I was late for the Prom, and it was cold on Baffin Bay. Probably about twenty-five below zero, but the wind kicked it up a notch. She said she was going to pick me up in the Land Rover, but she was late, as usual. I didn’t want to go to this thing...I sat at the table, watching the light snow drift into shapeless bundles, and decided it was probably time to lumber into my bedroom and, in perfect adolescent hangdog manner, dress into the old tuxedo that Dad had loaned me.
Although the pants, shirt, and vest fit snugly, I was missing something. A cummerbund. I remember this irked me so viciously I began pacing, worrying that if I was actually going to attend this event, I at least wanted to be in the proper outfit. Dad was on tour with the band again and couldn’t be reached. I peeked out the window. No sign of headlights.
The phone rang. It was her – she was on her way and would be there in five minutes. I said okay – and looked around the house for anything that would act as a cummerbund double. And then it hit me. I grabbed a machete and a thick log from the workroom, threw on a coat and raced outside into the snow. At the edge of the bay was a walrus, curled next to a rock. I hammered its head as hard as I could over and over again, until I was sure it was at least unconscious. It let out a snotty moan, then I proceeded to hack off its rear third. Once I had removed the flesh chunk, I sliced it horizontally, revealing its lower digestive tract. As carefully as I could in the wind, I carved out the walrus’ rectum.
The animal hadn’t eaten recently so the rectum wasn’t too messy as I washed it in the workroom sink. There was a beep outside, and I knew that this situation, and perhaps most hardships I'd be confronted with in life would work out just fine. Beautifully, in fact. I stretched the clean walrus rectum around my waist, and was so confident I didn’t even bother to look in the mirror before I went back outside in the snow.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Friday, October 07, 2005
Dawn Breaks
Dennis looked around the kitchen aimlessly – an unnerving quiet had settled into the morning.
“I don’t think we should see each other anymore,” said Marie.
“Why?”
“Because!”
“Because why?”
“Why “because”?”
“Because!”
“Because why?”
“Because it’s over.”
“Why?”
“Because!”
“Because why?”
“People are starting to talk, that’s why.”
“What people?”
Marie looked around the kitchen aimlessly – the psychedelics had started to kick in.
“Yolanda, Phyllis, Bitsy, Myrtle, Gladys, Hope, Yvette—“
“Okay! Fine, I get it.”
“Bess, Lucille, Taylor, Midge, Hope, Mildred, Eunice, A…..a………”
Marie stared off. The corners of the room suddenly had acquired what seemed like a radical change in depth.
“I don’t think we should see each other anymore,” said Marie.
“Why?”
“Because!”
“Because why?”
“Why “because”?”
“Because!”
“Because why?”
“Because it’s over.”
“Why?”
“Because!”
“Because why?”
“People are starting to talk, that’s why.”
“What people?”
Marie looked around the kitchen aimlessly – the psychedelics had started to kick in.
“Yolanda, Phyllis, Bitsy, Myrtle, Gladys, Hope, Yvette—“
“Okay! Fine, I get it.”
“Bess, Lucille, Taylor, Midge, Hope, Mildred, Eunice, A…..a………”
Marie stared off. The corners of the room suddenly had acquired what seemed like a radical change in depth.
Please.
Hello. My name is Kevin. Me llamo Kevin. I would like to star in your musical. I would like to be given the lead role in your musical production. Many years ago I was struck by a UPS truck and spent months in a sanitarium on the outskirts of Alberta. After the accident I found I had gained a newfound ability to sing gaily in front of New York’s elite. Doctors couldn’t explain it. I began a tour across the country, which drew sell-out crowds. Offers poured in. I found myself with untold riches at my disposal. Corporations, eager to have me as their spokesperson, paid for my homes and automobiles. Then, suddenly, just as I was peaking, I was struck by a DHL van outside of Athens. And just as this ability to sing so beautifully had appeared in such a freak manner, it instantly disappeared in precisely the same way. Which brings me to Guatemala and your little theatre. You see, I am desperate for work. I would like to star in your musical. I am extremely talented. My name is Kevin.
RSVP Soon!
National Slap-A-Stand-Up-Comedian Day is sponsored by KB Toys and Zildjian, makers of the finest cymbals. Tickets for this weekend’s event are nonrefundable. This year’s inaugural speaker: Carl Yastrzemski.
