Coming Attractions

Me and Lee—The Musical

With Bob Dylan’s new single “Murder Most Foul” rocketing to the top of the Billboard chart, all of America’s youth are wondering: Who was this JFK guy? What the hell happened to him in Dallas? And wait a second, why would anybody voluntarily go to Dallas in the first place?

Rushing to fill the informational void is Me and Lee—The Musical, a filmed version of the stage musical by longtime Lowbrow friend Jason Trachtenburg. The production is an adaptation of the book Me & Lee: How I Came to Know, Love and Lose Lee Harvey Oswald by Judyth Vary Baker, who recounts a romantic entanglement with the notoriously dreamy Oswald, America’s sweetheart himself. Look, the only American conspiracy we want investigated is why it took so long for Rodney Dangerfied’s star to ascend, okay? But we adore Trachtenburg and his wondrous way around a melody. In the musical, the playwright himself sharply portrays Oswald, even slipping into Russian. And his music, not shockingly, is winning: Hum along with the cast as they sing Trachtenburg’s sweet songs of love and LHO! Stay home, wash your filthy hands, and watch Me and Lee—The Musical. The whole darn thing is streaming on YouTube—check it out!

Coronawhat, Now? (Take 2)

Interviewing My Grandfather, Who Died in 2003, About the Coronavirus

Me: Pop-Pop! I’ve missed you so much. Thanks for agreeing to take a few minutes for this interview.

PP: I’ve missed you too, Colin.

Me: A lot has happened since you passed away.

PP: I know! I can’t believe the Indians lost another World Series.

Me: Heartbreaking.

PP: That goddamned rain delay.

Me: Unbelievable. Anyhow, the topic of the day is…

PP: We heard about it up here: the coronavirus.

Me: What are your thoughts?

PP: Like they said: Wash your hands.

Me: But, Pop-Pop, it’s spreading so quickly.

PP: I was born in 1923, five years after the onset of the Spanish flu that killed tens of millions of people. My parents often reflected on the friends they’d lost.

Me: Oh, right. Well, a lot of the news has also been focused on the economy and the stock market.

PP: I lived through the Great Depression. It was worse for others; Dad had a job. But, you might remember that my toes were crooked from having to wear shoes years past their fit.

Me: Well, let’s see here. I do have to admit that I’m worried about my job.

PP: I was a rivet salesman, traveling the Rust Belt by car for 50 years, away from my family five days a week. You’ll figure it out.

Me: Point taken. Still, I’m not sleeping well.

PP: When I was in the Army during World War II, I learned to sleep with my eyes open.

Me: Mom told me about that. They say we might have to quarantine ourselves at homes indefinitely.

PP: That reminds me of when I watched over dozens of Nazi prisoners after the Battle of the Bulge.

Me: Makes sense. How about this Trump administration? They aren’t making things any easier.

PP: I can’t help you there. Those guys are idiots.

Me: Okay. I have one more question. I hesitate to ask but: I have a bit of a cough. Am I going to die from this?

PP: Maybe. Maybe not. I, myself, died of a protracted battle with lung cancer.

Me: Welp! I’m gonna let you go, Pop-Pop. Thank you so much for taking the time. I love you.

PP: I love you, too, Colin. Go Tribe.

Me: They just delayed baseball season.

PP: You gotta be fucking kidding me.

Coronawhat, Now?

The time has come, yet again, to craft an unbelievably hilarious humor piece, at once demonstrating my peerless wit and charm while leaving no doubt that the lethal coronavirus sweeping the globe has barely crossed my mind.

Let’s get down to business. Perhaps I’ll drum up a bit on how we can’t even make airplane peanut jokes anymore because no airline still offers them. No, no that’s no good: Airplanes and travel and maybe even food are off limits. Because of, well, nothing. Never mind. Moving on.

Is that a siren? Is someone sick?

Alas, there’s no cause for alarm! I’ve forgotten that, in an effort to make a smooth transition to my inevitable month-long quarantine, I’ve begun watching, alphabetically, every movie available to me. I’m currently on “G,” streaming that scene in The Goonies where Mouth isn’t sure if the police chase is coming from the TV or not.

