Tag Archives: Jack White

Dear Stephen Colbert (an homage and a plea):

9 Dec

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Dear Stephen Colbert or shall I call you “Dreamcrusher™?”

The Boy started watching your show about three years ago and since then he has spent every waking moment wishing away years of his life so that the day when he was old enough to attend a live taping of your show would arrive and he would not only score tickets and play his guitar for you, he would also meet Jack White and ultimately become legend among the 13-17 year-old crowd in Upstate, NY.  (Well, maybe not every waking moment.  There were those times where he went to school, played outside, slept, did chores, breathed oxygen, slept, did homework, ate food, slept and wrote songs.  And slept.)

Impossible?  Not for this kid who once overcame having no Monterey Jack cheese in the house by crafting his own grilled cheese using nothing but domestic Brie, pear slices and day old baguette.  The Boy is a warrior.

Now you may ask “what kind of parent encourages a kid to dream so big?” and to you I reply: “a really lazy and/or disengaged one.”  And in a follow-up question to you, Mr. Colbert: “what kind of grown man wears a white daredevil suit, for any reason, ever?”  (Answer: “Stephen Colbert.  Hell, I would too if it meant taking over for Letterman.  Well played, sir.”)

Nation, (note: if there were a “camera two” of writing, here’s where I would turn and face it.  Sadly, all literature has to offer is the paragraph).

Nation, I’ve watched Mr. Colbert during some sweet, sweet eras of comedy when the jokes practically wrote themselves.  Shooting ducks in barrel, if you will.  Or, if you’re Dick Cheney, shooting anyone, anyone at all, in the face.  I also hung in there during some lean moments like when Mr. Colbert kept musician Michael Stipe on a shelf on the set of The Colbert Report.  I’m sure that Mr. Stipe was thankful for that shelf as rents in Manhattan are out of control and R.E.M. record sales aren’t what they used to be.  For what shelf space costs today you used to be able to get an entire bookcase worth.  I’m not saying that Stephen Colbert is without heart.  He’s just without a big heart.

And so I ask you and your heart, Stephen Colbert, to help make one of The Boy’s dreams come true. (All his other dreams involve Sofia Vergara and a diving board.)

Invite The Boy to appear on your new show.  He will play his guitar and tell jaunty tales of eleventh grade life (and also discuss how Elvis Costello often seems to sing in iambic pentameter so if you wish to invite Mr. Costello to appear at the same time, that’s fine).  He will help himself to all the swag and citrus fruit in the green room and make googly eyes at any female with a pulse.

Mr. Colbert, I’ve paid my dues.  I sat on my behind and watched your show for years.  I’m an American, damn it.  Sitting on our behinds and watching TV is one of the things we do best.  (See also “face-shooting,” and “cage-fighting.”)

You owe me.

You owe The Boy.  (Note: if I could raise one eyebrow, I would do that here.)

Don’t make me get out of my chair, Mr. Colbert.  (Because I won’t.)

But you can at least give The Boy some room on your couch.  (Assuming that your new show will even have a couch.  If it’s just people sitting around on shelves, talking, you may want to invite John Mellencamp as he’s small and somewhat dusty too.)

Imagine how a Colbert Bump could alter the destiny of a teenage boy and then do it anyway.  (He has so little to lose.  I’m his mom, I can say that.)

Mr. Colbert, won’t you help a boy, like The Boy?  Or even the actual Boy?

Do it.  Do it now while you are still popular.

#BumpTheBoy

or via email at: BumpTheBoy@gmail.com

(PS: if you need writers for you new show, try emailing BumpTheBoysMom@gmail.com.  Sounds weird but we all thought a spin-off from The Daily Show wouldn’t make it either.)

Best Wishes~

 

This is my letter to the world

28 Jan

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Here it is almost February and I still haven’t written the letters that needed to go out in 2013.  And it’s not that the letters are unimportant, it’s that the intended recipients are famous, really famous.  Like more famous than “I-have-a-column-in-a-free-monthly-newspaper-now” famous. (Click here for link- page 5).

Am I intimidated?  No.  Scared?  Hardly.  I’m most concerned that given my newfound fame (click here for link- page 5), I may run into some of the recipients at an award dinner and they might want to discuss the letters when really, the letters are merely constructive criticism.  (Because I know how well I handle unsolicited criticism- I’m still mad at Spouse from Christmas 2008 when he “just asked” if I knew that raw cookie dough contains the same amount of calories as cooked.)

So who gets a letter and why?

To Stephen Colbert: nation, unable to purge images of Mr. Colbert in a jumpsuit from my mind, I am concerned that his only form of exercise is running from the main desk to the interview table.  (Also, he is the bravest man on television because he will, literally, put anything into his mouth.  As an individual who abhors prop comedy (and ventriloquism) I deem Stephen Colbert the exception and, as such, deserving of my first letter of the new year.)

Alec Baldwin: you are Spouse’s celebrity man crush.  And not just because your newest wife is a yoga instructor but, c’mon, a yoga instructor?  When you go and marry someone like that you give guys like Spouse hope.  Then I have to go and do something wonderful like microwave a food or clean a thing just to bring him back to reality.  From Glengarry to 30 Rock to SNL, Spouse thinks you possess understated wit and a well-honed sense of timing.  I, however, have my doubts.  I once saw you on The Barefoot Contessa and felt that you were the person I would least like to sit with at an outdoor charity function.  Because outdoor charity functions are boring and so were you.  When one thinks of Alec Baldwin, one thinks of “The Bloviator” and his very sloppy divorce from Kim Basinger and I think I like that guy better.

