We here at deadman/party are not the most fashionable of men (our knowledge is about as current as the copy of GQ they have at the dentist’s office) but we know enough to know when enough is enough. And we hope to throw Christian Audigier under a bus. Mr. Audigier is responsible for not only the Von Dutch trucker hat–accessory to the most annoying bitches of all time and one step away from the leather cowboy hat–he is also the man behind the Ed Hardy line of apparel abominations. Please understand that we are not the type of people to scoff at quasi high-fashion because we don’t work enough hours as claims adjusters to be able to afford it; nor are we the type that thinks that Rustler jeans and a GAP sweatshirt make a suitable outfit for a first date, we just find spending 85 dollars on a t-shirt mass produced by a ‘lifestyle brand’ sickening.
The Von Dutch cheese-grater, mesh-back or, as it is now commonly known, trucker hat is an interesting piece of American fashion. For a brief period in the early 2000’s it was common enough to see this hat on scummy types cultivating that ‘white trash’ vibe. Then, suddenly, the human elite that is Hollywood began wearing such hats with a patch that said ‘Von Dutch.’ Immediately every don’t-be-jealous asshole in America that could afford a $60 hat was wearing one. Eventually the hats found their way to TJ Maxx and the saturation was too complete even for those with more money than taste. Luckily Mr. Audigier’s bird-brain was fast at work, but rather than exploiting Kustom Kulture (and a man who hated money), he cleverly exploited Sailor Jerry’s Rum. So now every tanned asshole in $200 jeans made to fit over an adult diaper is sporting an Ed Hardy t-shirt. Unless they are a female tanned asshole, in which case they are sporting a sequined Ed Hardy t-shirt. If only we could send some sort of death tone to every bluetooth in America.
And the man himself, well he is proud to have ‘created’ (?) the trucker hat trend and the ‘lifestyle of street couture.’ Also, he is very proud of the over 5000 celebs that wear his trash. His website even has photos of all the people we admire for their contributions to human history (Liza Minelli, Brittany Spears, DJ Clue, Fergie, etc.) and a bunch of people we have never heard of (who are they? reality stars? celebrity gossip bloggers? people on VH1?) wearing his brands. The very idea that we would be so impressed by these arguments for abortion wearing Mr. Audigier’s trash makes us feel like screaming at a wall. This punch heard round the world will be for everyone who understands that more money does not make you a better person, it just amplifies how unjust it is for you to be breathing our precious air.
We must admit we feel a certain hesitancy about this post. To date, the entire roster of deadman/party beered musicians consists of Mike Love, Phil Collins, Ludacris, and Neil Young. All upstanding gentlemen to be sure, but not exactly indicators that we are particularly cool or have heard any music (save Luda) in the last 20 years. Still, we can’t help but throw our support behind the smoothest chanteuse we know of, Sade.
Aside from her good looks, it is difficult to explain exactly why we love Sade so much. Her music contains nearly lethal doses of smooth jazz, which ranks as our least favorite genre of music (well, do pop-punk covers of 80’s hits constitute an entire genre?) and she is beloved by an especially obnoxious brand of liberal yuppie who think that listening to a Nigerian born singer means they are into world music. In spite of ourselves, we can’t help but surrender to her husky, honey soaked alto and those easy repetitive grooves. Try to spend 15 minutes listening to Sade songs and see if you can get those damn things out of your head (spoiler alert: you can’t).
We aren’t the sort of lads who have a secret cabinet full of scented candles and oils used to dish out erotic massages, but if we ever decide to get a cabinet like that, rest assured that it will include a Sade mix cd (we must note that there is a distinct possibility that in jamming to “The Sweetest Taboo” while doing the dishes we are actually creepier than the silk bikini-briefed fellow listening to it while giving his lady a sensual rub down). Sade’s tunes are just about the smoothest things on earth. If you are in the kind of mood where listening to Steely Dan’s Gaucho or the assorted works of James Ingram more of an aural assault than you can handle, pump up the Sade and let quiet storm roll over you. Damn that shit is smooth.
