Bob Odenkirk - A Load of Hooey

HOW I MET MR. WALL-OF-SOUND

Fifteen years ago, I was working at the Fatburger on Santa Monica Boulevard, seating people (not an official position, as they reminded me every five minutes), when his Phil-ness came in with bodyguards at three a.m. to get a chili-egg-pizza burger. I immediately put some of his songs on the juke and won him over with my grins and head-bops in his direction. He could tell I was a fan, and what’s more, that I was unencumbered by employment or responsibility, and so he invited me back to his “castle” at Alta Loma. I got in that limo and never looked back. (I was facing the back of the limo, so I would have been looking forward if I looked “back.”)

That first night was a party that has (metaphorically) continued to this day (it’s Tuesday as I write this). Sir Phil took me home. There were a couple of nasty hookers whose names shall remain unremembered, and the party started Spector-style when Phil playfully brandished a gun, playfully herded us into a listening room, and playfully wouldn’t let us leave until we heard his Christmas album ten times in a row.

Since that time there have been many actual (non-metaphorical) parties, too many to recount. But they have all had that same exciting mix of “hail fellow well met” and “I’m gonna shoot you if you don’t do what I tell you” energy, blended just so, everything “pushed to its limit”: an experience I have come to call the WALL OF FUN.

Let me testify to his character. Phil has only shot me three times in ten years. Granted, he has shot AT me around fifteen times, and granted he has shot at the walls and ceiling near me approximately thirty-seven times, but when you take into account how many times he has shot a gun off around me, or, more important, how often he has merely brandished a gun in my presence (125 times), then being shot three times is not very much. Keep in mind — we were partying . This was a GOOD time.

dreaming of his beep-boop

Now, if you’ll get off your high horse for a moment, I will let you in on something else. Of the three times that Phil has shot me, he has only killed me TWICE, and of the only two times he has killed me, he has only shot me in the face ONCE, and, sorry to step on your sick fantasies — he has never had sex with my corpse. It goes without saying that as I am writing this, I have been revived — brought back from the dead — every single time Phil Spector has killed me. Uh-oh, did I rain on your parade? Boo-hoo. I’m so sorry.

I’ll tell you some more secrets that may ruin your simplistic assumptions. Phil only shoots near you or at you if you’re already a friend. That’s right. You’re not a true pal until you’ve been “tapped.” It’s an honor. See, he lives by a code. He never shoots in anger, only in fun: when he’s partying, or working, or when you’re in the same room with him.

WAS IT ALL WORTH IT?

Phil’s talent and contributions to American music far outweigh his murderous and threatening behavior. One thing that’s often been overlooked is how important the “wall of sound” is to American music. The wall of sound has generated some of the greatest records of the last forty years. These are songs that play on the radio constantly, and especially in nostalgia-themed diners. It’s an inspired sound, and listening to those records often makes you nod your head in brief recognition before you go back to eating your burger and worrying if your car is being ticketed. What a gift he’s given us!

The point is, my Hollywood friend is no longer free to roam and party and shoot at me, so you’ll have to excuse me if I seem kind of down. I’m not. I just don’t feel as jumpy as I did when my pal was around. Miss ya, Phil, thanks for (mostly) missin’ me.

Kisses.

Gunshots.

When asked by an associate “How long should a man’s legs be?” Abraham Lincoln thoughtfully responded, “ Long enough to reach the ground! ” Then, after another think, he added, “They have to make it up high enough to reach his torso, as well. Basically, they must go from the base of the stomach to the shoes…and the feet should fill the shoes completely. Did I mention the knees? One for each leg should do the trick. Yes, that’s good enough for me — frankly, I’m more interested in his ass—” And at this the great lawyer was cut off.

IF I HAD MY LIFE TO LIVE OVER AGAIN

If I had my life to live over, I’d dare to make more mistakes.

I’d risk more, go out on a limb. I’d take longer walks, feed the ducks in the park.

I’d wear thicker socks, and eat more ice cream.

More ice cream — and a better brand of ice cream.

With a higher fat count .

Gourmet ice cream.

In fact, I would stick mostly to gelatos.

I would notice every bird and give it a name,

and write that name in a tiny notebook.

But let me return to the issue of ice cream.

I wouldn’t confine myself

to national brands.

I would travel the countryside eating the regional equivalent of premium ice creams.

And if I were eating ice cream with you, I would steal yours when you looked away.

If you never looked away, I would badger you through the entire feast—

“Are you going to finish that? Are you done? I’ll finish it if you don’t.”

Until you gave in.

For, you see, I have been one of those people who eats an entire box of “lite” ice cream

with fewer calories!

Who orders three scoops of ice cream and says, “Make one of them sorbet!”

Who offers to share the “death by chocolate” dessert.

I have even eaten an entire box of “dietetic” ice cream sandwiches

in one sitting.

What was I thinking? I should have just eaten the regular kind of ice cream sandwiches. I have even eaten popsicles when there was a Häagen-Dazs retail outlet nearby.

I did that twice.

Believe me, I remember.

But if I had to do it all over again,

I would eat even more.

And I can’t restate this enough:

A higher fat count.

In fact, forget that stuff I said at the top about walking in the park

and the bird-naming dealy.

If I had my life to live over again, I would focus on the getting and eating of ice cream.

I n the midst of the Freedom Riders summer, King was called upon to give a speech at the Rock of Abernathy Baptist Church in Abernathy, Mississippi. It was a hot summer, even for Mississippi, and King had had weeks to prepare this speech, but for some reason he dillydallied. If he was betting on rising to the occasion, he lost that bet .

People in attendance that day remember the speech as “the opposite of a shining moment” and “terrible.” Abernathy’s Reverend Fulton Slocum dismissed it as “a total waste of everyone’s time .”

While there is no medical proof, King scholars have ascribed his complete oratorical failure to “possibly low blood sugar” or “simply the greatest brain fart ever .”

Here, then, is a transcript of Martin Luther King Jr.’s worst speech ever .

LOOK UPON THINE FLYING EYEBALLS

by M.L.K. JR.

As transcribed, verbatim, from the actual event .

Uhh. Um. Hello. Hi. I was not told I would be speaking today, but, I guess — I’m Martin Luther King, I’m invited to a church, should’ve put two and two together.