have, can’t pronounce or would fuck a person with.  I saw a whole mess of commotion up by a box.  It was like watching a bunch of nightcrawlers trying to escape from Four Leaf Tayback.  The movement was slow and nothing was trying to stop it.  I didn’t know if a cotton candy vendor had took a digger or one of them fuckers flogging the 9 dollar Fried Turkey Legs (BFTL for Big Fucking Turkey Legs) had impaled himself.  There was a lot of loco commotion.  Then, out of my alcohol induced pseudo blindness, I noticed that was not a G.I.L.F. (Granny I’d Like to Fuck), it was George M. Steinbrenner!  O.K., so I’d probably fuck him for season tickets and an all-access tour.  I was as stoked as a victim of a witch hunt.  I didn’t need G.P.S. to tell me where G.M.S. was because that motherfucker was about 200 yards away.

Ed and I had anticipated his appearance.  In theorizing of such, we brought a picture of the side of the Talibarn that has the Yankee logo on it.  And by Yankee logo, I ain’t meanin’ some simple interlocking NY.  I’m talking the baseball with the top hat and bat, the whole nine.  Yeah, we didn’t skimp when we paid about $100.00 to get a starving artist with some form of undiagnosed mental illness to adorn the barn with strategically placed paints.  When I saw the function turning into a function in the stands, I grabbed the picture, goozled the remainder of the closest beer to me, kicked the cotton candy off my shoe, ducked under a foam novelty finger alluding to the Yankees status at the top of MLB and tore out.  I think the only time I’ve ever ran faster was the time I tried to fuck that chick on the track team.

When I got near the culmination of all the adulation,  I surmised what I could see before me.  I subtracted one view, cause I was drunk and getting all blurry eyed.  I soon realized I would have to climb over some peeps to make it to the summit of Mount Steinbrenner.  I noticed one of my adversaries had left a ¾ filled swill.  I guzzled it without inquiring as to what strain it was, threw the glass down, and burped like a freshly uncorked Homer Simpson.  I threw myself amongst the throng of Yankeemanity, and began my attempt to summit Mount Steinbrenner.

I found a young, rather nubile young fellow at the very begging of my journey.  He was kind of sickly to be honest.  I mean he didn’t have fucking Polio, but I wasn’t for sure if he’d completely beat the smallpox – if you Wikipedia that you’ll find it funnier.  He was like my Sherpa stepping stone.  I put my right foot on his back, my left on his little tiny head, pushed and jumped like a participant in some sort of Harlem Globetrotters dunk contest.  This pushed me about ½ the way towards the summit.  All that was left betwixt me and the summit was a couple of young children with drool holding their potentially autographed fare , which was stuck to their face with ever-sticky drool, and a couple of bags older than Methuselah’s scrotum.  I realized I needed to employ something like a spider-two-legged-push off.  I put my right leg on one yute’s braincase, my left leg on the shoulder of the other booger eater, and my nuts on their grandmother’s forehead.  I thrusted with more power than I had since the last time I was under 21, when I was trying to get my room deposit’s worth at a shitty hotel.  This tactic worked.  Whereas it forebagged that ole hag, it put me ahead of the crowd.  I was now the next in line for a signature blessing of the Yankee equivalent to the Pope.

Then whoever the hell it was had gotten whatever the hell it was signed, and begged off to the left.  It was all me like Alicia Keys.  I mean hell, if Bob Dylan mentions her in a song, I can allude to her in some bullshit I think up.  I looked up and my savior was sporting sunglasses that would make Maverick look like a bobblehead.  If those things were any bigger, he could have taught a shop class.  I mean seriously, just because you’ve been to the police academy and trained in riot control, it doesn’t mean you have to wear the gear out to meet the public.  But, the bestest of the best was the fact that he was wearing a hat.  Not an officially licensed, MLB approved hat.  A hat in the vein of something you got free for showing up at the “Crappiethon and Bait Expo”.  It had an unbent bill, and the front was foam.  Like sound proof, looney bin quality foam.  It was emblazoned with the all caps in yellow against the navy blue background “TOP GUN”.  I have no idea if G.M.S. was trying to say he fucked Kelly McGillis or that he was tight with Kenny Loggins.  I never heard him mentioned in Footloose or Caddyshack for whatever it is worth.  The bill also had a rope across the front of it, like it would have provided something to hang onto if he was on the Deepwater Horizon at the wrong moment.

