Filed under: Legacy Acts, Phone Calls | Tags: Ram-Powered, Reuben, Swearing in Front of the Children
[This edition of Blow by Blow comes to you courtesy of the active mind and imprisoned body of Ram Venkataswaran. (I hope I’m spelling that correctly as the permanent hiatus has deleted it from our collective internet memory. Where’s your Google Cache now?
In any case, today’s clash features a washed-up former child star in a men’s washroom, a handful of exotic and illegal substances and a combative phone call to a manager who wishes he had majored in something other than Business Statistics and Bus Maintenance. Enjoy.]
(After concluding his 15 minute “gig” as opening act for the “Feathered Friends of Florida” exotic bird show at Chagoonga National Park, Keith Partridge returns to the men’s washroom that has been temporarily converted into a dressing room, huffs heavily from a small baggie and calls Dave Madden.)
Dave: Dave Madden.
Keith: Reuben, thank God I’ve reached you. It’s Keith.
Keith: Yes, Keith.
Dave: Who the Hell is this?
Keith: Keith, Keith Partridge.
Dave: (Under his breath) Fuck.
Keith: You need to get me out of this Florida gig, Reuben. You really messed up this time.
Dave: Keith, stop calling me Reuben. My name is Dave. And for the last time, I’m not your manager. I never was.
Keith: (growing incensed) You’re damned right you’re no manager. No manager worth a shit would book me in as an opening act to a damned peregrine falcon and a handful of cockatoos, parakeets and fucking macaws. Mom is not going to be happy about this. Reuben.
Dave: (exasperated) Keith. I didn’t book you into anything. If I was going to it would be the ‘Tigerbeat” home for fucked up former teen idols. You and Leif Garret could share a room. And for the record, your mother was never happy. She was the most difficult woman I ever met – and I worked with Charo. Now stop calling me.
Keith: The owls are the worst, Rueben. They’re like fucking paintings. No matter where I go there eyes seem to follow me everywhere. I think they’re out for me. And the shit. They shit on everything. I’ve gone through three jumpers this week alone.
Dave: Jesus, Keith….
Keith: (More huffing) And the humidity is playing Hell with my shag. I’m not happy, Reuben. You need to come down here and get me out of my contract. Send the bus Rueben, send the bus. What was that? (Screams)…Oh, never mind, it’s just my hand.
Dave: (Takes a deep breath) Keith, listen to me. I have never been your manager, your agent, your friend or particularly given a shit about you or your career. Now leave me alone, I’m expecting a call from Celebrity Apprentice.
Keith: (pause) For me? Am I being considered?
Dave: I’m hanging up Keith.
Keith: Thanks Reuben. I knew you’d come through. Send the bus, and I’ll start packing.
Keith: (Singing) I was sleeping and right in the middle of a good dream/ Like all at once I wake up from something that keeps knocking at my brain/Before I go insane I hold my pillow to my head/And spring up in my bed screaming out the words I dread…
I think I love you!!!!!
Dave: Good Christ…(hangs up)
Stage Manager Enters: Two minutes Keith. And try not to swear this time, there are kids out there for fucks sake.
-submitted by Ram V.
Filed under: Chad Kroeger | Tags: 30 Million Fans Can Be Horribly Wrong, Phyrric Losses, Shallow
[Due to a total lack of depth on his part, Chad (the P. stands for “Penis”) Kroeger often finds himself over his head. Whether he’s trying to come off as “above the negative press” or counting his money and mourning the loss of his soul, Chad (of the Canadian Nickelbacks) will nearly always find himself overwhelmed by the pressures of his very existence.
In this particular anecdote, Chad finds his musical talent and grotesque growling questioned by the nearest object deeper than he is: a child’s wading pool. Watch in shock and awe as Kroeger heads to the proverbial well more than once, only to find it patiently waiting to had his ass to him repeatedly.]
Note: this excellent piece of Chad-baiting prose comes to us courtesy of mostly-retired blogger Alan Truitt. This was stolen (with permission!) from one of his epic and monumental comment threads, the likes of which has not been seen since the last 2Girls1Cup reaction video.