To Kim Basinger: you messed up.  How can anyone who buys a town on a whim (Braselton, GA circa 1989) expect to keep a man responsible for delivering lines like: “it’s easy to get down in the dumps when you can’t take one” happy?  (Wow, maybe Mr. Baldwin is my celebrity man crush too.)

David Sedaris: why am I not you?  Your work was translated into Estonian for crying out loud.  Estonian.  Until recently, I thought that Estonia was in Queens.  Life is unfair.  And if you were to read any of the previous letters I’ve sent, you’d know that.

Jack White: you make the best noise on the planet.  And that’s coming from mother of The Boy.  Noisy Boy.  (Also, exceptional work on the National Anthem with Stephen Colbert.  He owes you.)

Drew Carey: if you don’t like your job, quit.  It’s what I’ve always done.  (But please continue to have your pets spayed or neutered.)

To Neil Young, Tom Waits and Van Morrison: for continuing to make music that is always interesting, sometimes weird.  And kudos to one of you for helping to fight big oil.

To Keith Richards goes a lifetime achievement award for achieving the achievement of still living at this time.

Dave Barry: for consistently writing funny material.  (Except for Lunatics co-written with Alan Zweibel.  That one just screams contractual obligation.)

Alex Trebek: you are the most socially awkward person on television.  You reprimand contestants for not knowing minutia that you read off the teleprompter, your impressions are dreadful and no one cares that your french pronunciation is précis.

The College of Saint Rose: there’s a typo on the home page of your MFA in Creative Writing page.

John Fogerty: for being the face (and voice) of vocal polyps for the last five decades.

To websites that make us scroll down to click on our home state: do you know that it takes several spins of the mouse just to get to the “N’s?”  And then there are 3 “New” states before you get to New York.  Why can’t you just let us type it?  (Unless, of course, you are The College of Saint Rose.)

Finally, to Emily Dickinson: a 19th century American poet.  For continuing to perpetuate the myth that English degrees are worthless by studying hard and writing boatloads of work but neither getting a job nor moving out of her parent’s house.

You make me look awesome.

Why The Los Angeles Dodgers Must Lose

16 Oct

blog image j geils band

They took the Dodgers out of Brooklyn.

Then they took Don Mattingly.  (Doesn’t his last name sound like a delightful adverb?  “He loved her mattingly.”  Of course he did.  He’d be a fool not to.  Who is he?)

They then put Mr. Mattingly outside amid palm trees, where all sports are meant to be played, tanned him up and made him look good.  (Side note: I have seen Don Mattingly in person and that tan helps.  August 1997: Spouse, Boy and I all attended Don Mattingly Day at Yankee Stadium.  I know it was 1997 because The Boy was in utero and has had a fear of heights ever since- we didn’t exactly spring for the baseline seats.)

Also, a person can’t get to Dodger Stadium unless they need to get to the LA Costco.  Then it’s nothing but clover leafs and traffic jams until those inexpensive paper goods are a vague memory and you’re left feeling dehydrated and sore and you didn’t even do anything.  (Side side note: I once left the east coast and headed west returning later intending to save enough money to fix my car, buy a pair of Doc Martens and move to Albuquerque.  (This was well before “Breaking Bad” so not only to I get style points for the footwear, I also get premonition hipster points on the nod to Albuquerque.)  Before I could get out-of-town, love happened and here I am with Spouse, Boy, NY and all the black clothing a person could ever want in sizes ranging from “happy/thin/in love” to “winter/carbs/pale.”)  As for mass transit, Los Angeles has a system second only to Paris, London, Japan, China, India, Mexico, Chicago, Boston, DC, The Netherlands, Germany, Italy, Chile and walking in a group.

Celebrities go to LA Dodger games.  Yes, celebrities go to NY Yankee games too but they don’t wear khakis with pastel sweaters knotted around their shoulders (I mean you Dustin Hoffman, Monday, October 14).  New Yorkers wear coats and hats and mittens sometimes; and they’re cold and (often) wet and tired of spending $10 for crappy beer but at least they’re there to root and fight and WIN!  (Mostly fight!  Especially in the seats I can afford.)  New Yorkers do not attend playoff games to be entertained or distracted from the so-so reviews of their directorial debut (again, Mr. Hoffman and “Quartet“).

Finally, if Los Angeles wins, St. Louis loses.  And that would leave Missouri with only the St. Louis Rams (who last won an NFL championship in 1999) and the St. Louis Blues which is a hockey team so no one cares.

Can’t we just let St. Louis win the NLCS until the Phillies return next year?  (Additional back story: the author was born in Pennsylvania.)

Oh, the Cards can’t win The Series.  Detroit must win the championship.  The city needs our help.  Imagine waking up each day knowing that the last wonderful thing to come out of Michigan, besides Eminem (scheduled to appear on SNL on November 2), and Jack White (frequent Colbert Report guest) was The J.  Geils “Live Full House” album and I’m pretty sure that I’m the only person who bought it.  I feel you Detroit.

Won’t you help a city like Detroit and root for the Tigers?  With your help we can bring back this city where the trees are the right height.

I did my part when I bought the J.  Geils, again, on CD.

What can I say?  “First I Look at the Purse” (Robert Rogers/Smokey Robinson) is a classic.

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