Sam Cooke was havin’ a party, got shot

Posted on July 12, 2008

1950’s & 60’s soul / pop legend Sam Cooke went the way of any self-respecting musician. Which is: exiting this fucking place way too early. While many musicians choose the sissy way of dying young to an overdose, Sam Cooke went the “oh shit!” route and was shot to death on December 11th, 1964 at the age of 33. Some crazed motel manager shot him in “self defense” as he 3-arm wrestled her (stir-stick included) wearing only his shoes and overcoat. And if I know anything about being buck naked in a motel wearing just your shoes wondering where the hell that prostitute went, it means: you’re either Hugh Grant, or you’re training to be the next governor of New York. High five, political humour!

Allegedly having stormed into the front office demanding to know where the cooz he was shacked up with ran off to, he attempted some Bas Rutten type moves on this manager so he could get some friggin’ answers. Dangity dangity dang! Included in my extensive sideroad motel knowledge is how to deal with motel managers: don’t. Of course there’s no way Sam could have known this — Psycho, Vacancy, and that movie with John Cusack playing 7 different versions of himself killing each other at that conveniently-isolated-by-a-storm motel hadn’t come out yet. During the wrestling match between the manager and Cooke, she turned to the gun every motel keeps on the counter (right next to that cute little counter bell. Ding!) and shot him on the spot. Bang! To which the clerk in the office came out saying, “Yes, can I help you with–oh. Oh! Sorry. I thought that noise was the bell. My bad. If you need me, I’m taking a smoke break.”

During the investigation, that bird he was with (later arrested for prostitution) claimed he was going to rape her, and that she escaped (with his clothes?) while he went to the bathroom. Doing my own personal investigation into this case, and at the cost of a few spare dollars, a ruined nose liner, and years of dodging VD (that’s right, I’m willing to put myself in harms way in the name of investigative journalism), I have documented the following facts:

1. You don’t rape a prostitute — you pay them. Sometimes they want lots, sometimes they just say, “Have a good day, sweetie. See you after work.”
2. It’s highly unlikely seconds before raping a prostitute (see item 1) you say, “…just a second, sweets. I’m gunna go hit one more line before I do this. Wanna bump? No? You’re good? Okay, stay right there though. Promise I’ll be quick.”
3. Famous people never ever ever rape women.
4. And finally, a hooker’s wardrobe cannot be confused with normal person clothing. It’s scientifically impossible. Fact.

When I get my hands on a time machine, I’m bringing Bas back with me to rescue Sam Cooke. And  you’d better believe that sports almanac is coming with me.

We’re Havin’ a Party, by Sam Cooke

1.21 giggawatts!
Edward H.

UPDATE: Psycho came out in 1960. So scratch that idea. What the hell was he doing fucking with the help?

Matthew Barber attempts to depress, depressing music ensues

Posted on July 12, 2008

I tried thinking of something to write where I could make fun of Toronto musician, Matthew Barber — and I couldn’t because I realized I was just too fucking depressed listening to this album to be able to crack any kind of wise. Well, it’s either that or I also once overheard some scientists down the hall saying something about this “fact” that after mixing some old lady’s prescriptions, cheap rave drugs, and Escobar’s Imports that you may feel severe detachment and depression the following day. So there’s that. I’m still betting on this guy though, since there’s no way they could possibly prove that.  When I replay this thing later whilst under a bottle of bourbon, and back on top of a Columbian Snowbank I may be able to make fun of this guy yet!

Easily Bruised & Our Voices, by Matthew Barber

Here’s to hoping,
Edward H.

Dirt Nasty, 1980, Cocaine, G-Strings, Cocaine

Posted on June 25, 2008

White rapper (and most definitely holder of other part time jobs) Dirt Nasty rollerskates his way through a costly pile of the booger sugar (Columbian cold and flu medicine, the Devil’s dandruff, a South American snowbank) to present you, The People, with his idea of what the 1980’s were like. A time when he was no doubt off playing with GI Joe figures, sniffing Mr. Sketch markers, and catching cooties — all making up for lost time now by instead playing with female figures, sniffing Mr. Escobar’s income, and catching STDs.

Thank God to the internet and quirky white rap music for popularizing cocaine, objectifying women, and … objectifying women!

MP3: 1980, by Dirt Nasty. Or view the video below:

With love and rum,
Edward H.

With Love & Rum. Alcoholics: Anonymously.