“I don’t like the term ‘Rock Star’,” Crawford confesses, taking my arm and leading me down a slimy, narrow alleyway behind the bar where we’ve arranged to meet for our first interview. His Doc Martens are scuffed and there is a red plastic tambourine on a string around his neck. “I mean, what is a star, anyway? Some shiny thing in the sky, that you make wishes on? Stars are, like, kind of gay.”
He stops to stare moodily at a dumpster.
It’s not always easy being lauded as a ‘musical genius’, nor is it always likely. Crawford Lawman is well aware of this. When his critically acclaimed band, The Pan Flashes broke up, there were those who claimed that his spotlight had dimmed forever. Fortunately, the volatile bassist, who once shocked the nation when he streaked his hair with orange, had other plans. His first solo album, “Lightning Tongs” was released six months later, and its instant success and fairly positive reviews rocketed him to instant stardom. He has been the man of the hour ever since.
The next time I see Crawford, he is smoking what appears to be a stub of charcoal. It doesn’t seem to stay lit, but apparently serves other purposes.
“I can write with it if I need to, if an idea strikes me,” he tells me, lips coated with black carbon. “You never know when you’ll need to jot something down.” Crawford turns and draws a smiley face on the brick wall behind us in charcoal.
We both stare moodily at it.
During lunch, Lawman orders a shot of Nyquil to wash down his chicken tenders and is outraged to learn that it is not on the menu, nor can it be special-ordered.
He rips off his leather jacket and tries to bite it in half.
“Easy, Craw,” the bartender soothes. “Why don’t you go around the corner to the CVS an’ pick yourself up a whole bottle?”
Last Spring, Lawman appeared on the cover of Rolling Stone wearing a g-string made of kazoos. This prompted The New Yorker’s Alex Ross to proclaim, “Who is this guy?” Several critics since have called him “a visionary genius”. Others are not so complimentary. One former roommate I interviewed said that Lawman “still owes money for his share of cable and utilities for the last three months we lived together.” Mrs. Horner, Lawman’s querulous mother, reached by phone, requested that I ask her son “if it would kill him to come for dinner once in a while?” His father, who was busy “watching his stories,” at the time, was unavailable for comment.
I was disappointed by my conversation with Mrs. Horner. I had very much hoped that speaking with Lawman’s parents would help to supplement the little that is currently known about him: Born in 1979 as Herbert Horner in the small town of Stockbridge, Connecticut, it has been established that Lawman was a mediocre student who enjoyed gym class and disliked wearing hats. None of his elementary school music teachers appear to remember much about him, which leaves the initial formation of his tortured genius steeped in mystery. Lawman’s childhood friend, Ben Beasley, with whom he is in sporadic contact, has said in interviews that the young Herman Horner was something of a “dweeb”.
“Not exactly an outcast,” Beasley added, when I met with him in his West Newton, MA apartment. “Like, just a big dork. We weren’t rebelling against anything. We weren’t really a part of much of anything either. We mostly hung out after school and watched TV and ate jello jigglers.”
It is difficult from these small snatches of information to piece together a portrait of who this American Legend really might be. Our exchanges over the course of six interviews were limited by Lawman’s terse, one-word responses, his difficulty understanding certain words, and his fondness for quoting entire scenes from the comedy Space Balls for twenty-minute stretches at a time. While nuanced and vibrantly hilarious, his recitations did not get me any closer to understanding the brilliance that lay beneath those fringed vests and polyester smocks. My time with Lawman was a tantalizing, frustrating glimpse into the world of the maverick genius.
The last time I catch up with Lawman, he is sitting on the stoop of a neighborhood Laundromat.
“I wash my clothes here sometimes,” he says. “I do a lot of thinking here, too.” He stares moodily across the street.
I point out that his shoelaces are untied.
He gazes down slowly.
“Fuck,” he says. “I meant to wash these pants today.”
We both stare moodily at his pants. Later, he will call me to tell me he wrote a song, Dirty Pants, about the incident.
Dear Wall Street,
I wanted to thank you for doing your part to make older Americans feel less marginalized. Thanks to your efforts, those men and women who are close to retirement no longer need exit the workforce and sit on the sidelines. What could they possibly accomplish, spending their twilight years relaxing and reflecting? Where’s the dignity in that? Grandchildren get boring quickly. World travel is overrated. Today’s seniors want more out of retirement than a chance to sit back and enjoy the golden years they spent decades saving for. You’ve given them not only the privilege, but also the absolute necessity, to get back out into the workplace and prove themselves—by showing us they still know how to earn money to buy themselves food and medicine!
You recognize that today’s elders don’t want to slow down! They want to be on the move—working and earning income just like regular Joe forty-something Americans! If you’re only as old as you act, just think how young and spry your average seventy-year-old will feel when he’s earning minimum wage again—just like he did as a teenager! Yes, an abrupt and staggering loss of the retirement savings they spent years cultivating is just the kick in the baggy polyester pants that today’s vibrant elderly population needed! Soon they’ll be back out in the workforce in slow droves, chasing the American dream again—if they can remember where they left it. Competition between three generations of American workers is just the kind of rivalry that will really drive the marketplace!
How difficult can it be to find a decent looking pantsuit (or just a suit-jacket!) that doesn’t make me feel like I raided my mom’s closet?
I need to dress for a job interview, not a tea party with my favorite stuffed animals.
Is it just me, or did Target used to sell clothes that you could wear to work post-college? When did it become Boring Wet Seal? If you’re not on the debate team or going to the library to study for finals and hoping to run into that cute boy from history class, it’s USELESS.
Sigh. This is what happens to me when I start temping again. It isn’t pretty, folks.
