Reclusive Rocker Nirvana

After I got my TV writing break with VH1 Classic on America’s Hard 100, I gave my producer boss who hired me a Bruce Springsteen mix to express my appreciation. Then I say, “This doesn’t mean I have a crush on you boss.”

I think too highly of my former TV producer boss to make him a volume 2 mix since Bruce Springsteen decided to nod in submissive agreement with the most overrated, divisive, shit bag president of all time, during an interview with CBS to promote their new book together, Experimenting With Biological Warfare, after Obama Be Good branded the E-Street band’s primarily white fans as easily triggered Michael Richards racists who launch into N bomb dropping tirades at the local pub off Broadway, Screaming Nazi’s Are Us, after a couple of Jack and Coke’s with no Clarence Clemons clones in sight. As if another operatic, soul tingly sax solo by the late great Clarence Clemons of the E Street Band on Jungleland would easily trigger an Irish MTA subway token operator in the eighties after a couple of Black and Tan’s in his system after the eighties jukebox replays, Westside Story meets The Outsiders in Washington Heights on Jungleland after blowing 200 bones to hear the song performed live prior at MSG. MTA subway token operator says, “You know bro, I don’t normally, use the n word, unless it’s a term of affection, because I grew up around more black guys in Bed-Stuy than Seal. But that n word can blow the bug out of Spike Lee’s ass.”

But seriously, what are these other confessional, racist bomb acapella asides being dropped by Bruce’s closeted racist fan base during E-Street show’s past?

Dock Worker says to his girl on his way back home from an E-Street Band show at the Stone Pony in Ashbury Park, “Saints of Newark my ass, The E-Street Band, can blow that soul glow sound out of their jungle fever loving assholes. I could’ve been the Grand Dragon, but instead I’m a faggot, closeted racist and that’s all I’ll ever be.”

Sanitation Worker back on the truck again says, “Affirmative Action gave me you Leroy. What did you think of the E Street Band show at the Garden last night? Leroy says, “I felt whiter than white man’s disease Lorenzo, if you really need to know.”

Aspiring American Short Story scribe janitor mutters to himself, “Charles Bukowski didn’t think Bob Dylan was anything to write home about either.”

Short Order Cook just out of Rikers for drug possession of cocaine at a Dead show in Nassau Coliseum in the eighties says, “I thought coke would make Bruce Springsteen sound less generic white boy music, it didn’t.”

Plumber under the sink at work again says, “That Clarence Clemons can play a Nickle back defense if Leonard Marshall on the Giants ever goes down.”

Welder burns his hand on the job the following morning after a Bruce show and says, “Fuck you Clarence. I was born with 0.0 talent. I was born to do jack shit but get fired on the job again.”

Mechanic get’s oil in his eye under the hood of a Pink Cadillac and bemoans, “Clarence Clemmons is pounding away champagne and crab legs after shows yet this little greasy monkey can’t even change a spark plug right. You can’t get out of New Jersey without a creative spark like Clarence either Bruce. I’m stuck in the Swamp Thing state permanently and it’s not because of tax breaks on my organic farm growing pesticide free Jersey tomatoes for Grandma’s Sunday sauce. But you’re not guilty of cultural appropriation, you Obama Be Good siding mook.”

I recall Bruce Springsteen addressing the E-Street Band after someone was caught violating their no drug policy by stating, “All of you are replaceable. The Big Man would take a bit to replace. Michael Clarke Duncan is a little bit green and not method enough to go that extra mile the way Denzel did in Mo Better Blues.”