Dare Not Speak His Name
Jeff is angry. When Jeff angry, he do bad things to bad men. He staple tibia to lunchpail. He eviscerate gopher in front of gopher family. He demolish untold amount of Toyota Selica. He beat person with own leg, then vomit in thermos, then dip leg in thermos, then make person eat leg. He replace bone marrow with toothpaste. He grill intestine of storeowner. He make damaging mockumentary on shady arms deal. He thrust one pound of brine shrimp into rectum of enemy. He shellac his porch with blood of city councilmen. He keelhaul sailboat full of Montessori school children. He emblazon van with airbrushed tableau of Jeff eating hide of neighbor family. He smack old lady with shotput. He shave with cheese grater. He coerce you into paying to have Jeff remove ones lungs from chest cavity. He play aimlessly on balalaika until it drive you mad, I tell you, mad!
A New Manner of Speaking
I’m developing an effective new manner of speaking whereupon I only respond to other humans if they engage me in a manner that admits my obvious, yet vast, personal talent. There’s no time for other follies. Some call it passive-aggression, although that sounds negative. It’s self-preservation. Partners have called it “moodiness”, but they’ve just been couching its true meaning.
For instance, over the past few months a number of family members, co-workers and friends have, almost inexplicably, approached me casually and said “Hi”. But that shit is painfully dated. My mind is reeling with pertinent and timely ideas that must remain unencumbered by unannounced friendliness. No longer will I suffer through how’s-it-goings and how-was-your-weekends – from now on, I will greet these harmless niceties with a vacant stare. However, if such dialogue includes a reference to my daring, unconventional interests and projects – then, and only then, will I potentially utter a dismissive sentence.
For instance, over the past few months a number of family members, co-workers and friends have, almost inexplicably, approached me casually and said “Hi”. But that shit is painfully dated. My mind is reeling with pertinent and timely ideas that must remain unencumbered by unannounced friendliness. No longer will I suffer through how’s-it-goings and how-was-your-weekends – from now on, I will greet these harmless niceties with a vacant stare. However, if such dialogue includes a reference to my daring, unconventional interests and projects – then, and only then, will I potentially utter a dismissive sentence.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Night Fever
Sigh. Another dream about Phylicia Rashad. Why does she haunt me? This is beyond my control.
I was walking south on Figueroa, when she approached me dressed as a bagel. I dodged her at first, but she whipped out a scythe, and stabbed me in the back with the sharp end. As it usually occurs in my dreams, I see an overhead shot of my body on the sidewalk, traffic whirring past in faded streaks, with the scythe sticking upright out of my back, no doubt deeply embedded in a kidney. Phylicia dances around me, gyrating and thrusting her body in my direction. The bagel costume melts to reveal that her naked body is shaped exactly like a bagel, and horribly distorted.
Within minutes, the streets appear as if they hadn’t been used in years; all car and pedestrian traffic vanishes. I stand up, and the scythe falls out of my back, landing on the asphalt with a deep clang. Across the street is an abandoned nightclub with a sign reading “REECE & FACE COMEDY”. I open the door slowly, the wind picking up down Figueroa making it leaden.
It’s pitch black inside, although in the distance I can hear what sounds suspiciously like the soundtrack to a cabaret scene from a movie – perhaps Gilda. I push aside what feels like a velvet curtain, and a voice says “Welcome back, Sonny. Your guests are waiting.” Dimmer lights turn on to reveal a massive nighttime flea market in a stadium, the seats filled to capacity. Sellers hawk vintage gear in endless rows. I’m led to a smiling salesman with crates and crates of records in mint condition.
“Buck a piece, friend. Have at ‘em!”
With each record I pull from the stack and add to my pile, the seller smiles, and the crowd roars on cue. Firemen spray them violently with foam, as if they were rioters. The seller evacuates his bowels in front of me, in a trance. That’s all I can remember.
