Here we split th' Foot into his two dualities, Good Bobby and Bad Bobby. Good Bobby is the whinger who writes about the beauty of failure and his battles with his own muse and his ego. And with pretty much anything else that exists in th' material world for that matter.
Bad Bobby is that other dude. Fucking Bad Bobby has had it. Had it with injustice and hip hop. Had it with bands and suits and the System and The Man. And fucking celebrities. Yeah, I know I'm supposed to hyperlink to my own fucking little excremescenses but I'm trying to fucking write here.
So, my dualities, who we shall henceforth address as GB and BB, have been at battle over th' Koufax thing and that. And whether to acknowledge it or speak to it. See, Good Bobby thinks it's great: he's voting for Ned Jingo for all th' shit. He's psyched like any normal person when his statcounter shows 50 links from th' Koufaxies. But he's a little chagrined by the excesses of BB and as we all know, that's what makes the blog into something. So, he sort of feels a little cheapened sometimes by all BB's catastrophizing, prevaricating and general foul temper. He feels like the appeal of the blog is much like that of the preverbial car crash.
Now BB on the other hand is not having it. First off, BB feels like they can all pretty much just smoke pole. BB is the guy who has spent his medium-lengthed life in an ascetic and single-minded pursuit of musical careerdom,watching morons surpass him at every turn. The sheer volume of injustice that BB has witnessed, coupled with a recent, midlife realization that he is infinitely less than nothing and will die in ignominy have worked his insides like a Batman villain on turpentine.
Anyway, enough of this. Let's listen in as GB and BB share a scrumptious repast of nicotine-flavored Top Ramen and Jim Beam, shall we?
GB: Dude, that would so rock if we got voted for a Koufax, man.
BB: Fuck that. The Koufax and all their ilk can light up at their leisure.
GB: Why all the time so negative? We're all ridin' this polesmokin' Spaceship Earth, Bra.
BB: Don't try to sound cool. You're like a NPR dad reading lines, fuckface.
GB: I'm just going to have to try and learn to ignore you. You?re like fucking saltpeter. Jesus Christ.
BB: Anyway, yeah, they can all light up, man. I read some of th' nominees and they were about as funny as a fart in a sheet factory, canus.
GB: A what? That's not funny.
BB: Exactly, dillhole.
GB: Oh.
BB: Yeah, that one entry about that crap and stuff, that was
hysterically unfunny. And the ones where they fucking change the lyrics to classic songs. Yeah. Last time I heard that I hacked a lung and the Universe came out. Fucking Christ.
GB: Hey, now. Those are all good people, man. Be fucking grateful that there are people putting finger to keyboard out there and saying something. Dude, it could be like back in California where everyone had a fucking intellect anyeurism somewhere back in '91. Why don't you not cut off your nose to spite your face for once, drug boy?
BB: See, what fucking difference does it make? You spent 20 years doing everything right, felcho. You made it on time, man. To Everything. You were always there with the fucking goods and your unique and charismatic personal flair, you know? And when the chips were down did that do you any good, fucko? Your enthusiasm? That helped? Fuck you. Good night fuckin' John Boy.
GB: Whatever, asshole. All I have to say is that when you gotta be at a gig for 10 hours every night, you gotta be there. And you can enjoy it or not. But you're still going to be there 10 hours, Jacob fuckin' Marley.
BB: What the fuck does this have to do with a gig? You
know I'm the man for any gig.
GB: I was using it metaphorically as a paradigm of life.
BB: 'Paradigm Of Life'. That's a great title for a cd.
GB: Yeah, it's not bad.
BB: If you're A COMPLETE FUCKING DORK.
GB: Fuck off. I'm using it. For my rock opera.
BB: What, you mean your next romantic gay musical excursion?
Anway, back to the awards. Look, I don't have to tell you of all people how tiresome this eighth-rate cult of personality popularity award shit is, right? You were there when all the horrible bands with more friends were getting all the gigs on Sunset, dicksqueak.
GB: I know, I know. But the thing is, it's not like Koufax is the Academy Awards or something, you know? It's just somebody smart at their computer. And people having fun and shit. It's what people do.
BB: Jesus, listen to you. You're like a Von Trapp Child. There's no such thing as Somebody Smart At Their Computer.
GB: Now that's just not true. This is where it's going, man. Like it or not. If you want to sit under a tree with a quill pen that?s your right, but you're still going to have to scan 'n' FTP the page or no one's going to ever read it.
BB: I don't give a fuck if anyone reads it or not. The Orchestra Of Sweet Regret was never meant to be anything but a place where you could put down the fucked up shit you write on cocktail napkins so you can tell the drummer before you forgot. That's ALL, man. And there's nothing fucking higher than that. That shit's transcendental, man.
GB: See, I think it's more than that.
BB: Don't be even more of a polesmoker, Sunshine. The mental crap is all they want, man. You're not up for some beautiful, eloquent post about alienation and cucumber sandwiches, Vincenzo. They want the spit-shootin' stuff. Just look what people put up from here for nomination.
GB: Hang on a sec- let me link to it.
BB: KNOCK THAT OFF, FAGGOT.
GB: Yeah, sorry.
BB: Dude, you're going to have to deal with the fact that Columbia didn't come to your showcase. You're going to have to deal with the fact that your airplay came from payola. You're going to have to deal with the fact that it's all about whether some fucking accountant has a good shit or not on some given day is what your life balances on. Your destiny hinges on someone else's bowels, man. And not even that anymore. You're going to have to put your nose down in the fucking dirt and smell your deep and abiding insignificance. And you know what, dude? You're not particularly loved.
I'm the one that people listen to.
I'm the one who leaves a mark. Come on. You never had a chance and you never will. And it doesn't matter what you do or how you approach it. Never do anything for any other reason than sex or money. And this award thing can smoke my pole. And if you don't like th' blog you can smoke my pole.
GB: All right, Mr. Elvis-Costello-On-Saturday-Night-Live.
BB: Fuckin' A. Except I would have played 'Too Drunk To Fuck'.
BG: I don't think that came out until '82.
BB: Fucking March 1981.
In God We Trust Inc.GB: I just don't see why you have to bite the hand that feeds you.
BB: Fuck the hand that feeds me. I'm the fucking hand that fucking feeds me. There's no one who gives me anything I need but myfuckingself. And I didn't write the fucking book so don't give me that '60's shit, Yooko. Next thing you'll be shivvin' at Altamont. You're like a busted rekkid.
GB: Yeah, but you need
people...
BB: Yeah, you need
people to remind you of the good points of Black Widow spiders.
GB: Ha ha. Ha ha ha.
BB: Ha ha.
BB: Here, have some more Jim Beam.
GB: I have to work tomorrow.
BB: Don't worry. We'll save some.
GB: Ha ha ha ha.
BB: Ha ha ha.
Is that I can be putzing around at the keyboard of an evening, get a wild hair and slap something like this down sans forethought, blown lyrics and all, and just toss it up on th' web. Th' Dickens you say.