Not to mention the fact that the dog is used to having a stay at home mom, and today I left him alone for 10 hours. Why don’t we have a cat? From my understanding, you come home to a cat and if you’re lucky it nods in your direction. The dog wraps himself around my legs while quivering in paroxysms of fear and joy.
“PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME!!!! Whatever I did, I’m sorry! I’m SO SORRY! AAAAUUUUGH PANT PANT PANT DROOL.” I can’t even bring myself to meet the terrible shell-shocked look that is still in his eyes.
Eight hours of data entry and no internet make Molly something-something.
Oh, right. Drink wine!
Studies show that when chocolate tastes like ashes in your mouth, you’re less likely to overeat!
With poverty and unemployment on the rise and a devastating economic crisis threatening our society’s very foundations, the thought of the grim future ahead is pushing many Americans into the depths of despair. So why not drop a few dress sizes on your way down?
Readers, if we know you, you’ve been through your fair share of hard times. Chances are you recall those miserable days through a haze of listless melancholy. What you may not remember is what you ate during those difficult times—probably because food had lost its appeal. As a matter of fact, right this moment, depressed people all around you are shedding pound after pound because in their abject misery, not even eating seems worthwhile. Why let those savvy sad-sacks have all the fun and look great in the latest fashions? We’re here to help you attain their level of miserable apathy—just in time for bathing suit season!
A key inspiration for this diet plan comes from the life and ideas of Jean-Paul Sartre, an influential French philosopher (and you know how skinny the French are!) Sartre—or, as we like to call him, “The Thinking Woman’s Jenny Craig”, knew that life was a never-ending struggle against the paralyzing self-annihilation which comes from complete acknowledgement of the futility of existence. You’d better believe that man could suck all the fun out of a piece of birthday cake. But he wore a size 6 smoking jacket until the day he finally escaped the crushing agony of the responsibility of existence.
In one of Sartre’s most popular works, entitled “Nausea”, he wrote in detail of his character’s fear of being touched by inanimate objects, because of their indifference to him. Inanimate objects made him sad! The very walls around him made him want to toss his existentialist cookies! The guy was a pro. An unfocused but ever-present feeling of nausea is a great way to cut calories. And you barely have to change your lifestyle—just modify the way you view the world around you and your responsibility toward it, and we bet you’ll see proven results within weeks! As your grip on reality loosens, so will your jeans!
Readers, we know how unhappy you are, deep down. Try as you may to forget it as you go about your pointless daily routine, you know that existence is ultimately nothing more than relentless suffering. To be alive is to be constantly teetering on the edge of madness as you contemplate the futility of being. Still see the point of eating breakfast? Maybe you should go bikini-shopping instead.
Keep in mind that your efforts may be derailed if you do not dig down until you find yourself in a place of complete and total misery— that is, if you are merely unhappy. Unhappy people tend to seek comfort in food—and they often find it there, if only temporarily. A box of chocolate-glazed donut holes will offer at least a few moments of lingering solace to a person who has merely had a rough day. If you are following this program correctly, however, donut holes will be unable to move you. In fact, the very concept of donut holes will be devoid of significance, except inasmuch as they represent the missing part of a donut, which reminds you that your capacity to find meaning in life is also missing. You will be aware that the glaze which obscures them is only their way of hiding their pain from the world. There is nothing tasty about it, because it is a sugary coating of lies.
Now you’re thinking like a size 2!
You can now read one of my satire pieces here:
Also I recommend checking out the website because it is deee-licious.
Dear Government,
I have made some bad investment decisions in the past. These include:
-Added applications to my cell phone plan that I rarely use, like “SnoodBlaster” which was only fun for like 10 minutes
-Bought tight pants; accidentally put them in dryer, making them too small to wear again
-Signed up for Netflix, then allowed boyfriend to queue “National Treasure 2: Book of Secrets”
I realize now that these were bad choices, but there is no way for me to recoup my losses for any of them. I would like you to consider the fact that if I go bankrupt as the result of continued bad decisions like these, it could affect millions of other American investments and lives. It probably won’t– I’m just saying, you never know. Please bail me out? I only need about ten billion dollars. I promise to make it worth your while.
Sincerely,
Molly
It’s so wonderful and momentous to be able to cast my vote for a woman in the presidential election! I was all set to vote for Hillary earlier on in the race, and then that chance was taken away from me. As a woman, I wasn’t sure what to do. I really wanted to vote for someone who shares my gender—men have always gotten to do that! I thought it was finally my turn!
Now that John McCain has chosen Sarah Palin as his running mate, I know who I am going to support. A woman, like me! And she’s a former beauty queen! I’m glad Sarah knows that looking beautiful is another important way for a woman to achieve recognition. She had such a lovely up-do at their press conference— no wonder John McCain could hardly meet her eyes! He was probably nervous being around such a pretty lady. Plus, I don’t think they’ve spent very much time together yet, so I can understand him feeling a bit shy. I’m sure she’ll do what she can to make him feel comfortable with her.
Since she’s a former “hockey mom”, I am glad I can rely on Ms. Palin to be sensitive to the challenges faced by hundreds of hockey moms every day. Rising uniform prices have burdened families who have children who play hockey. It’s time we tackle the issues that are truly important to the American people. It makes me feel good knowing that Sarah Palin is sure to address my growing concerns—with the economy, health care, and rising unemployment—since we are both women.
Lastly, I am thrilled that the future vice president knows how to balance having a family with having a career. Not just any woman would answer an unexpected call to join the race for the presidency four months after giving birth. Never mind the disabled, premature new baby Sarah—America needs you more! Thanks for reminding me again of the importance of family values.
I Heard Tell 