Tuesday, June 25, 2002


Hey folks - ever wonder what the awesome last White Stripes album would sound like with bass? Steve McDonald, bassist for the band Redd Kross (and who also played bass on the Tenacious D CD) has, with the band's permission, recorded bass over ever track on their latest album, and he's calling it Redd Blood Cells. He's only releasing each track for a very limited time (a week or so), so check it out quickly. (And if you don't know who Redd Kross are, you MUST check out their 1990 Third Eye album. A brilliant salute to fluffy 70's music - catchy hard pop at it's finest.) Also, anyone out there into blues must check out this band called the North Mississippi Allstars. Boys from the Hill Country - good stuff.

First TV role - YES!
I'm on my way to stardom
Wait - can't make rent - SHIT!

Friday, June 21, 2002

Being the major music fan that I am, I often find myself humming or thinking of songs from days gone by. So I’m quietly crooning to myself, and suddenly realize how inappropriate some of these songs really were. I was a big Kiss fan back in the day – they were my first big band - and so I found myself the other day singing “Christine Sixteen.” And then I realized - SIXTEEN! Yikes! I went into that Gene Simmons part in the middle – “I saw you coming out of school that day and I knew, I KNEW, I,…” was going to JAIL, is how THAT sentence should end. Gene, you were a full-fledged 1970’s rock star by the time you sang that. Did you really need to be picking up chicks in the schoolyard? Another time, I’m singing this song from HAIR (a big hit when I was 14, and a play I did in college) “Oh, once upon a looking for Donna time, there was a 16-year-old virgin. Oh, Donna, Oh, oh, Donna, oh…” Jesus! What the hell were those hippies doing? I think it’s illegal for me to even SING those songs!
Hey folks - I interviewed Ellen DeGeneres - talked about that nerve-wracking Emmy telecast, and some other cool stuff. Also - talking money, cocaine, and general excess with Super Freak Rick James - Enjoy.

Thursday, June 20, 2002

by Larry Getlen





What is it, honey?


Why do we have to watch this?


C’mon, sweetie. You know not every-
thing can be...


No! Where is she? Why isn’t she
on TV?!?!?



Has this happened to you? You’re
watching TV with your young
child, and the person on the
screen isn’t Britney Spears.
How can you prevent this from
happening? Now it’s easy with
the new Britney-izer.


The Britney-izer?


Yes, the Britney-izer turns all
your favorite television person-
alities into precocious pop icon
Britney Spears.


Wow! How does The Britney-izer


Let’s watch. The Britney-izer
detects all the non-Britney
characteristics of your favorite
television personalities – like,
for instance, longtime MTV news
announcer Kurt Loder.



The Britney-izer then corrects
these faults, placing the tele-
vision personality squarely
into the Britney-ized world
your child so rightly deserves.



Wow. Look at Kurt Loder!


He’s downright do-able!


Just like Britney!


That’s right. The Britney-izer
makes all your favorite TV
personalities just as ripe and
luscious as Britney Spears.
Like, for instance...








Go ahead, flick around. See for



Wow, the Britney-izer even gives
Lara Flynn Boyle a chest!


And just look at the funbags on
Willard Scott!


Now, everyone’s Britney! Yayyyyy!


That’s right, parents. With the
Britney-izer, your child never
has to go another minute without
the wonder of Britney right before
her very eyes.


And neither do I.



The Britney-izer. Why raise a
child – or a man in the midst of
a mid-life crisis - without it?


The Britney-izer. Now available
at your local out-of-business
K-Mart outlet.


Copyright © 2002 Larry Getlen

(Hey folks - quick note - the following parody was written in mid-2001. Some of the celebrities cited might be beyond their maximum freshness date. Also - if you don't know who Charles Bukowski is - check him out.)

Backstage at the 2001 MTV Video Music Awards by Charles Bukowski (as told to Larry Getlen)

I found myself standing next to some kid named Green. A gangly kid. Had a face like death took his skin, and forgot the skull. He kept trying to pick my nose while showing me pieces of his shredded ball that he kept in a mayonnaise jar along with a dump he took back in ‘99. Good kid, that Green. Too bad I had to cut him.

The girls here look like plastic dolls, the kind that fathers buy their daughters for Christmas before running to Vegas with the laundress they been banging. One girl named Britney is a favorite, the guys drooling over her like her cooz spins gold. Britney. She British? Doesn’t seem so. Reminds me of Bernice, this stripper I used to shoot crank with at a flop house down on Hollywood Blvd. Boy, she was something. Pretty girl when we met. Five years later they found her yelling at cars and running from the anti-christ on Wilshire, wearing a potato sack for a blouse and chewing on a dog-shit sandwich.

This Britney doll is hanging on a little boy named Justin. Justin. Sounds like one of those prep school, trust-fund kids we used to throw rocks at when they hit the city to buy porn and fake ID’s, or one of the trannies upstairs from me that kept me up all night with their blaring salsa music and amyl-nitrate shindigs. I asked Justin if he had a light for my cigar, and he looked at me like I shit in his roast beef and asked him for paper. What’s with the men in this place? Not one here looks like he could even take Bernice in a fight, let alone me. (Although to her credit, Bernice did take down three Marines trying to grab her tits once with a couple of sharp heels to the balls and a quick upshot to the nose. Didn’t know the old broad had it in her.)