The scene: a breezy Canadian summer day, which is swiftly ruined by Chad’s Goofus-like behavior…
Chad: “I don’t like the way you look at me, man.”
The Pool: (Silence)
Chad: “What the fuck does that mean, man?”
The Pool: (Water laps softly)
Chad: “Right! You’re dead!”
(Chad jumps into the pool and bangs head and wrenches his shoulder. Humbled and soaking wet, he pulls himself out and glares at the pool.)
Chad: “This isn’t over, dude.”
The Pool: (Soft water lap sounds)
Chad: “Fuck you, man!”
(Chad dives in and starts flailing. Repeat scenario ad nauseam.)
-submitted (sort of) by Alan Truitt
Filed under: Jack White, Pete Doherty | Tags: Affectations, Cokehound, Sobrierty:What Is It Good For?, Trinity College
[As was noted earlier, the esteemed Jack White (of the equally esteemed Detroit Jack White Stripes) was awarded an honorary degree from Dublin’s Trinity College, which he accepted with affected Southern grace and a ridiculous moustache. He joined the likes of Newt Gingrich, guitarist The Edge of The U2 and of course, infamous cokehound, Pete Doherty.
Here is the attempted transcript of “Pistol” Pete Doherty’s acceptance speech.]
Pete: Thank you. Thank you.
(Waits for applause to die down, which it does surprisingly quickly, which in turns surprises Doherty, who stands silently for another couple of minutes like a smack-addled deer in the headlights. A nudge from a decorated Trinity alumni puts him back on task…)
Pete: Um… Well… It’s an honor to be nominated, of course… in of all categories “Heavy Metal.” Sorry to take the Mercury Prize from Jethro and his Tulls, but they are no more “metal” than my Aunt Fanny, innit?
(Briefly displays fanny, which means something completely different over in the U.K. Finding himself underequipped for a fanny display, Pete reverses course and briefly moons the crowd.)
Pete: Fuck Michael Jackson! Rule Britannia!
(As a smattering of restrained and academic boos rain down on Pete’s bowler, he staggers off stage right, only to be accosted by Trinity staffers, who indicate that he is supposed to stagger off stage left. He inquires as to whether they might have some cocaine. The crowd breaks into an a cappella rendition of “What a Waster”…)
[As Bill Cosby and to a lesser extent, Kermit the Frog have proven: too many institutes of higher learning hand out too many honorary degrees. While this may seem to be a uniquely American tradition, which follows our political pattern for rewarding a variety of people with distinguishment (officially now a word, thanks to my adding it to WordPress’ dictionary) and money for something they didn’t do, it appears that our friends across the pond have caught the “Bullshit BS” bug.
Dublin’s Trinity College is the latest to bestow a means-nothing title on a do-nothing person of dubious fame. Jack White, late of the White Stripes, Raconteurs and various Jack White-related solo endeavors has been awarded Honorary Patronage, joining such luminaries as John McCain, Bob Geldof, Newt Gingrich, the Edge, Oscar Wilde and OH FUCK YES, Pete Doherty.
Presented here is the transcript of his impromptu lecture/commencement speech, which was not presented during commencement or in a lecture hall, much to the confusion of Dubliners and John McCain, who was spotted slipping a couple of $20s to a redundantly pasty “Pistol” Pete Doherty.]
First of all, I want to thank Trinity College for the enormous honor. As the only graduate of the Detroit public school system, I have to say this vindicates their committment to adequacy. As I take my place beside McCain, Wilde, Geldof and others while wondering exactly who the hell they are, I realize that this is first and foremost an opportunity to grow a new fan base.
As I gaze out into this crowd of privileged faces, I am reminded that I have not worked a day in my life. As a child, my parents recognized my blossoming musical talent. When I was five they gave me a drum set, which I soon passed on to my sister Meg, whom I later married.
While I am well-respected as the founding member of Detroit’s only rock and roll group, the White Stripes [wild applause], I have kept my ear to the cultural ground. As the White Stripes [slightly milder wild applause] grind their way to eventual irrelevance, I have never stopped seeking outlets for my outsized ego.
