Five Talkin’, Pt. 1

Here at The (g)Outlet for my third consecutive week in the driver’s seat (yeahhhahhh!)—Uncle Gary, whose brother is an actuary, has been toiling away at home supported by his annual head-scratcher of a reason (“I’m doing my taxes”) to, one assumes, convince his younger kin yet again that anyone can crunch numbers—it seemed wasteful to not compose a blog post while pumpin’ for the man. During Saturday’s infamous snowstorm named in Robert De Niro’s honor, which will be the first and last mention of it in this digital playscape, my buddy Rick shared his preparatory plan for the night’s annual Royal Rumble.

“Gonna be an off day for me probably. May be a drinking day. Vodka LaCroix mixer. I can sip vodka all day and usually not fade.”

“That’s what Hemingway said. Good day drinking Q: Name your top five books, TV shows, albums, & movies.”

“Hang on. I’m shoveling.” [His top picks were The War for Late Night, Parks & Recreation and 30 Rock, Born to Run and The Stranger, and The Shawshank Redemption followed by an in-depth defense of our mutually beloved Scary Movie 2.]

“Fine, since the people demand it, top five pornstars & top five restaurants are also allowed.”

Given that we’ve gone weeks without a list-centric blog post here on the site named for the book—note to future self: What do we, meaning me, do when there’s another book?—it seems prudent to indulge my question(s) to Rick, plus broadcast that I’m (hopefully) a man of good taste. As for the blog title hinting at forthcoming parts, the list topics in question here may be my old reliables as well as some of the more universally acceptable subjects for consideration, but there are other topics sure to be visited in future entries. “When he was an aspartame addict, what were AHF’s favorite kinds of diet soda?” you may be asking yourself (and indirectly asking me). And it’s fair to assume that someday you will find out. Until then, let’s get down to my business, my biznass.

[Note: Having just read John Green’s new-ish essay collection, The Anthropocene Reviewed, was a direct influence on publishing reviews about topics that’ve been running through my brain forever.]

Books
Wallace Stevens, Collected Poetry and Prose
Took a semester-long class studying this man’s work in spring 2004, a class that sparked my (a) love of poetry, (b) love of debating the imagination vs. reality, and (c) love of using language as an instrument. (I’ve yet to encounter many more enjoyable lines in the English language than “For all it takes it gives a humped return / Exchequering from piebald fiscs unkeyed.”) His writing “Of Mere Being” not long before his death melts my mind every time I read it. Inspired by Wall E. to try writing poetry, I realized that a minority of select mortals have ever been endowed with the tools necessary to make language sing songs in metered form. I’d share the AABB-er (shame on you for misreading it as ABBA) I wrote about Aaron Boone’s homerun to win the 2003 ALCS, but the Red Sox comeback win the ensuing year—followed by my roommate playing Paul Anka’s version of “New York, New York” from my laptop afterward—rendered my poetic peak pointless, pals. <— See! [One more collection I cherish is Sharon Olds’s The Dead and the Living; when I informed my Stevens professor how much I dug Ms. Olds, he looked visibly ill. Perfect occasion to pair them here.]

David Sedaris, Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim
While I’m a diehard fan of all this man’s output—The OB&C and I have seen him read seven times, saw him read another time with my mother along with a one-man performance (by a dead ringer) of the “Santaland Diaries” at a tiny Hartford theater in 2004, and have met him three times (own a signed copy of this book containing his doodle of a six-shooter and the inscription “Adam, Your story has touched my heart”)—The Barbie Book (see cover) is his most riotous yet touching exploration of the human condition. Having said more than enough about Sid Harris throughout the years, one thing bears repeating: No writer has ever made me laugh forty-nine percent as much as this guy. In his recent second diary collection, he divulges how a teenager requested he write “something shocking and offensive” in one of his books the teen was giving his mother as a gift. “Your son Jesse left teeth marks on my dick” was the inscription. How aspirational (the quote, not the biting, I mean, as if it needed clarification…right?).

Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried
A short story collection so sublime that it inspired me to write a letter to the editor—published in GQ in October 2005—after they included a list of the best war books but omitted this one. O’Brien’s blending of fiction and reality feels like it’s ripe for an adaptation whenever war movies regain popularity (the ‘80s and ‘90s may have exhausted the subject for a bit, but The Putin/Ukraine Colder War False Flag Kerfuffle [working title] could see that change soon enough). As tempting as it is to pick Hemingway’s In Our Time, my other favorite short story collection, TOB’s take on such a well-covered subject hits me like no other. Bonus: If you’ve finished this book, you’re allowed to tell one random veteran that you’ve “read some shiiiit, man.”

David Foster Wallace, Infinite Jest
The book I saved to read after the conclusion of writing my own, it’s one of the few I’ve ever immediately wanted to re-read. Kurt Vonnegut’s Breakfast of Champions, my other favorite novel, may be an easier eye exam, but the fact that DFW managed to pull this mindfuck off is remarkable, and too many unwise critics have scared away possible readers by invoking panic about the endless endnotes even though the entire act of reading this book is uniquely interactive labor (constantly flipping around like it’s a magazine). Inspired to read the rest of his stuff afterward, the bulk of which is phenomenal, I find it impossible not to choose this in part because of how much I’ve thought about it (and him) since. Bonus points: The OB&C read the section chronicling Ken Erdedy’s drug addiction ritual on a road trip, a rare time that fiction was vocalized during one of our Blebbzventures. That counts for something although I don’t know what that something is. Damn drugs.

Clifford Roberts, The Story of the Augusta National Golf Club
I may be an owner of many books but I’m not necessarily a book collector. I don’t search for rare first editions or signed copies or etc. However, I do collect books about The Masters, my favorite sporting event—Masters Sunday is a high holy day on my couch—and this one by the original chairman of The National rates highest (apologies extended to the omission of In Full Bloom, the most expensive book I’ve ever purchased, a collection of pristine photographs that lovingly detail the course). Mr. Roberts was a complicated man who hated children to such a contemptuous degree that he refused to invite a looming member if said man had excess offspring. A begrudging respect for Roberts blowing his head off by Ike’s Pond—named for Roberts’s best friend, General Eisenhower (how he was referred to in Augusta even while he was president)—and donating most of his life savings to Planned Parenthood enhances his unlikely legend. Oh yeah: This book furnishes innumerable fascinating Masters bits and pieces; don’t let it stop you from reading thirty others like me because golf scribes have consistently unveiled lofty prose befitting such an aesthetic (as much as athletic) obsession.

Imperative honorable mentions: film criticism books, two of which rank among my best high school friends (Jonathan Rosenbaum’s Essential Cinema, Pauline Kael’s 5001 Nights at the Movies, John Simon’s Something to Declare, and Dave Kehr’s When Movies Mattered), and Buster Olney’s The Last Night of the Yankees Dynasty, the authoritative modern take on the team that has helped define my life.

As an avid essay reader, I’m additionally compelled to nominate John Hodgman’s Vacationland as a recent contender too. Upon finding out I arose early on a paid “floating holiday” (MLK Day 2018), I angrily visited Barnes & Noble to make my shitty day off count, bought this book based on the dust jacket, and finished it before bed. I cannot recall the last book, not even novella, I read in a single day before or since. (Like most people, I don't read novellas.)

Finally, the best book to gift any deranged person in your life: Sean Tejaratchi’s LiarTown, an opus too monumentally fucked up to describe, but one I’ve perused so much that pages keep falling out.

Television
Mr. Show with Bob and David
My friend Connor once told me, “You are Mr. Show, Adam!” and it remains one of the kindest compliments I’ve ever received. A massive influence on my belief that comedy is our supreme be(th)ing, there is no show I’ve watched more (SportsCenter and Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives excepted), an indicator of how much replay value this sarcastic and absurd sketch collection contains. The season three episode “Oh, You Men” is the half hour I show anybody unfamiliar with its singular genius because it contains one of the finest callbacks I know. Naomi Odenkirk’s book about the show’s history, featuring an episode-by-episode analysis with commentary from cast members, proved invaluable when I first became immersed in this sketch comedy bible. Now would be the time most true heads would selfishly insert an out-of-context quote that ultimately offers nothing to an outsider about this show’s worth, but every Kiefer Sutherland fan already knows that twenty-four is the highest number.