Time to focus. My creative loins have given birth to this gem of an idea: Seven dirty words, updated for 2020.

“Dirty.”

I watched one of those videos for how to wash your hands properly and the guy was using a little brush to get under his nails. Checking Amazon. Little nail brushes are $86. And aren’t on Prime. And will be delivered by June 17, 2023.

Let’s all remain calm here. No problem at all.

Working out of the coffee shop—in public, surrounded by various other human beings who may or may not have watched the how-to-wash-your-hands-properly video—is shaping up just fine.

Well, except for the facts that I’ve seen two people blow their noses, everyone is touching their faces like they’re auditioning for a gig at Mary Kay and one guy is drinking tea. You’re busted, tea guy: Only sick people and hippies drink tea, and I’m not seeing a ponytail or hemp necklace from where I’m sitting.

I think I just touched my face, too.

Back on track. This is The Idea, no doubt about it: an homage to Steve Martin’s “King Tut.” The lyrics will satirize the current Egyptian president, Abdel Fattah el-Sisi, mostly relying on the implication that he’s a sissy. Let’s just do a quick search to see if…oh, shit, yep: The coronavirus is in Egypt, too.

Unbelievable.

Pretty sure the gentleman closest to me is reading The Death of Ivan Ilyich in preparation for his imminent demise. I can’t believe this. We are all doomed.

Upon closer inspection, it looks like it’s a copy of InStyle.

Pull it together, man.

Wait. Did that woman two tables over just cough? No, forget it. I paused The Goonies and I’m listening to “Sweet Leaf” by Black Sabbath.

Black. Sabbath.

Of course. It’s another fucking New York Times push alert.

Now, why did—why did—why did that customer just purchase three pounds of coffee? Why would he buy that much coffee? He must be hoarding coffee. He must know something I don’t know.

Nice guy. Said he got an email from the shop about buying two pounds and getting one free.

Oh my god: Is that a group of kids running from the coronavirus as it spreads throughout our country, picking us off one by one? Ah, nope: I turned The Goonies back on again. Whoops. Fratellis, not coronavirus. Classic mix-up.

I surrender.

Facial Hair Grooming Tips

–Attention moustache wearers: Always remember to brush upwards on an ironic moustache, downwards on a sincere one.

–Look smart! Paying a white-smocked barber $35 for the same exact shave you can give yourself in two minutes yields a sophisticated look envied by men and cherished by women.

–To achieve a virile three-day’s-growth, consume several healthy swigs of Long Island Iced Tea and embark on a bar crawl, in which you travel to various drinking establishments on your hands and knees. Spend one night sleeping in an alley behind your neighborhood cathouse, one night in the drunk tank of the county jail, and one night in the arms of your best friend’s wife. Upon waking, your face will host the stubble of a Hollywood star.

–A little bitty Hitler moustache never goes out of fashion. Whatever your thoughts on the Führer’s politics, the man was a hunk.

–Those gentlemen in the early stages of puberty will want to maintain a touch of peach fuzz on their upper lip. It’s a reliable hit with older women and never fails to make its wearer appear wise beyond his years.

–When grooming during a house fire, always shave your goatee first. Otherwise, if you are forced to evacuate mid-shave, people will not think you are running from fiery flames; they will think you are running to a Stone Temple Pilots reunion concert.

Shove off, 2019!

Farewell, 2019…hello, 2020! Alas, this year seems to be heading out the door without a new Lowbrow Reader issue. But never fear: With the new year will come a new issue, the long-awaited Lowbrow Reader #11, rife with rich surprises and guaranteed to blow minds the world over. The new issue is not due for a few months, but in the meantime, we still have a handful of copies of LBR #10—it is destined to sell out soon, so buy it while it’s still available! Still want more Lowbrow? Who doesn’t?! Our sterling book anthology, The Lowbrow Reader Reader, remains available from its publisher, Drag City, as well as from the kindly retailer who controls the earth’s tilt. Order today!

