Tag: motleycrue

All Metal Baby

by doitalldadyear, posted in blogging, books, celebrity

Dear Billy Corgan,

I’m Ric Flair literally, woo. I’m writing a thank you letter like Curious George taught me to do. I want to thank you for bringing NWA wrestling back from the dead. My daddy bought me the NWA All Access Pass for my birthday and I’ve never been happier. I love watching new wrestling matches with daddy. But I want to return the favor and give my daddy some love on his birthday to. I’m his best friend and best friends get each other gifts, right? And he didn’t even get a card from Mimi and Papa this year, so I want to make it up to him in a humongous way. Daddy is a really funny comedian, who’s due to record comedy record 94 this Sunday Less Garbage Lines, yet he’s beginning to feel like an imposter for having no paydays to show for it. He also looks after my older sister Matilda and older brother Arthur. We make a great home team and want nothing more than for daddy’s comedy career to achieve blast off time already. Would you be willing to let my Daddy do five minutes of Nirvana material at Lollapalooza this summer as your opening act? You won’t be disappointed. I’m sending you a demo record he recorded last summer called Burning Mask Party Record. United we laugh, my daddy, proves it every day, yeah, yeah. Daddy is a fan of old school jamming out Chicago to.  I’m guaranteed you’ll be impressed and you better play Rocket if you say yes, or I’ll be pissed Billy. Last, my father is feeling like a mega dumb moron for passing on spending 40 bucks on your debut album Gish, in favor of Deep Purple’s Last Concert in Japan for only 22 bucks on Vinyl instead, which he thought was the deal the century, until he realized soon after that Deep Purple’s Last Concert wasn’t Deep Purple Made in Japan. Don’t get me wrong, Daddy and I are huge David Coverdale fans and adore his live album In Heart of The City that he did with White Snake after he left Deep Purple. Still, I know deep down this mix up brought Daddy down because he loves your band and didn’t buy your album Gish because he was trying to be a frugal pragmatist on his birthday for a change. I hate to end on a down note, but nothing would make daddy happier than get blown away by a sea of laughs this summer in Chicago at Lollapalooza after being stuck like a rat in cage as a Stay-at-Home Shemale Comedian for the past 5 years and counting since I was born, with no grandparents in sight. At the same time, being under house arrest post COVID hasn’t been that much of a radical departure for daddy. Regardless, it’s his time to shine this summer and nothing would make me happier than to see my daddy flying high again.

Your Biggest 5-Year-Old Fan,

Samuel Teddy Kornbluth

P.S. My big sister helped me write this letter. But I can still do more one armed pushed than her. Plus, my big brother did the artwork for Daddy’s record cover Burning Mask Party Record, which is beyond overdue at this point already. Let’s launch a burning mask party on stage together Billy. I know you can do it. Billy Madison lives, Challah, thank you very much. That’s my daddy’s catchphrase by the way.

Dear Samuel Teddy Kornbluth,

I heard your dad’s record Burning Mask Party Record. And you’re correct, it rocks. It would be an honor to help break your father big at Lollapalooza this summer. I can offer him one thousand dollars for five minutes, which should be enough to pay for travel expenses. Although, I see him scoring a recording holding deal after this. Tell your dad that will have a booth set up for him to sell any of his, comedy records and books at the show soon after although I have an idea for a grand entrance that will drive the audience wild for the overall presentation. I’m a big-time wrestling promoter who knows a thing about putting on kick ass show for reason. Stay cool All Metal Baby.

Best Always,

Billy

All Metal Baby descends from a helicopter on a zipline down to the Lollapalooza stage, dressed like Van Halen angel baby from their album 1984 with a cigarette behind his ear. The 500,000 plus crowd goes wild as The Smashing Pumpkins play the intro to Rocket in the background as Billy croons, “Love.” All Metal Baby makes a perfect landing on to the stage from the helicopter. First, he faces the audience and flashes the bird with both middle fingers behind his ears, as if he’s sporting Devil horn middle fingers. Billy Corgan howls, “All Metal Baby in the house, Ronnie James Dio, lives, Challah, thank you very much. Crowd screams with holy shit Joe C lives to, as the crowd roars, “We like to party, rock the party.” Next, All Metal Baby launches into a series of one-armed push-ups while flipping the bird with his remaining free hand. Next, All Metal Baby grabs the cigarette behind his ear, which isn’t a real one but flammable nonetheless, and lights it up before throwing it on top of a pile of masks, which takes this Burning Mask Party that much higher. Then, All Metal Baby hops into a drum set behind his cherished daddy, who always wanted his son to dress up like the Van Halen angel baby for Hanukkah Halloween, so wishes do come true. Then, Do It All Dad launches into his act that was made for these times, starting with, “Nirvana, didn’t kill Hair Metal Aids did, before Magic made HIV disappear.”