I was walking south on Figueroa, when she approached me dressed as a bagel. I dodged her at first, but she whipped out a scythe, and stabbed me in the back with the sharp end. As it usually occurs in my dreams, I see an overhead shot of my body on the sidewalk, traffic whirring past in faded streaks, with the scythe sticking upright out of my back, no doubt deeply embedded in a kidney. Phylicia dances around me, gyrating and thrusting her body in my direction. The bagel costume melts to reveal that her naked body is shaped exactly like a bagel, and horribly distorted.
Within minutes, the streets appear as if they hadn’t been used in years; all car and pedestrian traffic vanishes. I stand up, and the scythe falls out of my back, landing on the asphalt with a deep clang. Across the street is an abandoned nightclub with a sign reading “REECE & FACE COMEDY”. I open the door slowly, the wind picking up down Figueroa making it leaden.
It’s pitch black inside, although in the distance I can hear what sounds suspiciously like the soundtrack to a cabaret scene from a movie – perhaps Gilda. I push aside what feels like a velvet curtain, and a voice says “Welcome back, Sonny. Your guests are waiting.” Dimmer lights turn on to reveal a massive nighttime flea market in a stadium, the seats filled to capacity. Sellers hawk vintage gear in endless rows. I’m led to a smiling salesman with crates and crates of records in mint condition.
“Buck a piece, friend. Have at ‘em!”
With each record I pull from the stack and add to my pile, the seller smiles, and the crowd roars on cue. Firemen spray them violently with foam, as if they were rioters. The seller evacuates his bowels in front of me, in a trance. That’s all I can remember.
Monday, August 15, 2005
Deluxe Edition In Stores Now!
Turner is proud to re-present Lou Grant, Too - a very special second chance to see this critically acclaimed, made-for-TV remake of a television spinoff series sequel. Now, available for a limited time, Lou Grant, Too - the DVD, 2 has been re-packaged to include never-before-seen outtakes from the original sequel which have been dramatically reenacted. Ed Asner narrates as John Travolta plays Lou, as originally played by Peter Coyote in the first sequel. Buy it again on DVD today!
Saturday, July 16, 2005
The Lazy Days of Deep Summer
A crowd had gathered.
Henry Winkler and Penny Marshall were beating each other senseless over the second half of a bologna sandwich. Winkler’s face was scratched considerably, and Marshall’s clothing was torn in at least three places. Both had bloodshot eyes, and a bloodstain was beginning to spread inside Winkler’s left pant leg. The sandwich lay in the dirt; dust from the canyon winds now swirling around it, coating it with fine, brown silt.
“It’s mine!”
“Fuck you!”
This went on for days. Nearby roads were paved, elections came and went, a mini-mall had been erected. Local authorities had expected the two to simmer down on their own, shake hands, and walk away from it all like the old friends they were. Sheriff Clemson, desperate to placate the townsfolk, consulted the authorities and once an agreement had been made, dumped both Winkler and Marshall into the shark tank at Sea World, during feeding time. The Sheriff looked skyward and mopped his tense, wet brow.
Henry Winkler and Penny Marshall were beating each other senseless over the second half of a bologna sandwich. Winkler’s face was scratched considerably, and Marshall’s clothing was torn in at least three places. Both had bloodshot eyes, and a bloodstain was beginning to spread inside Winkler’s left pant leg. The sandwich lay in the dirt; dust from the canyon winds now swirling around it, coating it with fine, brown silt.
“It’s mine!”
“Fuck you!”
This went on for days. Nearby roads were paved, elections came and went, a mini-mall had been erected. Local authorities had expected the two to simmer down on their own, shake hands, and walk away from it all like the old friends they were. Sheriff Clemson, desperate to placate the townsfolk, consulted the authorities and once an agreement had been made, dumped both Winkler and Marshall into the shark tank at Sea World, during feeding time. The Sheriff looked skyward and mopped his tense, wet brow.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
About the Author
Born and raised in Ware, Massachusetts, Harris Tanner has quietly become one of the most revered crime novelists of the 21st century. His first novel, A Wince Before Bedtime, was an electrifying international bestseller, introducing the world to Runce Pepsi, Tanner’s hero detective. Tanner’s success was firmly cemented with his following effort, Trash Mouth, and the now classic Pissterine, which won the Booker Prize of 2002. Never one to let up, Tanner has written more than twelve riveting Runce Pepsi novels since, including Mop-Up, I'll Give You a Concussion, Sump Hole, and Shit For Brains. In 2003, he was awarded the prestigious National Book Award for his powerful memoir of childhood, Up Yours. He divides his time between Paris and New York.