Jeopardy!
Please get rid of Mayim Bialik and make Jen Kennings (his transgender moniker) the new host already. There is no better time to watch television than while you’re eating dinner, and there is no better show to watch while eating dinner than Jeopardy! Getting smart while stuffing your face with shit you know is terrible for your health may produce bonus existential answers in the form of a question: “What is killing yourself to live?” (Potential Category: Black Sabbath) [2/6/22 Addendum: When discussing these lists with The OB&C yesterday, she was surprised by this show’s inclusion, a bizarre reveal since we’ve watched it together for fifteen years. “Tell me another show you’ll never say no to watching, finish each episode feeling smarter, and directly engage with so passionately,” I said. “When you put it like that….” she replied.]

Breaking Bad / Better Call Saul
Pick your pace: Lightning or Molasses. Lost aside, my week-to-week dedication to exhaustively theorizing about these shows is unmatched by any other drama(s). My mother recently watched BB for the first time, leading to several excitable chats about its darkest scenes even if the moment I think about most is Jesse Pinkman’s giddy junkyard reaction: “YEAH, BITCH! MAGNETS!” I prefer Saul more—the glacial pacing, Vince Gilligan’s pinnacle female character (Kim played by Rhea Seehorn in a performance of a distinctly high level), seeing the BB origin story, that it’s even more of an ensemble showcase (conjecture!), and it contains the oldest cast currently on the tube—but the New Mexican landscape of these two shows combined sustains me. Lone complaint: How did they not secure the rights to use Neil Young’s “Albuquerque” at any point during the run?! Can’t deny that if Bob Odenkirk ever ceases acting on television, I may get rid of my box.

Real Sports with Bryant Gumbel
My prescription eyeglasses were acquired after seeing Gumbel sporting a pair of flashy Eyebobs frames in one episode six years ago (great host, greater endorsement). As much as I’ve soured on sports debates about farm animals (talk to me when Tom Brady eats a goat), this show’s deep digging on lesser-known competitors, events, and the darker side of athletic big business never fails at generating intrigue. BG’s gaggle of esteemed correspondents—Frank Deford (R.I.P.), Mary Carillo (pure class), Andrea Kremer (if you're calling a woman a firecracker should you instead say she's a Catherine wheel?), Soledad O’Brien (odds-on pick for next host), and Bernard Goldberg (departed after two decades due to his blunt conservatism) being the ones I hold dearest—ask the right questions and are unafraid of where they may lead. My only worry is what happens when Gumbel, now seventy-three, steps away. Let’s hope the hour sticks around unlike The McLaughlin Grouppost-John.

That may be five shows, but since this is my list, two are from the same televisual universe, and I’ll lose my dedicated streak of nonexistent dreams (“Ohhh…sleep,” the peanut [g]aller[g]y chorus harmonizes) for excluding a sitcom, I can’t resist adding Party Down. I caught the series for the first time last year aka recency bias is real; however, Ken Marino’s turn as Ronald Wayne Donald makes for the most schadenfreudey comic character there is. Cry-laughing during all twenty self-contained episodes is a feat I’ve never achieved with any other series, plus there’s a devastating level of pathos not frequently intertwined with gutbustery. Good luck resisting a troupe so superb that when Jane Lynch exited, it became impossible to deny that Megan Mulally’s stand-in was the pinnacle of replacement casting. It’s the most obvious closing sentence, but I hoot (with a dollop of holler) every time I envision Adam Scott uttering the medium's most acidic catchphrase: ARE WE HAVING FUN YET?

Dramatic runners-up deserving a mention: Six Feet Under, Burn Notice, Friday Night Lights, Homicide: Life on the Street, Mad Men, tweeners Pushing Daisies and Freaks and Geeks, and pseudo-doc Unsolved Mysteries. Comedy: Nathan for You, Curb Your Enthusiasm and Extras (a perfect pairing), Joel McHale’s run on The Soup, Conan & Andy’s highs in the ‘90s, Colbert on The Report, Rick & Morty for animated show (if the ending’s off, I’ll vouch for Home Movies instead), and Wonder Showzen. A final nod to CBS Sunday Morning, my primary infotainment/news source, or as American Treasure Jane Pawwley says, “Sunday mawwning.”