So, there I was.  My drunken self within touching and talking distance to my version of the Pope.  He was wearing a funny hat.  I would have accepted a kiss to my finger.  There was smoke present but that was from a hot dog stand in the proximity.  I didn’t hear any chanting, but that was probably cause whoever was batting was not an easy out.  Kneeling was not an option as my love lobes were already freshly implanted on granny’s billboard.  However, in the midst of all my wonderdum, I merely offered up the picture of the Talibarn’s side and requested a sign of proof that it had been viewed and approved by G.M.S.

I handed it to him like I was some sort of little girl asking him to sign for the fucking Tag-A-Longs I had just sold him.  He grabbed it – Sharpie in hand – and viewed its depiction.  With what I’d described as a chuckle, he said “Where is this?”  I said, “On the side of the Talibarn in Paducah, Kentucky.  We are militant hick Yankee fans.  Thanks for everything you’ve done for us.”   With this type of significant showing, I thought I might get some above average sign of approval.  Or, at the very least, my own TOP GUN hat.  Nah.  He merely signed his name, handed the picture back to me and signed whatever Gonard Granny offered up.

I wasn’t mad at G.M.S.  He was a fucking billionaire.  He owned the Yankees.  I was a hick lawyer from Paducah.  He could have killed me by simply having his bank account dumped on me.  G.M.S. was very cool to sign my stupid fucking picture, and it was cool he got a laugh out of it.  It was even better that he didn’t require me to be circumcised, almost drown or be hit in the face with a garment.  I was lucky to have been within that close of proximity to the savior of the core beliefs I once had forced on me, but had come to love as I ventured into adulthood.  This picture is framed and in the Talibarn if anyone wants to call bullshit.  If I was there, I’d take a picture and send it to our beloved blogmaster to post along with this loonacy.  However, due to the constraints of transportation after consuming alcohol, such cannot be produced at this particular junction.  So, put a black band around your sleeve and get on with it.

Oh, who the fuck am I’m trying to kid?  G.M.S. was cool and I am severely grateful for what he did for the Yankees, but who the fuck cares what I think?  I am but an obstinate blood vessel on the cock of the Yankee Universe.  G.M.S. or the Yankees have no fucking idea I exist.  G.M.S. knew I existed for one brief moment, and he also knew the Talibarn existed.  That, my readers, is the fucking point.  Who cares if they know you exist?  God or any of those sandal following fuckers didn’t know you existed either.  If you exist, you believe they exist and – unlike shit told to you by books with tabs, yellow stained pages and leather covers – you can prove they exist, then you got yourself something that is existent during your existence to give a fuck about.  Caring about shit that really is out there – even if the “out there” does not know you are “out there” – is what being here is all about.

Fuck the X-Files.  Believing is being out there.  If it is really out there and you believe in it, than you believe in something knowing believing is believable.  Yeah.  Break out a box of Fruit Loops and figure out what that means motherfucker.

JIS

RIP G.M.S.  I hope you fire whoever is in charge of hell.

July 4, 1930 – July 13, 2010

I will be surprised if Mr. Smith doesn’t write something about losing the legendary owner of his favorite baseball team, but I still wanted to post a short, off-kilter tribute from the perspective of someone who is not – and never has been – a baseball fan.  Upon hearing that Steinbrenner passed away in Tampa this morning due to a massive heart attack, I perused his bio on Wikipedia and learned more about King George in a few minutes than I had ever known previously.  For instance, I was unaware that his first job in sports was as a graduate assistant to Woody Hayes on Ohio State’s 1955 national championship football team.  I was also surprised to learn that Steinbrenner was once indicted on 14 criminal counts back in 1974 as a result of his company’s connections with then-President Richard Nixon – he was later pardoned by Ronald Reagan.  As a matter of fact, before today, everything I know about Steinbrenner I learned from the character on Seinfeld.  So whenever I think of Steinbrenner, I think of things like threatening to move the team to New Jersey just to upset people, the song “Heartbreaker“, and eggplant calzones.  Big Stein made his first appearance on the show in a 1994 episode titled “The Opposite”, and the Yankees owner was portrayed by a man named Lee Bear – but the show’s creator (Larry David) provided the voice-over performances.  Steinbrenner’s character would go on to be featured in 12 additional episodes until the show’s end, including the finale, and provided more than a few classic moments in TV sitcom history.  Baseball lost both a highly controversial and influential individual today, but his legacy will live on forever in the hearts of his family, friends, and fans – and in reruns.