Hear what the critics are saying about Harris Tanner:
“...a sea of floating garbage...idiotic...” – New York Times
“Tanner successfully pukes into the face of American letters.” – Publisher’s Weekly
“Runce Pepsi is a miserable, stupid son-of-a-bitch.” – Kirkus Review
Monday, July 04, 2005
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Yes, let's!
A well-dressed man given to excessive preening – let’s call him Wexley – lumbered across the avenue to meet his leggy, halter-top-wearing girlfriend – let’s call her Schuyler – for brunch, at a café – let’s call it Stoned Sundays.
A speeding, slate grey convertible – let’s call it a Lexus Sport Coupe – driven by a tan, middle-aged, entertainment lawyer – let’s call him Palmer – careened around a corner at precisely the same moment – let’s call it synchronous.
The noise – let’s call it a crunch – of Wexley’s spinal column being snapped – let’s call it splintered – cascaded through the morning air like a church bell. A smattering – let’s call it a shower – of ground intestines drenched the median, creating a shimmering – let’s call it a twinkling – viscous chunk pond.
The rising murmur from the crowd at Stoned Sundays gradually turned into excitable noise – let’s call it riotous laughter.
A speeding, slate grey convertible – let’s call it a Lexus Sport Coupe – driven by a tan, middle-aged, entertainment lawyer – let’s call him Palmer – careened around a corner at precisely the same moment – let’s call it synchronous.
The noise – let’s call it a crunch – of Wexley’s spinal column being snapped – let’s call it splintered – cascaded through the morning air like a church bell. A smattering – let’s call it a shower – of ground intestines drenched the median, creating a shimmering – let’s call it a twinkling – viscous chunk pond.
The rising murmur from the crowd at Stoned Sundays gradually turned into excitable noise – let’s call it riotous laughter.
Previous Responsibilities
I’m a product manager for a securities firm.
I’m an executive assistant in the Patterns and Practices Group at a software company.
I’m a mid-level assistant office manager at a global marketing firm.
I’m the first assistant corporate counsel for a major biotech corporation.
I’m a middle manager at a large international manufacturing company.
I’m a second assistant at an intermediate technology development group.
I’m the secretary to the project manager in the Design Group of an outsource development firm.
I’m the assistant to the assistant superintendent of curriculum and instruction at a mid-western vocational institution.
I’m the Trustbase Transaction Supervisor of the Group Credit Risk Analytics Team.
I’m the senior custody account manager in an international trade risk team at a global financial institution.
I’m the information manager for a series of product managers at a chain of major mid-level development teams in a legion of international development and marketing groups.
I’m a torrent of international groups.
I’m a succession of management teams.
I’m a volume of development assistants.
I’m developing, managing, assisting, constantly, always, forever.
I’m an executive assistant in the Patterns and Practices Group at a software company.
I’m a mid-level assistant office manager at a global marketing firm.
I’m the first assistant corporate counsel for a major biotech corporation.
I’m a middle manager at a large international manufacturing company.
I’m a second assistant at an intermediate technology development group.
I’m the secretary to the project manager in the Design Group of an outsource development firm.
I’m the assistant to the assistant superintendent of curriculum and instruction at a mid-western vocational institution.
I’m the Trustbase Transaction Supervisor of the Group Credit Risk Analytics Team.
I’m the senior custody account manager in an international trade risk team at a global financial institution.
I’m the information manager for a series of product managers at a chain of major mid-level development teams in a legion of international development and marketing groups.
I’m a torrent of international groups.
I’m a succession of management teams.
I’m a volume of development assistants.
I’m developing, managing, assisting, constantly, always, forever.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Timeless Recollections of the Golden Era
Girl working at perfume stand in mall:
“God, you are SO tan! I’m so jealous! My God, I can’t believe how good you look. Oh GOD! Oh SHEORRRLGHHGH! JEESSSSUUUS! HELLLLLLPPPP!”