Albums
The Rolling Stones, Exile on Main St.
Nothing new for me to say here: this album covers every single genre—deep southern funk excepted—that existed in the Rock & Roll Songbook circa 5/12/72. (I memorized a close friend’s wedding anniversary because it’s on Exile’s birthday.) One regular Outlet customer told me that he plays it weekly and will be buried with his original vinyl copy. No work of art will ever mean more to me, which isn’t to say that works of comparable magnitude won’t touch me prior to shuffling off this toilet earth, but reflecting on the day it opened like a stamen from my ears on roughly my twentieth attempt to peek behind the curtain, the Virgin remaster spinning inside the Discman wedged in my pocket as I took inventory on a shiny Sunday morning at Blockbuster, is the pinnacle of inexplicable personal art nostalgia. The. Best.

Steve Reich, Music for 18 Musicians (1978 ECM recording)
I would like to be buried with an ensemble playing this piece. As in, the ensemble’s inside the coffin too. Time to start saving.

Steely Dan, Gaucho
Seven short stories set to immaculately anchored music; this exemplifies my brain being wooed by expensively glossy production values. Additional evidence: “The kid will live and learn / As he watches his bridges burn / From the point of no return” may be on the mountaintop of lyrical genius. Songs about shooting heroin, ménage-a-trois, wars in distant countries, international drug deals amidst Szechuan dumpling consumption, and the elusive custerdome shouldn’t sound this beautiful. Donald Fagen and Walter Becker did a plethora of cocaine during the recording of this album; their fastidiousness led to playing back one track so many times that they ruined the acetate, a sure sign that they missed their alternate timeline calling as the world’s most scrupulous copy editors. Should be regarded, with Aja and The Nightfly at the ready for backups, as the go-to speaker testing album. [2/3/22 Addendum: A man named Blake ordered a copy on CD today with an endorsement I’ll be stealing henceforth: “They keep us aware of the possibility of perfection.”]

Beastie Boys, Paul’s Boutique
Having initially written them off as frat boy idiots, it was my rediscovery of hip-hip circa 2000 that allowed for fresh assessments of rap classics. Despite taking another decade or so prior to clicking, this densely layered collection blossomed much like a rap Remain in Light (that jacket’s four distorted/masked faces peering in from not far outside this top five), revealing one of the control room’s most sonically satisfying works. The (brief) song “A Year and a Day” has a beat good enough to soundtrack a Billboard #1, yet it’s used in a medley celebrating b-boys (quite the macroaggression, huh girls?), a medley that will be hip-hop’s peak use of the form in perpetuity. Ad-Rock and Mike D’s regrets about some of the lyrics in “What Comes Around” are offset by one of the funniest name drops in history: Doris the Finkasaurus. Please refrain from discussing her clitoris. When I worked remotely and made trips to the Tickle Dumpster office on 32nd and Madison, I cued this up on my iPod every time before exiting the train at Grand Central. Nothing like a late morning stroll through NYC while fighting the urge to shake one’s rump.  

The Velvet Underground, s/t (Val Valentin mix)
The ultimate indie rock album is best enjoyed while drinking PBR/smoking THC, playing Scrabble, and listening to “The Murder Mystery” thrice (once the traditional way and then one time solely through the left speaker, one time solely through the right). “Pale Blue Eyes” should be a standard; I’d love to hear a variety of contemporary singers give it a go (here’s lookin’ atchoo Hayley Williams). When listening to this album, it’s always best to keep jelly nearby—not for that, ya debauchee—in case your company’s wearing a cold shoulder top. But seriously, as plain ole collections of simple yet sophisticated songs go, it’s the blueprint. Note: The Valentin mix has both the definitive “What Goes On” and vastly superior “Some Kinda Love” take. Bonus: There are few guitar solos in this world better than Sterling Morrison’s on “What Goes On.”

Kills me to exclude Sade’s Love Deluxe, Stevie Wonder’s Songs in the Key of Life (seeing him perform this LP in full in 2014 was as celebratory as concert-going gets), Neil Young & Crazy Horse’s Ragged Glory, Brian Eno’s Taking Tiger Mountain (By Strategy), Miles Davis’s Agharta, GZA’s Liquid Swords, Tool’s Ænima, and the aforementioned Talking Heads album, which contains the first song I’ll do at karaoke should I ever opt to do karaoke/“This is not my beautiful voice.”

