Obviously Crispin Glover has been on our radar, though perhaps unidentified, since we here at deadman/party were mere pups. Perhaps we did not know the name of the man who gave George McFly life (and an laugh impossible to imitate) but we all know character as one of the greatest of all time. As we grow older we realize that Mr. Glover has played variations on the real fucking weirdo theme for his whole career and that Mr. Glover himself is probably a real fucking weirdo. We mean this in the nicest possible way, not in the starved-for-attention-my-name-is-Batshit-check-out-my-silver-dreads-and-fuzzy-pants way nor do we mean it in the I-drink-my-own-urine-and-have-sex-whilst-wearing-diapers way. How he took oblivious depictions of modern teenagers on the page and slyly acted them into satire in films like River’s Edge and Friday the 13th: The Final Chapter is proof enough for us that he is at the very least interesting and intelligent. Using an entire cast afflicted with Down’s syndrome is just plain outer limits.
Really, can you even imagine doing anything with this guy, much less drinking? Surely he would show up to the bar with his collection of eyeballs and tomes written in Sanskrit. But what if there is dancing? Or perhaps karaoke? Somehow we are convinced that there is no way the night could go but terrifyingly, horribly, wonderfully awry.