Possessed, she masturbates furiously on top of the glass counter, sending intermittent firehose jets of ejaculate spraying in plumed arcs across the aisle into Menswear. Within seconds, the store is a flood zone. From an angle near the cargo pants, you could make out a rainbow. Families and couples scatter, knocking over metal racks of colorful rayon, sounding alarms. Some kid slips in an ankle-deep puddle and starts whimpering. A suburban dad, confused, runs straight through a plate-glass window.
“God, you are SO tan! I’m so jealous! My God, I can’t believe how good you look. Oh GOD! Oh SHEORRRLGHHGH! JEESSSSUUUS! HELLLLLLPPPP!”
Possessed, she masturbates furiously on top of the glass counter, sending intermittent firehose jets of ejaculate spraying in plumed arcs across the aisle into Menswear. Within seconds, the store is a flood zone. From an angle near the cargo pants, you could make out a rainbow. Families and couples scatter, knocking over metal racks of colorful rayon, sounding alarms. Some kid slips in an ankle-deep puddle and starts whimpering. A suburban dad, confused, runs straight through a plate-glass window.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Doctor's Orders
“Hello Mr. Ward, I’m Jeff Gheurylla, the doctor on duty.”
“Gorilla?”
“Yeah, G-H-E-U-R-Y-L-L-A. Gheurylla.”
“Good Christ,” I said, and then paused. “That’s ridiculous!”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. What’s the problem?”
“Well-”
“Sharp pains in the keester?”
“Huh?”
“There are three steps to fixing this problem. First, a rectal exam, immediately followed by another rectal exam. And lastly, a colonoscopy.”
“What?”
“Buck up, chum! Seriously. Nurse!”
“Hold it, hold it, Gheurylla. This has gone far enough! I’ve had it with your GODDAMN orders. This place – this wretched hellhole with the peeling Dutch Boy yellow – it makes a sensitive patient like myself blanch, buckle over and fall onto the linoleum...if the linoleum weren't covered with six inches of reeking chum. I’ve had it! The cheap waiting room magazines, the undergarments, the sickly visage of Joan Armatrading...stand up and fight, punk! Make me regret every waking minute, why don’t ya! I collapse daily! I collapse daily into a giant mound of tube socks and sob until my tear ducts inflame to the size of limes. Try me, you phony!”
“Gorilla?”
“Yeah, G-H-E-U-R-Y-L-L-A. Gheurylla.”
“Good Christ,” I said, and then paused. “That’s ridiculous!”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. What’s the problem?”
“Well-”
“Sharp pains in the keester?”
“Huh?”
“There are three steps to fixing this problem. First, a rectal exam, immediately followed by another rectal exam. And lastly, a colonoscopy.”
“What?”
“Buck up, chum! Seriously. Nurse!”
“Hold it, hold it, Gheurylla. This has gone far enough! I’ve had it with your GODDAMN orders. This place – this wretched hellhole with the peeling Dutch Boy yellow – it makes a sensitive patient like myself blanch, buckle over and fall onto the linoleum...if the linoleum weren't covered with six inches of reeking chum. I’ve had it! The cheap waiting room magazines, the undergarments, the sickly visage of Joan Armatrading...stand up and fight, punk! Make me regret every waking minute, why don’t ya! I collapse daily! I collapse daily into a giant mound of tube socks and sob until my tear ducts inflame to the size of limes. Try me, you phony!”
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Towards a New Form of Encapsulated Album Review
The Eagles: Their Complete Works
The Eagles (self-titled, 1972) This reminds us of plaintive, medium-length drives through canyon country around sunset with a mild alcohol buzz perhaps. Maybe a drifter is picked up hitchhiking, and he rolls one for the road. Or maybe a waitress serves us an extra cup of coffee because she can see the lines on our faces; she can smell the miles ahead. An armadillo hides under his shell as another eighteen-wheeler passes, stirring dust devils. Neil Young glides up in an El Camino hawking stolen goods – we refuse, as the evening hue is distracting, fractured rays pirouetting about the thicket.
Desperado (1973) Soothing and yet, relentless. After being trapped and subsequently scalped by vicious elephant poachers then left bleeding under a rubber tree, we can find solace in this quintet’s soft, fireside harmony. Grammys are doled out like they’re hot potatoes. The lead singer is sick tonight; the lead singer refuses to sign the Asylum Records contract waiver. We watch, silently, admitting nothing as serum is injected, provoking an obviously forced response that will eventually be used against him in a court of law. When appeals are made, new evidence is discovered which prompts a mistrial. Several lawyers are laid off. The trial starts again, somewhere around track eight, titled “Outlaw Man”. Jurors complain that their employers do not pay compensation beyond Side One.