In addition to creating an entire catalogue of smooth masterpieces, Sade (if her 80’s video output is to be believed) is an avid equestrian. The bulk of her videos feature at least one shot of her burning through the desert atop her trusty steed. Her horseback riding is the perfect compliment to the whole Romancing the Stone vibe she was cultivating in those days and even though we should know better, we admit the whole exotic post-colonial thing was pretty fun for awhile. It probably came pretty naturally to her, being born in Nigeria to an African father and English mother and raised in London. Not cringe inducing like the “Hungry Like the Wolf” video at least. We have a hunch that Sade doesn’t even drink beer, but we want to buy her something. Maybe a nice cognac? Something smooooooth.
Neil Young is the type of grumpy old man we here at deadman/party aspire to be, the type that has been ornery his whole life. The earliest moment we know of was the infamous Woodstock incident in which he told whoever was filming CSN&Y, and we quote, “One of you fuckin’ guys comes near me and I’m gonna fuckin’ hit you with my guitar.” We find this to be the perfect balance between celebrity (CSN&Y at Woodstock for goodness sakes!) and refusing celebrity (but not refusing it in some sort of Billy Corgan, “waaaaaa, stop looking at me like I’m a freak. Boo-Hoo, The Elephant Man is my favorite movie. I shaved my head!”). Mr. Young was again captured angry in his Live at Massey Hall recording, sternly telling a photographer to stop taking pictures of him as it messed him up. Somehow it comes off as cantankerous and badass more than the way in which Eddie Vedder admonishes ‘Josh’ to turn down the lights because ‘it’s not a t.v. studio it’s a rock concert’ in the music video for Even Flow. Something about Mr. Young just seems more manly than Mr. Vedder. Maybe because he is not as pretty.
Mr. Young also collects two things that we admire, guitars and cars, but both in a way that treads the fine line between decadent and manly. He has enough guitars to devote a section of his website to them which, unlike Steven Seagal, he does not. (Though he does find quite a lot of space to devote to how much he hates Bush and the Iraq war, enough space to make him the hero of any liberal arts college in America.) And unlike Steven Seagal, his guitars are famous because they once belonged to Neil Young. With the exception of one that belonged to Hank Williams. We will accept that homage. Another proof of Mr. Young’s fire and ice mentality is his love of old cars and his efforts to make them green. There is definitely some sort of penis-directed yearn in all of us to praise old Detroit rolling stock, though our politics demand we like something much better for the world but much more pussy, like a Prius. Lucky for us, Mr. Young is forging the path of ridiculous mid-life crisis autos that run on ethanol.
Getting a beer with Mr. Young would certainly be at some sort of dimly lit dive bar where they let you smoke cigarettes somewhere in the Central Coast. And from there it would go one of two ways: either a many beers, swapping stories late into the night or some sort of cosmic jam session at some strange dude named Kripsy’s bunker/recording studio near the beach. Playing folk tunes for about three days straight. Either way would be great, as long as no one mentions Chaney.
We at deadman/party got off on a bad foot (boot?) with Hulk Hogan. Mr. Hogan became a wrestling superstar by defeating Andre the Giant in Wrestlemania III and though we have never been big wrestling fans, we always preferred the massive size and wit of Mr. the Giant to Hogan’s flag waiving and vitamin taking. Still, the Hulkster’s hot guitar licks, association with Rick Derringer, and baffling “Hollywood” Hogan beard were enjoyable enough. Whether co-starring with Sly Stallone in Rocky III or a boat in Thunder in Paradise (this series provided the inspiration for our friends to form the much loved but nearly completely forgotten band Speed Boat and the Hulk Hogans, a musical ensemble with a man in a cardboard speed boat suit for a lead singer and three instrumentalists dressed as Hulkamaniacs), the Hulk’s earlier “acting” endeavors were good for a chuckle. Our distaste for Mr. Hogan is not a result of his exploits on the mat or previous work in movies and t.v., but rather his more recent entry into the reality television arena.