The 500,000 plus crowd laughs in one love unison, which screams a Refrigerator Perry touchdown of yesteryear, which is drawn out even longer, after All Metal Baby does a one-handed headstand rim shot on the drums after his daddy’s opening punchline, while sucking on a Scorpion lollipop to boot.

All Metal’s Baby daddy completes his short-lived Nirvana set, made for these times.

I dislike any rock journalist or cultural critic who still lives in Portland, Oregon or in Seattle, Washington, ANTIFA apartheid represent. Especially those intent on selling us why Kurt Cobain was destined to become another rock casualty cliche due to a stomach irritation aggravated from too much soy. But at the height of his popularity, with all the f-you money in the world to avoid touring if he wanted to, after becoming a proud, doting father no less, Kurt Cobain wanted to pull an Ernest Hemingway after his shotgun marriage to Sloppy Seconds Hole? Because Kurt Cobain couldn’t bear the burden of being branded as the voice of Generation X by Tabitha Soren, when Sonic Youth had less brand name recognition on MTV than the Fine Young Cannibals or Midnight Oil throughout the early nineties for that matter?

Kurt Cobain admitted that their records sounded closer to Motley Crue records than punk rock ones, which doesn’t make him sound like the overgrown kid in the Jermey video on the verge off blowing his brains out over his Trapper Keeper in AP Bio either.

And Kurt Cobain killing himself at 27 no less, which is when Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison died from accidental overdoses is too cliche ridden planned for a rock star who raided his dead grandma’s closet for her most unflattering, wool sweater to sport on MTV Unplugged.

In the song In Bloom, Kurt Cobain sneered at meathead jocks with hardcore sardonic disdain, more likely to be first in line to see the Foo Fighters play the first MSG show post pandemic for the privilege of seeing big pharma sell out shill Dave Grohl perform in front of a vaccinated only crowd, to mark another monotone milestone through their edgeless, ever long lives. Yet were supposed to believe Kurt Cobain would give those same homophobe faggots in University of Maryland hats, who like to sing along to his “pretty songs”, the satisfaction of killing off his legacy as being the most kick ass, wildly popular non-conformist artist of his generation by proving to be another unoriginal, poser artist burnout tale of premature, blatantly avoidable ruin on VH1 Behind the Music like the rest. Yeah, and Eddie Vedder met his banger pretty wife at a lesbo coffee shop in Seattle for slam toxic masculinity night.

All I’m saying is that Kurt Cobain was not one to do cliche, outside of doing his best Sid and Nancy impersonation with Courtney Love for a bit. And in the end, his overhyped stomach pains cited as the main driving force behind blowing his brains out after framing his vision of becoming a middle-aged junkie artist like a modern-day William Boroughs to Courtney Love as an easily attainable goal to shoot for, has been blown way out of proportion, like the working effectiveness of COVID 19 vaccination shot, which works less than an Alice and Chains cover band today at BYU, with Mitt Romney in town.

Personally, I love the Courtney Love Hole album, Live Through This, even more than Nevermind, even if ex-boyfriend Billy Corgan penned the lion share of her monster lyrics on it like, “I shit my bed from doing too much H. So, I might as well die in it.” Plus, I can’t hate someone who called Linda Sarsour a fake news feminist who had no business attending the Woman’s March on Washington because of the Palestinian freedom fighter’s support of clitoral mutilation to ensure Muslim housewives receive zero pleasure on earth before being stoned to death for the crime of being spotted in their full-length Burkas in Sex and The City 2. So, if siding with Courtney Love for calling Linda Sarsour a fake feminist, makes me alt-right, then I’m alright with it. Challah, thank you very much.