Also, the E Street Band boasts the most Jewish sounding drummer of all time, Max Weinberg, who looks like he’d be playing the Bar Mitzvah circuit if Bruce didn’t shimmer up and exploit Bob Dylan’s working man’s blues, country rock pop motif with a one man horn section in the form of Clarence Clemons for all it was worth. So how racist could Bruce’s alleged screaming Nazi fans be if they could stomach Bruce who looked liked like a plague carrying, scuzzier version of Neil Diamond, otherwise known as the Jewish Elvis, on the Born to Run Album tour, combined with the larger than life big man blowing him off the stage with one soul man and a half sax bellow blast after another in addition to the four eyed, all together, ultra studious Jewy teen drummer Max Weinberg in his leftover Bar Mitzvah suit pounding away on the drums at the Stone Pony in Ashbury Park back to earn some extra sheckles to afford a Sandy Kofax rookie card, because his weekly allowance wasn’t cutting it. Did Tony the Plumber and his buddy wait till the Stone Pony was practically empty, and do one last bump of shitty coke that tastes like AJAX, only hearing last call from the bathroom stall to get more stone cold sober for the ride home only to be unmasked as Axl’s Rose’s alter ego on GNR Lies in the making? Tony the Plumber blurts, “Police and N Bombs get out of my way.” Plumber bud says, “Get out of whose way? We got 2 lines left bro. I’m here to do some coke Tony, not blow my last minutes of freedom before I drive home to my fat slob wife, not to hear you rehearse your lines for dumb mook number 3 in Raging Bull.”

Bruce Springsteen fans are racists, yeah, the elitist ones on Broadway, who don’t think Kyrie Irving is smart enough to make his own his health care decisions. Don’t get it twisted Obama Be Good, we all know you’ve done less for black empowerment than school boards trying to cock block the creation of more Charter Schools, which make those blame game hack, lazy brain teachers less inspired role models than Courtney Love failing to teach her 9 -year- old to read, while belting out lyrics, “I shat my bed on more heroin and I’ll die in it. Because I’m not clear headed enough yet to practice forging Kurt Cobain’s handwriting on his subsequent suicide note after he decides to dump my junkie ass for good.” Hey, don’t kill the innocuous messenger insurrectionist. And you thought Alanis Morissette was a longwinded jaded little bitch. Look at it this way, if Kurt Cobain killed himself at the height of his popularity, after coming out as a professed proud Dad, who discussed quitting the music biz to focus on his painting, his guitar and playing dad like a bleached out junky version of William Burroughs into his old age. Then, Woody Allen still stands a shot at winning Father of the Year while shooting the shit with Oprah about his new book on hands off parenting, Crimes and Misdemeanors, The Early Years.

I also thought Kurt Cobain detested cliched rock stereotypes. And what’s more stereotypical rock god behavior than self-imposed, fatal ruin, from drugs or a shot gun marriage to Courtney Love? Kurt Cobain actually predicted that an outsider, not controlled by outside moneyed interests like Trump could become President one day. Google it, if they haven’t scrubbed that quote yet, which wouldn’t be Pearl Jam sell out shocking, by endorsing Mr. Groper on the campaign tour just as Kurt had labeled Eddie Vedder ions ago. Because if Google doesn’t manipulate search results, then why is it harder to find positive mentions of alternative treatments for COVID such as hydroxychloroquine than it is to find a film blogger on Rotten Tomatoes who called the Irishman, “underrated”?

What would Kurt Cobain have to say about the Foo Fighters playing the 1st concert post pandemic at the world’s most woke arena at Madison Square Garden, with a proof of vax to get into the door? Anyone who attended that show is on the side of generic gunky goo, throughout their everlong, edgeless lives. Reclusive Rocker, shreds again, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

The Neverending Prick

“Does cocaine make you a manipulative prick or were you one to begin with, without any added stimulative effort”, asks Co-Op Board Member Number One with stone cold detachment, a 50 something well dressed CFO who never met a Brooks Brothers striped shirt he didn’t like. The Manipulative Prick wiggles in his wobbly wicker chair and swallows a big gulp of saliva to extract some last second drips from the blast of cocaine he did moments prior, in his Tudor style apartment within the river town of Dobbs Ferry, NY, about 30 minutes north of his old school buying spot in Washington Heights from Julio Silverbade, the 3rd, before his co-op eviction trial began.