I have continued to lay the groundwork for a new millenium of rock with my side projects the Raconteurs [scattered polite applause], the Dead Weather [tepid polite applause, somewhat forced] and my latest venture, a series of DJ gigs. [Jack White attempts to fill sudden sucking noise by applauding himself wildly.]
When I look out at the future of this uncertain country, I see the promise of new and better things. New thoughts that are suspiciously like the old thoughts, but with young, naive faces attached to them.
If anyone is living proof that dreams can become reality, I am. I spent many long hours planning my revenge on the Von Bondies, who have ired me constantly with their attempts to perform rock and roll in my home city. That plan finally culminated in a series of poorly lit sucker punches, which served notice to the old guard that there was a new mustachioed sheriff in town and that he would not be given “the business.”
So to all of you I say: Stand up for your beliefs, no matter how obsessional or delusional. Nothing should stand between you and your feverish dreams: not reason, not logic, not even the Detroit legal system.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Jean Luc Godard, Mortification, Toronto Film Festival
[This first submission to the Blow by Blow pantheon comes to us courtesy of the proprietor of the apparently defunct …And Another Thing blog, which hosts a fair amount of fine rants and a lovely piece of Alice Cooper worship, wherein our scribe succumbs to “temporary insanity” when face-to-face with the effervescent golfer, Vincent Furnier.
Unlike that particular event, this anecdote deals with unworshipped celebrities and unlike everything else to date at this site, actually happened. This also deals with acclaimed film directors (another first), namely one Jean-Luc Godard, who is not this guy or this guy.
When you think film festivals and Canadians, you generally think of well-behaved people applauding politely and furthering the film community in general. You won’t find any of this in here. Enjoy.]
I’ve been a regular attendee at the Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF) since 1989, yet given my geeky ways I’m more interested in the films than the celebrity hoopla. There have been a number of garden variety star sightings over the years, yet all that changed at the 1996 festival. A friend and I had tickets to see French director Claire Denis’s film, Nenette et Boni, and we arrived about 30 minutes before the screening was to begin.
The theatre was already quite crowded, so we chose seats in a row behind a roped-off VIP section. We assumed the roped-off seats would be occupied by Ms. Denis and her entourage, yet 15 minutes before the film was scheduled to begin our jaws dropped when Jean Luc-Godard strolled into the theatre. He was accompanied by at least half a dozen attractive and impossibly chic women, and the boisterous group were talking a mile-a-minute in loud voices. My friend David, who worshipped Godard, managed to find out that the famous French director was there as a special guest of Claire Denis. She arrived shortly thereafter, and after much cheek-kissing and even more excited chatter Ms. Denis bid adieu to Jean-Luc and company and moved to the front of the theatre.
It should be noted that the screening was sold-out, yet minutes before the designated start time a dribble of rush-line ticket holders were admitted. A middle-aged couple took the two empty seats beside me, and they thanked us in a thick Gallic accent for shifting our bags out of the way. They were thrilled to have nabbed rush seats, and we were about to tell them about our famous neighbour in the row ahead of us when the festival handlers brought Ms. Denis up front for her introduction.
A few minutes later the film began, and almost immediately Monsieur Godard and his bevy of blondes and brunettes started chattering to each other. Shortly thereafter a couple of the women stood up and moved to the aisle to continue their conversation. David and I looked at each other in shock, as film festival audiences were usually painfully polite. One of the women in the aisle came over and tapped Godard on the shoulder, and he stood up and joined their conversation on the sidelines. A few minutes later he and one of the women returned to their seats, and they continued their conversation in fits and starts. The man beside me was becoming increasingly agitated about this behaviour, and the normally vigilant festival volunteers were no doubt hesitant to intervene.
After what seemed like ten minutes the group in front of us finally fell silent, and we were able to concentrate on the film again. This respite was short-lived, as the missing member of Jean-Luc’s group returned and noisily made her way down the aisle and sat down beside him. My seat neighbour to the left moved forward in his seat, looking like he was going to make a comment. His companion put a hand on his shoulder and he shrugged in resignation and sat back in his chair.
Godard spoke to the woman for a few minutes, and then they stood up and left the theatre. I felt terrible for Claire Denis, yet perhaps Mr. Godard was off dealing with a personal emergency. A few people in the group changed seats and chatted quietly for a few minutes, and to our great relief they all fell silent.