This scene was originally a part of the season 7 finale “Invitations”, but was edited out due to time constraints:

This video is about Larry David’s appearances on the show, but the Steinbrenner clips start around the 3:00 mark:

Highly Recommended Links:  Every Seinfeld scene with Steinbrenner – Parts I & II

(I wrote this shortly after Michael Jackson “shook his body [down to the ground]“ for the last time, but never put it on the site for whatever reason.  Since Friday is the one-year anniversary of his demise, I’ve decided to revive it before all the other tributes inevitably begin.)

It all started with the man who uttered that most offensive of phrases (which also allowed Eddie Murphy to mine comedic gold), and now that man has jumped into the free advertising frenzy for all involved with the King of Pop’s death.  Yep, Al “Not Quite The” Sharpton “Knife in The Drawer” has been tagged by someone in the Jackson inner circle, and has now entered the ring.  Admittedly, I did not know and still haven’t got much of a clue about the religiousness – not to be confused with litigiousness, which is practiced and followed by a large number of people in its own right – of Thriller or the Jackson family as a whole, but it seems like they sure have “reverended up” since all of this went down.

He who called NYC “Hymie Town” was the first one on the scene.  The head of the Rainbow Coalition- Jesse Jackson Jr. – then came to town with scores of other people looking for leprechauns, pots of gold and flags denoting whether or not an establishment was gay friendly.  The Rainbow Coalition’s name always seems to confuse some people.  I guess there is some kind of big spotlight with a cross in the center of it that the Jacksons pointed into the sky to call Triple J for help.  Either that, or he was jesusmailed to the scene over the world wide webular using rent_a_reverend@yahoo.com.

I’m still not quite sure why the Jacksons who haven’t beat it have a need for spiritual advising?  Pretty much every religion is going to agree that Mike is dead.  Now maybe a Hindu could give them some religious leeway as to whether or not MJ’s caring for Emmanuel Lewis or that chimp helped his karma – and will keep him from coming back in his next life as a chameleon – but only Boy George would truly know that.  Maybe Jess Jack Jr was called in to give an official religious opinion as to whether or not MJ was indeed dead?  The whole Easter thing could have confused the Jacksons maybe, I don’t know.  One way you could tell is if they had hid a bunch of colored eggs around Neverland Ranch before he got there.  If Triple J was seen entering into the premises with a bunch of wicker-looking baskets, you can bet your penis to a tractor pull that was the case.

Apparently having one Rev. – as they like to be abbreviated – around wasn’t enough.  MJ was larger than life, and therefore his demise calls for the presence of a Rev. that was formerly larger than Tom Arnold’s former wife.  Yep, you guessed it.  Break out the raspy voice and be prepared to start getting yelled at about how MJ’s death was racially motivated, because the Rev. Al Sharpton has officially thrown his preacher collar into the hat on behalf of the Jackson Family.

Upon entering the funeral dirge, which began before the sure-to-be sequined casket could be picked out, R.A.S. let it be known that, religously speaking, the Jackson Family was planning several global celebrations of his life.  Sharpton said he “planned to meet with the family he planned to spiritually advise.” And as we all know, meeting your reverend is one of the last steps towards attaining total spiritual harmony.  R.A.S. said the family is frustrated by the multitude of media coverage regarding MJ’s “problems”, and they want to make sure he is remembered more for his contributions to music and culture.

I can dig what Rev. Sharp and the Jackson Family is wanting the rest of us to stick our finger in for a taste in this situation.  That being typed, there is a not so blurry, thick bold line between what one wants and the truth.  Why they would call RAS to straighten out the media and try to gloss over any of MJ’s alleged pill-popping and kiddie-diddlin’, I have no clue.  If you had any chance at pulling that off, you would need one of those flashy things from the Men In Black movies and a pair of Ray-Bans, not a loud mouth, quasi-respected reverend.