Otherworldly: Performance, Costume and Difference

Rammellzee by Keetja Allard

Those aesthetically minded New Yorkers interested in art and fashion—and really, who isn’t?—are hereby alerted to the existence of “Otherworldly: Performance, Costume and Difference,” a flamboyant exhibition freshly opened at Parsons’s Aronson Galleries, on Fifth Avenue. Curated by Charlene K. Lau and the all-star Lowbrow Reader contributor Francesca Granata, the exhibition features work by a trio of uncorked New Yorkers: Machine Dazzle, Narcissister, and the late Rammellzee (pictured). All three work or worked on the margins, mining what the curators call political material “at the intersections of costume, fashion and performance.” The exhibition, at 66 Fifth Avenue, is part of the Performa 19 Biennial and runs through December 15. No plans this week? Check out the opening, on Thursday, November 21st, from 6–8pm.

Read more about “Otherworldly” at Fashion Projects or the New School.

Saw, 2019

Chained-Up Guy #1: Where am I? What is happening?

Chained-Up Guy #2: I think we’re in one of those Saw movies.

Chained-Up Guy #1: You may be right. We’re both chained to pipes and there’s a hacksaw on each of our laps and a dead guy in the middle of the floor in this windowless, feces-covered room. Definitely Saw.

Chained-Up Guy #2: I thought they were done with these things.

Chained-Up Guy #1: Wait, that clock on the wall say it’s the year 2019? My memory is foggy, but I think the last thing I remember was the Cubs winning the World Series. That was 2016. I guess I have a lot to catch up on!

Chained-Up Guy #2: Oh no, dude. You’re not gonna like this but….

Chained- Up Guy #1: Alright, here comes that creepy Billy the Puppet guy. Maybe he will tell us what’s going on.

Billy the Puppet: Donald Trump is president.

Chained-Up Guy #2: There it is.

Chained-Up Guy #1: Good one, Billy. (more…)

One-Liners III

Watch Out: I have a certificate that reads, “Sense of Accomplishment.”

Idea: What about an audio disc for drivers, of cats mewing?

Attention, Friends: In a misunderstanding, my heart was given to Roland Thompson. Now that guy has two hearts. Arrggh, I hate that guy! [Drops dead.]

Excerpts from My Mental Notes:

1. That thing you always think is wrong—do the opposite
2. I am wrong. This thought I have can’t possibly be right. Remember to think this other, nonsense thought every time.
3. Try thinking own very wrong thoughts in a different order.
4. Aha! You found me! I planted this worthless mental note!
5. Put a lot of animals in my humor.

Spouse’s Ultimatum: Can’t love me? Buy!

Punny Relationship Ultimatum: You and what are me?

Little-Spoken Fact about Life: The hurts truth.

Hipster Band Name: Milk When You’re Expecting Orange Juice

Dad Joke: Q: What do you get when you sneeze while eating nachos? A: “Nachoo!”

Regular Joke: Q: What’s worse than a vomitorium? A: A vomiteria.

Random Funny Thing to Say Using a Character Name from The Simpsons: All should be well if this goes through, Disco Stu.

I Will Leave You with This: There is nothing worse than being none the wiser.

The Show Won’t Go On

Here’s a book to dig! The Show Won’t Go On: The Most Shocking, Bizarre, and Historic Deaths of Performers Onstage, which was written by Lowbrow friends Jeff Abraham and Burt Kearns and has been newly published by Chicago Review Press. In gory detail and with no small amount of black humor, the book recounts those surprisingly numerous moments when a performer gets onstage and never comes off, reaching his end before a horrified crowd.

The well-researched book includes chapters on performers of all ilk, be they doomed singers, magicians, or, of course, comedians, including the notorious Friars Club death of Harry Einstein (father of Albert Brooks and Super Dave Osborne). All are handled with grace. What might have proved grim or exploitative turns celebratory, as the authors examine the careers of largely obscure artists united in misfortune. For instance: Dick Shawn, an uncorked comedian (he played Lorenzo Saint DuBois in The Producers) whose heart failed during a climactic moment of his one-man show. “The whole time he’s lying there, the audience is still there,” the comic’s son recounts in the book. “And there were people that wanted their money back.” Learn all about Shawn, Einstein, and others in their woebegone fraternity. Buy The Show Won’t Go On today!