The Manipulative Prick otherwise known as Sir Snort A Lot, loved doing cocaine, mainly on the weekends though, when he wasn’t working. So what harm was there in that, besides his addiction to speed spilling into other spheres of his life such as rapidly fading domestic bliss, after getting married to a nurse who was growing tired fast of his liar, liar, nose on fire routine to. Last month, when the newlyweds received their 1st of many more noise complaints to come, the manipulative prick, a 40-year-old phone sales rep Verizon says, “Relax babe, our neighbor, the retired accountant, complains about our alarm clock being too aggressively loud for his taste. But he’s just lonely and miserable since his wife died and is redirecting his rage at the world at me, because his life sucks compared to mine, that’s all. Wife Kate, a 35-year-old, one time divorced pretty yet worn-down looking ER nurse says with weary disgust, “You’re a 40-year-old cokehead who sells smartphones for a living, which sell themselves. Plus, he has one full set of a hair more than you do. So, what is he so jealous about exactly, your tar stains on your 2 front teeth? Is he jealous about how your best friends are druggy, alcoholic degenerates like yourself who make more money and are more career secure?  You think he longs for lustful urges to get pegged by trannies at 4am in the morning because he can’t ejaculate into his wife’s fairly tight, doody free snatch? Or is the accountant jealous about how you still have to call up mommy and daddy for help with the rent because your money management skills are so piss poor for a Jewish cokehead, your Hebrew name is under judicial review? Maybe, he’s jealous about you being a no-show Uncle, whose more likely to remember the spread on the Giants game from 5 years ago today, than your brother’s kids’ birthdays, despite one of them being born on News Years Day, moron.”

Now the Manipulative Prick starts to defend himself against charges of being an annoying, loudmouth, serially selfish, ungrateful, spoiled rotten neighbor, who deserves to stay in his humble one-bedroom apartment in Dobbs Ferry for another day and says, “First off, I take incredible offense, being labeled as a manipulative prick of any kind.” Then, a freak of nature happens, as a bulge in his pants emerges, which concerns him immediately, because normally anal stimulation is needed on coke to get him erect with aroused interest at all these days.”

The Manipulative Prick looks down at his swelled bulge, smiles amusingly at it and continues his customary bullshit artist ways, insisting, “Stop treating me like Bernie Madoff. I’m not screwing anyone out of money here.” This time, the Manipulative Prick’s prick makes a near deafening sound out of the freaking blue, by smashing up against the table he’s sitting behind for his eviction trial, sounding like battering ram just made full blown contact against it. Now, the Co-Op Board Member Number One snaps out of his ice-cold veneer and says, “Causing more noise commotion, during your eviction notice hearing already. You really do know how to make a sustained shitty impression. Is your middle name automatic fuck up, or what?” Now, the Manipulative Prick starts getting a rapid surge of heart palpitations, especially after glancing down to his lap at his middle appendage, noticing how it now resembles the hammer of Thor.

Co-Op Board Member 2, a wrinkly, diminutive yet feisty, retired realtor chimes in and says, “How are we supposed to believe you’ll become an oasis of calm or an embodiment of measured normalcy, compared to all our other 50 plus and over tenets when you can’t even sit still and remain commotion free during your final eviction notice hearing? Just try not to be so out of control, boozy, drugged out loud when consequences for your got to have satisfaction up my nose, whenever I want behavior have never been greater.”

The Manipulative Prick takes a sip of water on the table in front of him, the same aftershock table that shook all the cobweb corners lose in the room prior in addition to the realtor’s wig and says, “All I do on the weekends is smoke weed and watch Giant games alone when my wife works the weekend shit, especially since COVID hit these days. I don’t even see my friends to do coke anymore, especially since I got into weed oils, which don’t stink up the hallways nearly half as much actually.”

Now, a humongous dick blasts through the Manipulative Prick’s pants, blasting straight through the art deco tin ceiling, through a fancy schmancy chandelier, while looking more like the worm giant from Dune as all the Co-Op Board members duck for cover under their judgement table, as shards of glass fly across the room in every conceivable direction. Co-Op Board Member number 2 squatting underneath the table for cover with a look of abject, confused bewildered terror on her face screams, “What the fuck is that? The Never-Ending Prick.

The End  

Michael Kornbluth