I understand why those whom loved and admired him don’t want all that brought up again – like the loogie that didn’t quite make it all the way out – but you aren’t going to do anyone any justice by trying to act like those things never allegedly happened.  The Jacksons are only going to make the coverage of these alleged events worse by allowing loud mouths like RAS to publicly state that they doesn’t want the media to focus on what they are focusing on, by focusing on your official statement through the R.A.S.  This is Hyperbole 101.  We’re through the looking glass here people.

I haven’t seen RAS give any statements or make any comments about the necessity of the second autopsy that was apparently performed today.  Triple J previously said the Jacksons want to try to figure out what, if any, role the actions of the cardiologist who was with MJ during his final hours had on the un-thrilling result.  Seemingly, they are looking into what type of reality-be-gone substances may have been flowing through his veins, and if this doctor prescribed said substances.  Word is, if MJ was doped up by pills this doctor prescribed him, the Jacksons are gonna’ be startin’ somethin’.  Yeah, yeah.

I’ve read the Jacksons are chapped that it may take up to six weeks for the medical examiner’s findings as to the cause of death to be found, so to speak.  In other words, they’re rich and if the state can’t figure out what killed MJ expeditiously and for free, then they’re going to hire their own saw bones to do the figurin’ for them.  Thank God MJ’s former lawyer Johnny Cochran isn’t still able to be retained – unless you consider being in a casket as being “retained” – regarding this whole autopsy process.  If that was the case, having to wait for “results” would have turned into a bigger fiasco than it is already headed towards becoming.  Cochran probably would have played the rarely seen “White Supremacist Pathologist card.”  I can hear it now, “You know it wasn’t pills, that Aryan doctor is lyin’ through his gills.”

It’s sad that this has become, and is headed towards what it will be.  Sure, MJ probably went over the recommended dosage on a bunch of prescription meds to which he should have never had the pharmaceutical address.  There’s also clearly some type of cloud lingering around the children’s amusement park in his front yard, but all in all, Michael Jackson WILL BE remembered most for his music – because he was never convicted of a crime, and time causes most people to have a memory worse than mine.  Everyone is entitled to their own opinion about his significance to either music or the need for a sex offender registry, but that is your call.  It’s one that is easier to make and you don’t need to dial long distance if none of your children or family were involved in those allegations.  If they were, I’m quite sure you’ve got a different opinion of MJ, think “Beat It” was about something completely different altogether, and have a much more substantial bank account.

The guy never touched me, he was never convicted of anything, he paid his debt to the families involved for not being liable for anything, was a great performer and has been great for making people laugh for the last 40 years.  That being said, I still don’t know why his family needs the spiritual advice of religion’s equivalent to the World Wrestling Tag Team Champions.  None would be enough, one is too many, and two just makes things a whole lot louder and worse.

Aside: If you’re an impressionist and you die, do they check your wallet to make sure it is you before calling the family of the person you impersonated?  For instance, if Tina Fey got hit by a truck, do you think Sarah Palin’s family would be put on hold until they could get the driver’s license out of her tire-marked purse?

Keep thinking good thoughts, and eventually you’ll die happy.  It doesn’t insure painlessness, just obliviousness.

Keith Elam aka Guru: July 17, 1966-April 19, 2010

Mr. Smith will be along shortly with what is sure to be another memorable post, but I wanted to take a minute and pay homage to a rap legend who passed away yesterday.  I have said before that I was once a huge fan of rap, and the duo known as Gang Starr created songs that you won’t hear in the watered-down, bling and nonsense era that currently exists in the hip-hop industry.  Guru (which is an acronym for Gifted Unlimited Rhymes Universal) and D.J. Premiere formed the group back in 1987, and their unmistakable style was created by combining elements of swing jazz with hip-hop.  They released six albums from 1989 to 2003, their most popular being the 1998 release “Moment of Truth” – which peaked at #6 on the Billboard Top 200, and #1 in the category of R&B/hip-hop albums.  There had recently been talk of a comeback/reunion with possible tour dates in the future, but that ended yesterday when Guru died tragically at the age of 43.

