LA Comedy Writer

The Steve Miller Band’s first new studio recording in 17 years, “Bingo” hits the shelves today, and as usual, I’m torn. When one of your musical icons releases an album after such a long layoff, the question begs, “Can he still do it?”. Is this going to be the SMB that made The Joker, or the sell-out that gave us the flaming pile of shit known as “Abracadabra”? Guess I’ll head over to iTunes to find out.

Speaking of The Joker, I’m reminded of some songs that have just irked me for whatever reason, and as good as The Joker was, I want to meet the guy who called Steve Miller “the Space Cowboy” or “The Gangster Of Love”. Gangster Of Love, isn’t that just a tad long for a nickname? How ’bout just calling him Stevie? Next on my list is The Hustle. The only lyrics in the whole goddamned song is, “Do the Hustle”. Is that guy that wrote those lyrics really getting the same residual every time it’s played as Robert Plant (Stairway To Heaven) or Lennon/McCartney (Hey Jude, Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds)?

While we’re at it, one of these days I have to corner Gene Simmons of KISS and ask him this question. KISS has released some of the greatest rock anthems of all time (Shout It Out Loud, Rock & Roll All Nite)…doesn’t it bother the shit out of him and Paul Stanley that their number one, biggest single is….Beth? Beth is the syrupy dedication by on again/off again drummer Peter Criss to his then-wife, who patiently waited as the group tried to “find a sound”. I can almost taste the bile in the back of my throat. You would think at some point Simmons and Stanley would pool their money together and keep hitting the purchase button for Shout on iTunes until Beth is surpassed in sales. At 99 cents each, how much could it cost, a couple of mil? Seems like a small price to pay for dignity. Just my opinion, mind you.

Next up…Seasons In The Sun (the 45 rpm version). Not only was it the only hit single from Terry Jacks, whenever I hear this song I’m reminded of the b-side, which was titled Put The Bone In. I’ve never heard it, can’t tell you if it was good (b-sides rarely were) or if you’d get the same sound by putting a mule turd into your CD player. I just love the title. One of these days I’ll have to track that little ditty down, and give a listen…maybe I can find it on Rhapsody.

The list is long, and one day I’ll have to do a follow-up column, but lastly, we come to (drum roll please)…The Night Chicago Died, by one-hit wonders Paper Lace. The lyrics are all fictional bullshit. There was no “East side of Chicago”. You go East of Chicago, you get soaked because you’d be in fucking Lake Michigan! There was no showdown between Al Capone and the police, where “Bout a hundred cops are dead”, or “the last of the hoodlum gang, had surrendered up or died”. And there was no day known as “The night Chicago died”. Three and a half minutes of total bullshit, and it somehow got to number one. Fuck me raw! It’s like if I wrote a song called, The Day Heidi Montag Won On Jeopardy, and morons from coast to coast just ate it up, contestants fighting on American Idol to perform it. How the fuck did we ever survive the seventies?

Okay, we’ve just had a 5.7 earthquake in So. Cal., and I’m now busy rummaging through the bushes looking for my porn. You see, I’m a single man, no kids, no brothers/sisters, so whenever there is a potential life-threatening situation, my first thought isn’t my safety, but how can I best spare my parents if I expire. In my mind I picture a detective speaking with my parents…”Well Mrs. Bailey, here’s his TV, over there is his fridge, and don’t forget little Cracker. Here’s his leash. And I guess that’s about it…Oops, almost forgot. Here’s a DVD of two Asian trannies blowing a panda.” So, here I am, retrieving my porno after yet another false alarm.

Speaking of porn, it shouldn’t be too long before we get to see Joran van der Sloot’s gay jail porno. I guess it’s every Aruban’s dream to be a June bride. Now I know that whale shit is on the bottom of the sea, but if you dig about five feet under that, you’ll find van der Sloot’s soul. I don’t care what anyone says, he’s responsible for Natalie Holloway’s death, and, regardless of what Aruba courts will or won’t allow (oh, for example…his CONFESSION), the only thing I need to know is that he killed someone else. Everything else is legal horseshit. He killed the Peruvian girl, therefore he killed Holloway. Case closed. Let’s hang him and go have a mai tai on the beach. Right now, he’s in seclusion in a Peruvian jail, but the authorities are considering putting him in the general population. Prediction: If van der Sloot is put into the general pop., he’ll be bent over more than the pages of a borrowed library book. I can’t wait until he meets his new cellmate, Carlos the angry drunken sailor.

Surprise! Word has leaked out that the Sunderland clan has had a reality show deal in place for some time now. If true, and authorities don’t go after this scumbag, then I don’t see how the Thousand Oaks PD can continue to use “To Protect And To Serve” as a motto. If the reality show doesn’t draw viewers immediately, Papa Sunderland has asked little Abby to next sail around Aruba during Spring Break.

The proud Parent Of The Year nominees are shown at left.  As a last comment, I can only say that one should never underestimate Reality Show Producers, and their desire to appeal to the lowest common denominator.