On some level, Ozzy Osbourne’s brood is to blame for the “you people in middle America think we are strange and evil but really we are a loving family” approach to reality television. Following in the footsteps of “The Osbournes” came a deluge of clones featuring such luminaries as Snoop Doggy Dogg, Gene Simmons, Dee Snider, and of course the Hogans. The main problem with “Hogan Knows Best” (aside from being almost completely unwatchable) is that the “we are really a loving family” meme falls pretty flat when the family in question is one platinum blonde disaster after another. Are we really supposed to buy Mr. Hogan’s overprotective, “no boys near my daughter” act when he stands idly by during her Maxim photo shoot or when she has a stripper pole installed in her apartment or he attends her Spring Break (SPRING BREAK!!!) foam party? Sorry man, the proof is in the pudding and in this case, your bikini-clad daughter is wrestling in the damn pudding.
Currently, Hulk is the star of “Hulk Hogan’s Celebrity Championship Wrestling” and although we have managed to avoid this show to date, we feel pretty confident that we aren’t missing too much and have seen enough of Screech, Danny Bonaduce, and Todd Bridges fighting (or doing anything for that matter) to satisfy our appetites for the foreseeable future. We are well aware that Mr. Hogan could probably snap each of our heads off like a dandelion, but we are still willing to at least attempt to tear our shirts off and punch him in the face.
Anyone that has spent any time at all in Wisconsin certainly needs to read no further than this: Brett Favre, more than any football player in history deserves to be solidly punched in his big dumb face. We realize that without close examination he may seem like a lovable guy; so loved that half of the overweight, drunk-driving(fifth time’s a charm!) morons who support the Packers are suddenly more inclined to follow the Jets because ‘you just gotta support Brett.’ But this does not speak to his popularity, rather this speaks to a colossal ego that has surpassed any notion of team. Then again, Mr. Favre has the good fortune to be a white athlete so it’s not an ego, rather it’s a firm knowledge of self-worth. He’s as real as Usinger Bratwurst.
If one looks at the 1991 Atlanta Falcons team picture they will find Mr. Favre strangely absent though he was on the roster. He couldn’t make it to his job that day because he was too hungover. Everyone has been there, right? Later in his career Mr. Favre admitted that he was a junkie of the prescription pain killer kind. But anyone who has had his or her wisdom teeth removed can understand the draw of the occasionally opiate. No big deal. And to be fair, it is what the athlete does on the field that counts, unless you are talking about the grit (GRIT!) that allows a man play a game days after his father dies and manage to beat the Oakland Raiders. That grit is everywhere. Or the absolute tenacity that allows one to play his whole career missing some intestines, not that anyone knows if missing a fraction of one’s intestines really makes a difference in any aspect of life other than the time it takes from ingestion to evacuation.
We will not deny that Brett Favre is a very good quarterback. He holds many prestigious records and, like Jim McMahon, Trent Dilfer and Brad Johnson, Mr. Favre has won one Super Bowl. Always the class-act, he laid down and gave Michael Strahan that single season sack record. Which somehow did not make it seem like a gift, cheapening the effort and making a record as much about Mr. Favre as it is about the man who actually worked all season to break it. And what of when he was shut out for the first time in his then 16 year old career? Again proving his mettle Mr. Favre stormed off the field without speaking to reporters, not because he was acting like a spoiled brat, but because he had to stoically go about mowing his own lawn or some other such activity that men do. And his indecision three years in a row as to whether or not he would return to football. Which was not only annoying, it was supremely unfair to the Green Bay football club that had been so supportive for his career. The Packers were not able to prepare during the off-season because they had no fucking idea whether or not the big baby would be back. For two years in a row. And then he retires the third, no, whoops, mistake, he’s back! Not a selfish man, not Brett. Simply a man that loves football soooooo much retiring or returning is all he could think about.
Not to mention the fact that word around Green Bay is that Sir Brett is a supreme asshole, or the fact that he has forced talented coaches and players out of Green Bay, or the fact that he can’t sell a shitty pair of jeans without a fucking Golden Retreiver or the fact that he used his charity as a platform for his retirement drama or the fact that the Jets did not make the playoffs yet again (and others are pointing some serious blame) or that he is not Peyton Manning.
To be honest we here at deadman/party love the early films of Mr. Seagal, the quartet of low-brow odes to masculinity that precede Under Siege. There is perhaps nothing finer than watching a grown man play pretend and then lay to waste ten men, not altogether or even two at a time, but ten men one by one by one. But we must punch this bloated sack of stupidity, though not for the low satisfaction of deflating a gasbag that thinks he is suuuuuch a tough guy.