On the Border (1974) Is a pragmatist preferable over a risk-taker when it comes to choosing a mate? Or is it an immeasurable combination of the two? A variety of hot, in-shape singles were questioned on this matter and the answer was irrefutable: there will be a period of intense distress, followed by a respite that will calm even the most degenerate. A musty odor will embrace the landscape, and cultures that have heretofore been at odds will join hands in a stirring tribute to Bob Geldof. This too, will pass, and once again the question will be presented to all and sundry: whom – and this means you – whom would you choose?
One of These Nights (1975) Dear Laura, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I cannot fathom how you’d be willing to let Jeremy, a man you freely admit you barely know, stay at the house “until he gets it back together again.” You know how much I need privacy – I mean, you know how much I love the Night. You know how much I love to Get Down in the nighttime. You know it. That’s the way. Oh yeah, that’s the way I prefer it. Let me put it to you like this: when I’m unable to get the privacy I need to Get Down, within hours my nervous system evolves into a full six-megawatt generator. My interior is crushed into a fine gravy, or glue. The fillings in my teeth crumble and with each grotesque exhalation, my mouth blares the shrieking yowls of a thousand dead radio stations. Cable cars derail and mania grips the country. Only those currently at sea will be safe. My dialogue will be the broken logic of the cheapest vaudeville comedians. I will plunge my face into boiling garlic butter again, and again, and again. I beg of you to reconsider this horrible error in judgment.
Hotel California (1976) Announcer: With Joe Walsh now in the band, the Eagles’ fifth album “Hotel California” has streaked to the top of the charts for the 15th week in a row! Let’s hear that title track again. Let’s hear it again and again. Let’s press hard to make each note of the guitar solo emblazon the crannies of the brains of each and every one of you out there, so that it will trigger a sense-memorial response so violent that it will hypnotize you to purchase the album between one and three thousand times between the first listen and death. Eagles producer Bill Szymczyk, also one of the country’s most renowned neuroscientists, developed the mind-control technique in conjunction with financial backing from an anonymous donor.
The Long Run (1979)
“Who was that who called?”
“I don’t know. They hung up.”
“Could you hear anyone on the other end of the line? I mean, maybe it was a telemarketer.”
“I couldn’t tell.”
“We’ve been getting a lot of those lately.”
“Yeah.”
Eagles Live (1980) Members of the family began popping by when they found out I had contracted the rash, although you could tell they were keeping their distance in person, whether subconsciously or not. It’s not contagious though. Like blood poisoning, the rash starts around an open wound, then moves toward the heart. But unlike any other rash, it affects the vessels that carry blood, so the outside tissues of the arteries become covered with acne. It’s an “indoors rash,” the doctors call it. Itching becomes intolerable within a week or so. Doctors open the skin in various spots, insert a pair of tweezers and pop the most offending of the zits. My doctor insists that this is treatable, and that the others that have contracted this rash have gone on to lead normal lives. In the meantime I greet the family, who jitter and make nervous conversation while they wait for me to tell them that it’s okay for them to go home.
Hell Freezes Over (1994) “A triumphant return”; “fourteen years in the making”; “stunning guitars”; “like they’ve never left the stage”; “brilliant”; “showmen”, “four exclusive new songs”, “in rare form”, “long-awaited”, “much-anticipated”, “legendary "sound”; “bonafide classic”; “fifteen tracks”; “freeway intersection”; “potable water”; “ergonomics”; “steak”; “the”.
The Eagles (self-titled, 1972) This reminds us of plaintive, medium-length drives through canyon country around sunset with a mild alcohol buzz perhaps. Maybe a drifter is picked up hitchhiking, and he rolls one for the road. Or maybe a waitress serves us an extra cup of coffee because she can see the lines on our faces; she can smell the miles ahead. An armadillo hides under his shell as another eighteen-wheeler passes, stirring dust devils. Neil Young glides up in an El Camino hawking stolen goods – we refuse, as the evening hue is distracting, fractured rays pirouetting about the thicket.