Cinema
I’m sure you remember my post from a year ago. You don't? Solace taken in knowing Pepperidge Farm remembers. Top Five: Rio Bravo, Playtime, Goodfellas, The Shining, and Vivre sa vie. Three of them do not have a happy ending, but as they often say, that’s the way the mop flops.

Sidebar
Along with reading, watching TV/movies/(select sports), and listening to music, I asked Rick about two other topics he was too vodkabliterated to acknowledge. I skipped a few things we all must regularly indulge—top five ways to fall asleep (holding a stuffed animal while listening to stand-up comedy in the buff/et), top five ways to clean yourself (apricot facial scrub and Irish Spring body wash with a loofah/shampoo isn’t part of my repertoire so fifth pled in that category), and top five articles of clothing (bathrobe and slippers for the Win…nebago)—it’s essential to cover fornication and food, but not ways to drink coffee (I like it like I like my women: contained, dehydrating, and refillable) nor taking a dump (Indian style aka criss-cross applesauce aka Native American applesauce/not a code name for Dakota Pipeline product).

Porn“stars”
I am a man and I use the Internet. Also: it’s long been tempting to write a few humorous parody porn capsules. I will skip lengthy descriptions, but a couple (barely embellished) sentences about each of these lovely broads, whose tells I recognize more skillfully than a seasoned card sharp, are in order. (I’m confused too.) 

Tory Lane
This gal made headlines five years ago for fighting staff and passengers on an airplane…with her nipple rings. Her Charlie Chaplin tramp stamp is widely known as “the wittiest target in The Industry.” She routinely performs under her anagrams, Nat LeRoy and Lyn O’tear, but never her “secret” Craigslist cross-dresser handle @MerleGaggered.

Nikki Benz
Born in the Ukraine and raised in Canada, this usually blonde whose ta-dahs have (sadly/yeah, I’m serious) continued to grow throughout the years—fertilizer is a helluvan addiction—was once filmed in a maple leaf-decorated bikini while being sodomized on a golf course. Greenskeepers reportedly were heard saying that they hoped “all that missing sand didn’t end up in Ms. Benz’s bunker.” When you learn the bitter details she and Sarah Palin lookalike Lisa Ann aired during a nasty Twitter feud, you’ll have a dickens of a time working through the retroactive emotional wreckage while watching them tag team a police officer’s baton in Quentin Derriereantino’s Reservoir Sluts.

Shyla Stylez
Things cooled between us when I found out she died a year to the day after our forty-fifth president was elected, proof that Michael Flynn misheard his orders to murder Stormy Daniels. Counter point: Is there a more loving tribute to a fallen canuck than continuing to delight in her rarely neglected abooty? If you’ve long been ashamed to admit that you admire Shyla’s performance in Coming Home (who’s responsible for the oversight of failing to stylize it Cumming Home?!) more than Jane Fonda’s in a same-named late ‘70s piece of Vietnam awards master bait, now’s the time to give three thumbs up.  

Rachel Roxxx / Rachel Starr
Not to diminish their individual contributions to the art form, but these Rachels are both dark-haired, thirty-eight, and originate from Texas. Is the porn industry blatantly rubbing our faces in the notion that multiplicity is real? Show me Andie Macdowell on the opposite end of a double-sided selfie stick with one half of Starrroxxx and I’ll be Michael Keatongueing the screen.

Jenna Jameson
I've read her autobiography, own her bobblehead, and the single “adult film” in my home stars this carnal champ (she’s like the Thriller of porn). Whenever Double J's on the screen it's prudent to hide the cats. “Uh, because things're about to get frisky?” No, but bless your heart, child. 

Next Time on “Five Talkin’” aka We’re Running Long (Giggity)!
Foods and/or restaurants (likely both), spices in the lazy Susan (the inclusion and defense of dehydrated water may shock you!), types of candy (I’ll solve if Ikes are objectively better than Mikes), types of pie (avoided 3.14 dirty jokes in this parenthetical), drugs to take to enhance flavors (Wellbutrin mixed with angeldust is full of surprises), and bowling alleys where you should order the foie gras with haricots verts and pommes frites.

Bonsoir!