A lifetime of self-mocking commercials made long after relevance cannot change how unspeakably awful an actor is. In fact, Mr. Seagal’s desperate pleas for acceptance (and attention) make him all the more disgusting. It isn’t that we do not appreciate self mockery, it just seems a little sour when the last twenty-three movies he has made–this is twenty-three out of a grand total of thirty-five–have gone straight to DVD. Certainly he did not feel so humble at the height of his career when he uttered, “I am hoping that I can be known as a great writer and actor some day, rather than a sex symbol.” Keep reaching for that rainbow buddy.
What may be more amazing than his failed attempt to emulate Orson Welles is how he shows “his deep love and care for others is exemplified in his commitment to do his part to make this a better world.” The above is taken directly from the Philanthropy page of his website, which is next to the page featuring his collection of “classics [and] some of today’s hottest axes” complete with a teenager’s bragging descriptions of just how rare each guitar is. He saved a puppy in a garbage bag thrown out of a car window in the movie where he murders somewhere in the neighborhood of 45 people in order to exact his revenge on the man who killed his friend, aptly titled Out for Justice. And he also made a movie in which he murders a bunch of people in Alaska for harming the earth. Not to be confused with the movie in which he murders a bunch of people for harming the earth in Montana and the other movie in which he murders a bunch of people for harming the earth in Kentucky. It is obvious that no one has a tighter grip on the teachings of the Buddha than Steven Seagal, except perhaps a stoned college student.
And besides being an accomplished martial artist, writer, director, producer and activist Mr. Seagal has also committed the greatest sin any actor can commit: claiming to be a musician. And not just any type of musician but a blues musician, if you can call this the blues. More surreal than a Fellini picture, the video was once described by an acquaintance as “R&B, or at least Steven Seagal’s version of it, accompanied by images of him marrying his Thai child bride.” Perhaps worse, his albums are entitled Mojo Priest and Crystal Cave, enough even to make the members of Ten Gallon Sack (every Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday Night down at Snappers. Dollar Drafts on Tuesday!) blush. Anyone interested in knowing more can click here.
But before this turns into a book (or sutra, if you will) we must finally declare our intentions to attack him and punch him, not one by one, but as an editorial board for the first time in his life.
David Lynch may be a little too weird and a little to college for us to offer him a beer (though this is amazing). Not that we would having anything against getting a beer with a midget, giant or one armed man by themselves but toasting the greatness of Fidelio with all three and Mr. Lynch in the middle of a red-draped taxidermy studio may be beyond our collective enjoyment at this moment. However we would much enjoy grabbing a cold one with his muse for the better part of a decade, Kyle MacLachlan.
Though we may have thought the first time we watched Blue Velvet that Mr. MacLachlan was nothing but a pretty face (amazingly pretty), we later came to understand that the wooden acting was a stylistic choice rather than a lack of ability. For watching him as Agent Dale Cooper we are consistently amused and drawn to his pretty, pretty face. And surely he is the only person besides Paul Verhoven involved in Showgirls that we could even tolerate for a second. How he let Elizabeth Berkely thrash about his muscled body without completely losing his shit is beyond us. Allow us at least one drink to salute his walking out of the premiere.
Outside of his career Mr. MacLachlan has a devotion to his dogs which is commendable. Though we at deadman/party would not condone the videos, voiceovers and website–which is enough to make your average Minnesotan, elastic waistband jean wearing, basket collecting mother blush–we all do love our four-legged friends and appreciate his devotion to them. And we also like that he at least pretends to run his own website and runs it with a humility rare in Hollywood. Also, he makes wine. Which is something all men pretend to want to do “if only we had the time.” The home brew kit we got last Christmas currently gathering dust in the corner is piffle compared to this awesome achievement.
Yes, it is obnoxious how hard he milks Twin Peaks to shill everything from canned coffee to Vodaphone. And we don’t much care for Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants or Desperate Housewives either. But he is so handsome. Even if he turns out to be obnoxious and megalomaniacal we could at least stare at those long eyelashes and listen to that soothing voice as we slowly sip our beers.