Desperado (1973) Soothing and yet, relentless. After being trapped and subsequently scalped by vicious elephant poachers then left bleeding under a rubber tree, we can find solace in this quintet’s soft, fireside harmony. Grammys are doled out like they’re hot potatoes. The lead singer is sick tonight; the lead singer refuses to sign the Asylum Records contract waiver. We watch, silently, admitting nothing as serum is injected, provoking an obviously forced response that will eventually be used against him in a court of law. When appeals are made, new evidence is discovered which prompts a mistrial. Several lawyers are laid off. The trial starts again, somewhere around track eight, titled “Outlaw Man”. Jurors complain that their employers do not pay compensation beyond Side One.
On the Border (1974) Is a pragmatist preferable over a risk-taker when it comes to choosing a mate? Or is it an immeasurable combination of the two? A variety of hot, in-shape singles were questioned on this matter and the answer was irrefutable: there will be a period of intense distress, followed by a respite that will calm even the most degenerate. A musty odor will embrace the landscape, and cultures that have heretofore been at odds will join hands in a stirring tribute to Bob Geldof. This too, will pass, and once again the question will be presented to all and sundry: whom – and this means you – whom would you choose?
One of These Nights (1975) Dear Laura, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I cannot fathom how you’d be willing to let Jeremy, a man you freely admit you barely know, stay at the house “until he gets it back together again.” You know how much I need privacy – I mean, you know how much I love the Night. You know how much I love to Get Down in the nighttime. You know it. That’s the way. Oh yeah, that’s the way I prefer it. Let me put it to you like this: when I’m unable to get the privacy I need to Get Down, within hours my nervous system evolves into a full six-megawatt generator. My interior is crushed into a fine gravy, or glue. The fillings in my teeth crumble and with each grotesque exhalation, my mouth blares the shrieking yowls of a thousand dead radio stations. Cable cars derail and mania grips the country. Only those currently at sea will be safe. My dialogue will be the broken logic of the cheapest vaudeville comedians. I will plunge my face into boiling garlic butter again, and again, and again. I beg of you to reconsider this horrible error in judgment.
Hotel California (1976) Announcer: With Joe Walsh now in the band, the Eagles’ fifth album “Hotel California” has streaked to the top of the charts for the 15th week in a row! Let’s hear that title track again. Let’s hear it again and again. Let’s press hard to make each note of the guitar solo emblazon the crannies of the brains of each and every one of you out there, so that it will trigger a sense-memorial response so violent that it will hypnotize you to purchase the album between one and three thousand times between the first listen and death. Eagles producer Bill Szymczyk, also one of the country’s most renowned neuroscientists, developed the mind-control technique in conjunction with financial backing from an anonymous donor.
The Long Run (1979)
“Who was that who called?”
“I don’t know. They hung up.”
“Could you hear anyone on the other end of the line? I mean, maybe it was a telemarketer.”
“I couldn’t tell.”
“We’ve been getting a lot of those lately.”
“Yeah.”
Eagles Live (1980) Members of the family began popping by when they found out I had contracted the rash, although you could tell they were keeping their distance in person, whether subconsciously or not. It’s not contagious though. Like blood poisoning, the rash starts around an open wound, then moves toward the heart. But unlike any other rash, it affects the vessels that carry blood, so the outside tissues of the arteries become covered with acne. It’s an “indoors rash,” the doctors call it. Itching becomes intolerable within a week or so. Doctors open the skin in various spots, insert a pair of tweezers and pop the most offending of the zits. My doctor insists that this is treatable, and that the others that have contracted this rash have gone on to lead normal lives. In the meantime I greet the family, who jitter and make nervous conversation while they wait for me to tell them that it’s okay for them to go home.
Hell Freezes Over (1994) “A triumphant return”; “fourteen years in the making”; “stunning guitars”; “like they’ve never left the stage”; “brilliant”; “showmen”, “four exclusive new songs”, “in rare form”, “long-awaited”, “much-anticipated”, “legendary "sound”; “bonafide classic”; “fifteen tracks”; “freeway intersection”; “potable water”; “ergonomics”; “steak”; “the”.
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