Truth is, Kurt Cobain wouldn’t be caught dead in Starbucks if his Sonic Youth record collection was riding on it. So, I don’t buy Kurt Cobain feeding into the packaged brand of brooding depressive consumerism by killing himself at the height of his popularity who caused a bigger eruption in Courtney’s Love pants than Eddie Van Halen ever did. Nor do I buy into the forced fed, media manipulated assertion that Kurt Cobain was too much of a gun-shy pussy to persist rocking in a hyper focused Internet world of do or die capitalism Man. A victimized Twitter Twat, he wasn’t it, “Here we are now, entertain us, I feel stupid and contagious because I shared a needle with Magic Johnson’s number one groupie in Seattle. You want a remake of Sleepless in Seattle post Kids you got it.

Last, did you know Kurt Cobain predicted that an outsider who never worked in politics could become President of the United States like Trump one day? Ok, so maybe Kurt Cobain killed himself for a reason, knowing that the eventual advent of social media would unearth the A Plus narcissist in us all. Neither Republicans nor Democrats have a monopoly on messianic right, God does. The sooner were all able to unite around that absolute truth of one love, under one God, who knows above all else, when you’re being an insufferable, know it all twat, on the alleged right side of ethical moralism, the better.

Shit, at least I’m self-aware enough to proclaim Jesus doesn’t want me for a sunbeam yet. But thank God, I still have time to seek absolution for being the biggest prick in the east, since Alec Baldwin admits no fault for acting like an all-over the place Jew since he quit self-medicating by getting loaded. Short lived Nirvana lives, Challah. Thank you very much.

The following day, Rolling Stone Magazine called All Metal Baby the ultimate smash hit at Lollapalooza during the summer of 2022. At the same time, his daddy now nicknamed by Billy Corgan as Killerset Kornbluth wasn’t chopped liver either. And for those about to rock, All Metal Baby salutes you, Challah. Thank you very much.

Michael Kornbluth

Fussy About Fungi

by doitalldadyear, posted in blogging, books, business

Growing up, my mom’s Kosher chicken cutlets only got interesting whenever she threw some sautéed white mushrooms in garlic and parsley on top. These weren’t meaty mushrooms such as the mighty meaty Portobello, substantially chewy scrumptious Shitake Mushrooms or delectable Geisha light Oyster Mushrooms either. Whatever mushrooms they sold at A&P in the eighties and early nineties got the job done. Blue Cheese on burgers wasn’t a thing yet, Lamb Burgers forget about it. Back then, you were lucky to find a deli who made sandwiches with barely defrosted iceberg lettuce, you didn’t chip a tooth on, which looked more Bill Burr white, than sickly discolored green whenever his Dad threw on the old Golden Gloves for Saint Patrick’s Day again.

For Hanukkah, my mother always made her specialty stuffed baked, destemmed Baby Bella Bomb Mushroom with a delicious garlic, parsley, breadcrumb concoction, with some cream cheese mixed in between, to keep it Jewy enough, which helped counterbalance the Mariah Carey Christmas songs at full blast on constant rotation before Derek Jeter broke into her star studded snatch before Puff blew it up beyond recognition, holla, thank you very much. So, I was bound to try recreating some magic mushroom love on my own someday and be a tad less gun shy about munching on some magic mushroom tripping caps in college eventually. My senior year in high school, I’d order an occasional mushroom slice for lunch to, so I wasn’t fussy about eating the psychedelic, dry, woodsy, dried caps straight up with no chaser either. Illmatic lives holla thank you very much. I didn’t ask my boarding school burnout bud Gledhill at the time to place the magic tripping caps into a warmed up spinach wrap, with some arugula and goat cheese, to fend off any anxiety consumed panic attack from eating the cow shit birthed mushrooms by themselves alone, all alone, Heart lives, holla, thank you very much.

But my 1st brush with mushroom madness wasn’t from getting an uncontrollable case of the giggles my freshman year in college around my Deadhead crew within a dorm room the size of Hunter Biden’s slow days stash closet. Nor did I experience uncontrollable mushroom madness from feeling up a Sequoia tree in the valley on some magic caps in the most sensual, love thy tree like your hot neighbor with the big sun spot tits way, feeling’s God’s vibrating presence from within, before I receive a call on my pre-smart phone from my tripping roommate in the park and hear, “That light piercing through back the of your head isn’t God, it’s the police. Pull up your parents, were out of here.”

No, I had to make my own 1st batch of stuffed Portobello Mushrooms with spinach, peeled Roma tomatoes and fontina cheese, to experience my 1st brush of mushroom madness, because it felt like I was eating a dirt sandwich from a health food store in a 70’s Albert Brooks movie as I mutter to myself, “Isn’t Fontina Cheese high in cholesterol? And how do you live with yourself charging sky high prices for an overseas melting cheese not included in the Fondue set I got as a housewarming gift from Penny Marshall after Lost In America became a smash success? That’s how I got to cast Gary Marshall as the Pit Boss in Lost In America. You don’t know who Gary Marshall is? Don’t worry about it. All you need to know, is there’s no business like show business.”