There’s a feeling here I can’t shake, and it’s a bad one. I’ve seen people at their lowest, full of smack and crank and booze and shot up to hell and fucked out of life and just waiting for death to throw some color into their mud-hardened existence. These people look like those people after a bath. Sure, they’re clean and fresh, and their skin doesn’t have the pockmarks and there are enough short sleeves here to show that needles aren’t the meal of the day. But physically, these people are spent. Look at this blond girl over here, the one they call Christina. You don’t get that skinny without a few good three- or four-day meth jags. I’ve seen girls like her not eat solid food for weeks, just fixing and boozing, sucking dick for change and gulping pills like bon bons. It’s not pretty, and death is never far behind. I’d warn her, but the girl already has that glazed over, deluded look about life. There’s no saving her. She’s a goner.

How did these people get this way? They’re young, they should have their lives ahead of them. But their eyes are dead – black, useless pools of shit that had their sparkle surgically removed ages ago. Hookers and junkies and bright little boys who clearly spend their nights as some crooked sailor’s shore leave dream, all bright and shiny and stupid and willing to do their master’s bidding for a shot and a cot.

Even the ethnics had their souls ripped out. Look at that Freddie Prinze character. I knew his father. His father was a man – tough, proud, with all the swarthy pride and spunk that a Mexican, or Puerto Rican, or whatever he was, should have. His son is pale, wan, without any fire or passion or adventure. Could you see this kid trying to bang a good-time girl with a fifth of bourbon in him? Probably puke on her snatch and then fall in it. His father must be spinning in his grave, god rest his soul.

If any of these MTV people are worth talking about, it’s the few real women here, women who eat, fight, fuck, don’t apologize, don’t take shit, kick me in the balls if I’m out of line then kiss it and make it all better. When the boring sludge of a show was in its ninth hour, I snuck into the catering truck with a pair of firecrackers call themselves Lil’ Kim and J. Lo, real women, women with curves and fire and tongues, women who protrude where the others glide, women not afraid to stick their tits in your face and show you who’s boss. Those girls left me for dead and begged for more, and when I couldn’t deliver the goods they turned to each other. Those women will rule the world one day, killing us lousy, reeking men one healthy suck at a time and marking us for the vultures.

But the rest of these fuckers – if this is the future, I’d cash in my insurance today, if I had any. If my world is a pencil drawing with all kinds of shapes and shades, these people are the erasure.


Letter of Apology from a Man who Forgot his Wife’s Birthday

My dearest angel:

I know, I know...I did it again. What can I say? I am a drunken fool.

But you see, everything I do, my sweet, is for you. And that includes my excessive, sometimes, embarrassing, drinking.

Every since we married, you see, you’ve accused me of being too safe, too conventional, even – I believe you said after one particularly disappointing night of lovemaking – boring. Night after night, you’ve begged for adventure, romance, cunnilingus - traits and activities I am just not accustomed to delivering.

I am, as you knew when you met me, a conservative type, and bringing a woman flowers, or tying up a love and applying nipple clamps, just isn’t in my nature.

But you, my dear, delivered a clear message that you wanted more. When you told all my cousins at my grandmother’s 80th birthday party of my less than generous physical endowment; when you introduced me to your boss as “quick spurt;” when you applied for that spot on Blind Date; the message was clear. You needed more from me. But alas, it was more than I could give. The type of stamina and reckless abandon you demand from a lover is beyond my nature.

Or so I thought - until one of my co-workers set me straight. Out for after-work drinks, (I was sipping a ginger ale), I told Mike from distribution of my woes regarding your failure to return home the previous evening, and he outlined a plan of action I hadn’t considered – one that changed my life.

Mike slammed down a shot of a black, sludgy looking substance called “Jagermeister,” looked me square in the eye and said...

“Hey, girlieman – shoot this – this’ll give you a spine, you fuckin’ pussy.”

And with that, he practically shoved this viscous liquid down my throat, and all at once, every nerve ending in my body began to dance! It was as if every molecule in my skin and bones were welcoming the new year with champagne toasts and the dancing of the meringue! Next thing I knew, I was doing the chicken dance on the bar as laughing women shoved napkins into my belt.(At first I thought they were presenting me with their phone numbers - turned out to be disparaging comments about my weight – oh well, everyone handles their alcohol differently, I suppose).

But for me, it opened up a whole new world. From that day forth, I was a new man – adventurous, passionate, ready to experiment with any debauchery the world could handle.

Didn’t you notice the difference, my dear, that time I actually removed my shoes before we did the deed? My sexy, non-stop licking of your earlobes during coitus, leaving them glistening with desire and saliva? The erotic way I would wake you up in the middle of the night with a playful poke in the bum and a screeching “guess what I’ve got!” All of that, my dear, occurred thanks to my secret flirtation with the demon spirits.

But just as every ying has its yang, so too are the positive attributes of alcohol packaged with the devil’s seed. With lust comes forgetting, with inhibition comes occasionally poor judgment, with passion comes puke. And just as my new, freewheeling ways have awoken me to the fact that the entirety of a woman’s epidermis can serve as an erogenous zone if licked or caressed for enough hours and within the appropriate pressure, they have also carved a spigot in my brain, causing me to forgot the occasional important nugget of information, such as your mother’s dire peanut allergy (I’m so sorry about that – I thought the peanut sauce would be a nice surprise – thank god for respirators), your brother-in-law’s prior conviction (that pedophile joke got a big laugh at the office), and, of course, worst of all, your birthday.

I know you’re upset, my dear. In fact, your failure to return home has alerted me to just how grave an error I’ve committed. (Although your leaving a full week before your birthday does make me wonder – do you know me so well you anticipated my error? It’s a miracle of god how well lovers psychically intertwine.) So, my love, while the laws of physics prevent me from traveling back in time and reversing my most grave misstep, I can only throw myself upon your mercy and swear my eternal love and servitude, and say that if you will return to me, I will forever abandon the evil spirits. Yes, that means a return to the staid, complacent lover of yesteryear, but after all, that is the person you fell in love with in the first place, isn’t it?

With all my love and apology,


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