Sports, Politics, and Award Shows should have their own channels for viewers who like those sorts of things.
Bob’s Burgers, The Simpsons, and Family Guy , shows I actually enjoy, are all too often tied to a chair in Televisions’ basement with the promise of strippers and an open bar, so these intrusions can be put on display and the networks can charge more for their commercial time.
I’m pumped for Monday’s column on The 2019 Grammys. So pumped, that I thought I would post this excerpt from my column on the 2015 Dog and Pony Show just to prove I’m not a Johnny-Come-Lately Hater of stupid decisions and pairings that are far worse than Beluga Caviar and Root Beer or Lobster Tails and Gummy Bears.
On Monday, You will also see that (as much as I would have Loved to), I didn’t quite catch the Train of Forgiveness (sometimes known as the “Well, it was better than the last one so I enjoyed it” cult) and still have plenty of bones to pick. If you’re not familiar with my style of glib sarcasm and arrogant posing, this will set you straight. And this year we will be starting with the “Red Carpet” arrivals of dresses being worn by “Celebrities”, or “Celebrities” dates. Please join me (Why? …am I coming apart?)
The column the following excerpt is from, can be found in its entirety HERE.
As whatever we have melting together in our giant global melting pot, some of the culture clashes really don’t work, and others end up creating something greater than the sum, etc.
Last week we sent Ms. American Meatloaf on an immersion adventure to the Middle East. She came home looking sultry and sensual. You could hear the 3/3/2 rhythms of Arab khaligi beat.
Editor’s Note – This column, originally published in 2016, is a place keeper until I finish the 2019 Grammy piece I am working on. It will run on Monday after Chef Tom and Roxanne amuse and entertain you Saturday and Sunday. Having a too-rare get together with family today. See you Monday!
Hello, I’m Bob.
…and being Bob and of a certain age, I must be honest and let you know that because of the Winter wind and sac-freezing weather, I am unable to type very much due to a little known condition called “Scanlon’s Finger Frost”, brought on by the bones in my fingers becoming brittle and non-responsive due to a steady diet of popsicles, frozen margaritas, and an angry refrigerator door. The cold triggers it and I am unable to push down on the keys of my keyboard because my digits will shatter and I will no longer be able to pick my nose or wipe myself. This intro is being typed by my butler and lackey, Manuel Labourio, a gentleman who was won by my father in a poker game on Cinqo de Mayo. a Mexican celebration of the 5 uses of mayonnaise, on May 5th, 1951
Without further ado, Here’s E. Ray…and Senor Bob, either quit putting snakes in my sleeping bag, or I will inform the SPCA that the Rescue Dogs you adopt are fed to your cats who, in turn, are sold to Chinese restaurants at inflated prices.
Lindsey Buckingham got kicked out of Fleetwood Mac (again), The Monkees made their first-ever Christmas album (!), and I am still waiting for that big Turtles Battle of the Bands Commemorative Special Anniversary Collectors Edition. In the meantime though, I remained happily pigging along beneath headphones to (in strictly Alphabetical order)…
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Over the course of 5 decades of playing music and recording, looking back (sometimes over my shoulder) I can see that my mission statement remained fairly static. I wanted to write music I loved, hoped other people loved it too, and learned to play musical instruments just well enough to write those songs and, knowing my own limitations, wrote simple ditties I could sing without pulling a hamstring, running out of breath, or unable to hit the high notes without scaring the cats.
During that time (after being in a few bands as a hired hand; The Jades, The Ratz, and US), I put together my own projects seven times. They all had their magic and their moments, their ups and downs, and I cherish those times and love them all. …but one will always be the favoured child, the wildest ride, and the craziest drunken uncle ….
Bullseye Records of Canada