The problem was I forgot to wipe the dirt off my mushroom caps from the nearby farmers market and I didn’t have a personal Shaman with an open third eye to point out my oblivious oversight.  Till then, I never knew what dirt actually tasted like because I had neck surgery at 2 and my parents shielded me from high contact sports like Football, so I had no idea of what a face full of dirt tasted like until I bit through my Portobello sandwich, which turned me off from trying to unearth Portobello magic for almost a whole decade on the backyard coal grill making sandwiches with goat cheese and bitter greens on a Ciabatta roll instead. I felt so dirty after crunching on multiple bites of actual specked dirt. It felt like I was caught pleasuring myself to she male stamps ads in the LA Weekly behind a garbage dump off Santa Monica Blvd. in broad daylight on a Tuesday at hard 11am, as the smell of musky ball sack permeates through boy’s town air. Andy Dick lives holla, thank you very much.

The last time I experienced mushroom madness on this infuriatingly dejected level was this past Sunday after I made the decision to give my kids a brush with mushroom magic by making them a Moosewood classic, Moosewood being a famous vegetarian restaurant and prolific cookbook publisher in Ithaca, NY . I transferred to Ithaca College my junior year because I outgrew tripping on mushrooms and feeling up trees in my spare time for the time being. Still, I hate to be married to any script, unless I wrote it of course, but even then, I like to mix things up, and make things less dronishly, climax free predictable. So I decided to dice up the cleaned, stuffed Portobello’s, brushed with a mix of sesame and Tamari Sauce which is a thicker yet slightly watered-down soy sauce, think Jon Cho from Harold and Kumar Got To White Castle. Those same stuffed mini-UFO size Portobello mushrooms were also filled with a combo of high-end peanut butter called Smooth Operator, an old school peanut butter shop in the West Village, ginger, diced up red peppers and shredded, dehydrated firm soy. Although the funky fresh Umami twist. was mixing these bomb supreme, magically flavorful fungi with some buckwheat Soba noodles, which all 3 of my kids slurped up with instant glee, instantly. Me taking 2 plus hours to make the entire dish, helped my kids readiness factor to attack the dish to, as we listened to Too Fast For Love on Vinyl from Motley Crue from start to finish, before mama got home from work later that evening after working in Lactation playing the role of unofficial boob doctor whisperer consultant all day long.

Along the way, I tapped into my age of innocence with renewed fervor and played an inspired air guitar version of Too Fast For Love with our broom stick, hailing Motley Crue’s guitar slayer, Mick Mars as the Freddy Kruger of Shredding. Who I need to write an article about one day in the hopes of selling it to fucking Pitchfork, Guitar World, or just posting another non billable blog post such as Shredding Hackneyed Hair Metal Cliches, anything but bearing the brutal thought of not letting the world know more about the most underrated metal guitar shredder of all time. Too Fast For Love, Motley Crue’s debut album, which they recorded in 2 weeks straight max, is by far the their most melodic ferocious, heart thumping, power punk pop record, ever put on wax by the 4 Hair Metal horseman. Too Fast For Love is the Hair Metal version of Exile on Main Street by the Stones, when Mick Mars, the oldest band member of his crew, made the guitar sound like a fucking buzz saw, shredding those strings to shreds as if the child support payments from his 1st marriage in his late twenties depended on it. Now, I’m not comparing my leisurely recreation of some Sunday slow mushroom magic to Mick Mar’s playing with his back against the wall on Motley Crue’s Too Fast For Love, although paying child support felt like the incoming imminent reality later that evening, after I flip out on my wife for pointing out how the food was great, but “The kitchen needs cleaning.” Words of wisdom ladies, when your husband bangs out another all-star dinner after looking after the kids all weekend, with no virtual grandparents in sight, resist the urge to minimize the specialness of the meal by treating him like the fucking help.  Next time my wife wants to get intimate on E pills for old time sake,  I’ll say, “But you haven’t gotten me that promised boob job 3 kids later yet. I think I’ll just feel up our tree in the garden instead. You’re not the only stump humper in this relationship, you know.”

Michael Kornbluth