Much to our amazement Godard returned and took one of the empty seats approximately ten minutes before the film was scheduled to end. I was shocked, as he’d already missed most of the film. When the film ended and the credits started rolling, Godard began talking to his companions again.
The man seated beside me could contain himself no longer, and he tapped Jean-Luc on the shoulder and said in a loud voice, “Monsieur, you are a very rude man!”. Godard avoided making eye contact, and he and his stunned companions quickly gathered their belongings and exited the theatre. David and I grinned broadly at each other, and the brave gentleman looked very pleased with himself.
When the credits ended my friend and I thanked this courageous fellow for taking a stand, and I asked him if he knew the identity of the loutish man. Both he and his female companion shrugged their shoulders. David grinned devilishly and said, “This story is going to get you into a lot of dinner parties. The man you just told off was Jean-Luc Godard.” The man and his companion looked stunned, and she started laughing. She then said in thickly accented English, “He loves Godard. How perfect!” The poor man put his head in his hands, and softly repeated, “Non. Non.” He looked mortified, and we quickly assured him that Godard had been extremely rude, particularly given the fact that he was a special guest of the director. He finally smiled, and both of them laughed softly for several minutes.
I’m sure everyone out there has at least one celebrity story packed with humiliation and stupidity. Don’t let the lack of a URL to call your own stop you from telling that story.
You’ve got a brawl on your hands? A misunderstanding-turned-fatal/arrestable? Pete Doherty saying anything at all? A “discussion” with Sean Penn about your photography skills and how you “liked his early work”?
If you’ve got something you’d like to see sprawled across these developing pages, just send your submission (and any other info, preferred intro, pictures,etc.) to:
At this point, I won’t add all kinds of legal mumbo-jumbo because I don’t think I’ll be needing it. Your submissions will be credited to you and if you ever want the post altered or deleted, I’m your man.
Thanks for reading (and writing),
Filed under: Pete Doherty | Tags: Beer, Blow, Cocaine, Coke, Germany, Nose Candy, Paranoia, Pint Glass Hurling, Powder, Rails, Snow
Pete Doherty’s taking a much-needed vacation in Germany and spreading his worldview as only a drunken coke fiend can: by protesting Germany’s shortage of coke dealers through a combination of sweary words and pint glass hurling.
(Pete is drunk again and looking to score. [Note: author reserves right to quote Offspring lyrics parenthetically.] But who will provide the youngish tosser with the much-needed blow? What follows will bear an eerie resemblance to the heart-breaking narrative of P.D. Eastman’s classic “Are You My Mother?”)
Pardon me, good sir. Could you perhaps hook a brother up by recommending the nearest location at which to purchase and perhaps imbibe some high quality nose candy?
(Hurls pint glass to demonstrate sincerity.)
I say, good chap, my friends and I were looking to ride the rails, if thou catcheth my drift. Wouldst thou happen to know if anyone in this establishment art holding?
(Verily, said pint glass is hurled with the strength of ten drunken men.)
Far be it from me to presume, but would you or your lovely friend care to dance? While the DJ spins our request, I will gently grind on you and inquire furtively as to your stance on unisex restroom blowjobs and how much cocaine you might have on your person.
(Hurls pint glass into fireplace.)
Hey Joe/Where you goin’ with that glassine envelope in your hand?
(Hurls pint glass to free up both hands for “shooting his old lady now,” which I imagine is slang for heroin abuse.)
Hi. I’m “Pistol” Pete Doherty. You might remember me from such hits as “Up the Bracket” and “Wot a Waster.” I’m here today as part of a plea bargain with the British judicial system to speak to you about my current lack of cocaine.
(Hurls pint glass as a metaphor for demolishing the “old” drunken and fiending Peter Doherty.)
Ich bin ein Berliner in serious need of some fucking blow. I’d even settle for its ugly stepsister, crack.
(Hurls pint glass across former East/West Berlin checkpoint.)
Say, brother: can you spare a bump?
(Drops pint glass accidentally; recovers by making a lame “throwing” motion.)