According to the news, Guru was admitted to a New York hospital back in February after suffering a heart attack (update: this has not been confirmed), and slipped into a coma.  He was diagnosed with anoxia, a condition in which the body lacks a significant supply of oxygen, but had also secretly been battling cancer for over a year as well.  Guru’s business partner released a statement saying, “This is a matter that Guru wanted private until he could beat it, but tragically, this did not happen.  The cancer took him.  Now the world has lost a great man and a true genius.”  He also acknowledged the rapper penned a letter from his hospital bed, with the intention that they would be his final words:

“I, Guru, am writing this letter to my fans, friends and loved ones around the world. I have had a long battle with cancer and have succumbed to the disease. I have suffered with this illness for over a year. I have exhausted all medical options. I write this with tears in my eyes, not of sorrow but of joy for what a wonderful life I have enjoyed and how many great people I have had the pleasure of meeting.”

While I am usually not a fan of emotional tributes (See P. Diddy’s “I’ll Be Missing You”), this title track from their 1998 album both illustrates their style, and seems to fit the situation.

(Contains Language)

More classic tracks from Gang Starr on YouTube

I often give all the wretched reality shows a hard time on this blog, but Discovery Channel’s Deadliest Catch has been one of my favorite shows on TV since it started back in 2005.  It’s kind of hard to pinpoint the appeal of watching someone else do physically demanding manual labor, or to put its popularity into perspective.  I believe part of it is placing yourself in these crab fisherman’s galoshes, and wondering if you would have the moxy to put your life on the line each day for a substantial paycheck.  The widespread popularity is also due in large part to the show having the most entertaining sea captains this side of Springfield; but the crew lost one of their finest today when news broke that the Cornelia Marie’s captain, Phil Harris, passed away at the age of 53.  I remember Phil as a chain smoking, Red Bull-swilling mariner who ran a tight ship, however, he was also the epitome of someone who truly loves what they do.  You sometimes couldn’t tell this from the many arguments that took place between him and his crew (which included his sons, Josh and Jake), yet whenever he reflected on his many years working the brutal Bering Sea, Phil’s passion for fishing and his love of family was evident.  The Discovery Channel recently released a statement, and eloquently expressed the grief being felt by family and fans alike:

“Discovery mourns the loss of dear friend and colleague Captain Phil Harris.  He was more than someone on our television screen.  Phil was a devoted father and loyal friend to all who knew him.  We will miss his straightforward honesty, wicked sense of humor and enormous heart.  We share our tremendous sadness over this loss with the millions of viewers who followed Phil’s every move.” 

Phil and fellow captain Sig Hansen engage in a high seas prank war:

Lester “Les” Paul was the inventor of the solid-body electric guitar, which makes him one of the most innovative figures in rock n’ roll history.  This musical icon passed away today in White Plains, NY from complications he encountered while dealing with pneumonia, Paul was 94 years old.  In the 1930′s, Les Paul became bored with acoustic guitars and began experimenting with designs for an electric guitar.  By 1941 he had developed his first prototype, called ”The Log” - which was appropriate considering it was nothing more than a 4″x4″ piece of wood with a neck, bridge, and pickup attached.  Paul was still trying to perfect his electrical innovation in the early 50′s, and the Gibson Guitar Corporation helped his dream come true. 

After playing Gibson’s new “Les Paul”, he was impressed with the company’s design and signed a contract to become the primary spokesman for this model.  There was a small dispute in 1961 when Gibson changed the model without Les’s knowledge, as he was not a fan of the new design.  But the feud was eventually settled when Gibson removed Paul’s name from the guitar’s headstock, and called the new model a Gibson SG (solid guitar).  Although Paul is known mainly for his signature axe, he also came up with the idea of a multi-track recorder.  This machine allowed artists to record everything separately – vocals, guitar riffs, drum beats, etc – and then combine it into one cohesive track.  If you want to try and get a gauge on the massive influence Paul had across musical genres, all you have to do is look at some of the notable musicians who played “his” guitar throughout the years.  The list includes (but isn’t limited to) names like: Duane Allman, Chuck Berry, Buckethead, Eric Clapton, Bob Dylan, John Fogerty, Billy Gibbons, David Gilmour, Muddy Waters, Jimi Hendrix (though he was known for his Stratocaster), B.B. King, John Lennon, Bob Marley, Bill Monroe, Jimmy Page, Carlos Santana, & many others.  He will most definitely be missed…

An excerpt from the Les Paul documentary Chasing Sound!: