Zak Starkey, Dhani Harrison, Sean Lennon, and Sir Paul McCartney have united for a summer tour and possibly an album in the fall as The Beatles, Jr.! (Julian Lennon may sit in on some of the dates as well!)
"We asked Sir Paul's son James McCartney to join, but he just released his first solo album and he's already on tour and wasn't available, so we thought what the hell, let's see if Sir Paul will do it and, surprise, he was up for it," said Dhani, "but he only plays bass, we don't let him handle any vocals. James could still link up with us after his tour, we're keeping our fingers crossed."
Zak chimed in with "We were going to go with Sons Of The Beatles or maybe Beatlesons, but when Sir Paul joined, and yes, he makes us call him that, it didn't feel like a good fit anymore. I suggested The Beatles: The Next Generation, but nobody liked the mix of cultural references, so The Beatles, Jr. it is."
The set list is going to be a mix of old Beatles songs and new things they've written together, as well as a short set aimed at the people who will inevitably call this a cash grab. "We're planning on doing our version of the Rutlles "All You Need Is Cash," Spinal Tap's "(Gimme Some) Money," and a song my dad loved to cover with the original Beatles "Money (That's What I Want)," said Sean, "hopefully fans will get the irony and if not then at least buy tickets to the shows."
Ringo couldn't be reached for comment as he was busy with his next All-Starr show, but he likely would have said something upbeat, humorous and supportive.
They start out at The Hollywood Bowl on July, 1st and move across the US before setting their sites on Europe and beyond. Good luck to 'em I say, any Beatles is good Beatles, but only time will tell if this really will be the New Fab Four or merely just The Dung Beetles.
If the raised fist in today's column looks familiar, it may be due to the fact it has been a part of some of the most important moments in world history.
Does anybody remember the Bolshevik Revolution? That one fist rising above the crowd? Yep,that's our photogenic friend in all his youthful glory. How about that fist that wanted an end to the war in Vietnam? Pretty sure that was the work of this fist. Anyone familiar with something called the fall of Communism and the Berlin Wall, the million man march, the Pullman Strike, the overthrow of any and all dictatorships in the last 50 years? Who do you think was there to observe these historically life changing events? Uh, somebody named Mr. Raised Fist, thank you very much!
Oh, sure, some have tried to smear his name and reputation by saying they are pretty sure they have only seen him at meaningless sporting events and at Nickelback concerts when phones and lighters are in short supply, but we beg to differ. You see we stand by our belief that this raised fist is not just a hand model seeking employment as a hand puppeteer or a hand actor, we know that this is the fist that, clenched together, represents all of us and none of us, heading towards the heavens in an attempt to end every bad thing that ever happened or is about to happen to mankind. So, raise your fist to This Raised Fist, because, without it, we would merely be hands wildly grasping for the sky, lost in our daily struggles to be noticed. Yes, dare I say it, a raised hand never to be called on again.
Earth to You Guys: I wanted to get a few things off my crust.
I know you are planning on celebrating Earth Day today by having some kid plant an almost dead tree next to a sad tetherball pole or recycling the same promises you made to me last year, like I was a voter in a presidential election year. I just wanted to tell you that Earth is no longer the final frontier and not the least bit interested in sharing the bill with wind and fire. Do we understand each other?
First of all, stop using the term green revolution, when your idea of a green revolution is putting lettuce on your supersized Big Mac. You people wouldn't know a revolution if it was coming up the street on a float made out of reuseable energies and Inconvenient Truths and Slight Embellishments. Your idea of an energy policy is one run by Frick and Frack the oil equivalent of the Koch brothers, and, guess what, things don't go better with Koch.
In closing, please pick up your crap on the side of the road if you don't want the rest of the universe looking at us like we're characters in a Miranda Lambert song. Pollution, like smoking, does not make you look cool. I am also not thrilled about your toxic wastes and nuclear threats and I am not talking about the synopsis to another MTV reality show. So this Earth Day do something that matters to me like leaving me alone with my thoughts and my resources. That way I get a day of peace and you don't have to feel obligated to do anything more than drive your SUV to the local gas station to fill up on inferior fossil fuels and news from the Sell Oil Gas TV station.
This scientist isn't just any scientist. He's the wave of future scientists for he looks at things quite differently than you and I.
He may look at that newfangled device you're holding in your hand and be able to tell you if it is part of the world of science or, in fact, a threat to the general population according to Captain Scary Voice and all the other wonderful people who reside inside the mind of this scientist.
This scientist probably graduated from a college or a university that has the most updated laboratory equipment and technological advances. Was that a television console I spotted in his office? This scientist can look at anything and see it differently due to the fascinating and sometimes confounding world that we live in today. A world created by science.
The tasteless leather sofa in the unmemorable apartment complex may be more than just an eyesore.
The Sofa Sage says the only thing standing between us and the Russians is a thin strip of land and a piece of water that's hardly worth mentioning. What else will this fiery combination of Nostradamus, Isaiah, and Fred in marketing provide for our worldview?
Sure, he looks like a guy you'd ignore at sparsely attended after hours get togethers, but once you get past the stunned look and bland wardrobe you know you are dealing with more than a tech troubleshooter in quality control.
More details on this phenomena as they come into our headquarters.
The name's Reilly Earl Dunnigan, but down at the pub they call me Red, and I am everybody's Irish setter. I wanted to take this time to apologize for some things that have happened over the years that have been blamed on the Irish or at least people who want to believe they're Irish on St. Patrick's Day.
We, the Irish, apologize for boiling all kinds of things, tossing in potatoes and calling it stew, shepherd's pie and good for you in any way.
We, apologize for leprechauns, unicorns, Daniel Day Lewis and anything else that only exists in our fertile imaginations.
We apologize for pennywhistles, bagpipes, Bono and any other shrill instruments that I don't ever want to hear again. That goes double for any song that yells out "Hey, Ho " or sounds like it was written by a third grader with a limited vocabulary. Hey, ho, hey ho, it's off the charts you go. Cursed be The Lumineers and Mumford and Sons. They aren't even Irish.
We apologize for the Kennedys because we know they won't do it on their own.
We apologize for Flogging Molly, The Fighting Irish, Dropkicking Murphy, Leghumping Enya and any supposed acts of aggression that somehow involve us or a distant cousin on the side of my dear Irish mother.
We apologize for all celtic music specials on PBS involving those sisters that look like they've never blinked in their life.
We apologize for James Joyce, James Galway, Jamisons and any other James that has led you astray. While we're at it, we apologize for our luck and irish charm, which is always magically delicious, like the sole of an old stinky running shoe. I digress.
We apologize for pretty much anything that involves damaged property, inappropriate wedding toasts, and that time we did that one thing to your front door and blamed it on that other guy who lives down the street even though he played his part in the whole evening going south, like every episode of Shameless or a second date with my sister, Colleen.
That last one is from me and my honest Irish setter heart.
We hope you accept our apology and know that we plan on changing our ways if you let us keep our chewy toys and that doll without the head. A good day to you, and may the good lord take a liking to you and keep you knee deep in slobbery old steak bones, claddagh rings, and Irish oatmeal.
From The Desk Of Walter's Brain:
I stopped saying “bless you” to people when they sneeze.
I used to be a big bless you guy, jumping in mid-sneeze before the spittle even settled. Dutifully blessing total strangers, if necessary, calling out into crowds sometimes, blanketing the room to catch the anonymous sneezer, leaving no expectoration unacknowledged. Not to single out anyone’s deity, I went with the non-secular bless you and left the God part to someone else.
It’s an old custom; it’s polite. It’s up there with “please” and “thank you” and “your zipper’s open.” It’s the thing to do.
Then I started thinking about it.
One theory says, a long time ago, back when we all wore buckles on our hats, we believed “bless you” could ward off the Black Plague. Another theory says people thought demons would somehow occupy our body or our soul or our sinuses, I guess, whenever we sneezed. Commanding God to bless the sneezer soon after warded off the devil spawn and kept the hay fever sufferer demon-free. “Prithee kind sir, whilst I work my magic and keep thee absent of nasal imps.” Or something like that.
Which made me think some more:
Okay, there might be a God out there someplace, but demons? I’m not so sure. I can’t say I possess that kind of expertise. And battling evil spirits who can jump into your very soul the split second between Ahhh and Chooo, that’s really outside my skill set. I certainly don’t feel I wield the kind of power it’d take to keep them at bay so I stopped pretending I did.
I stopped saying: “bless you.”
And now there’s this huge empty space after the sneeze when the sneezer looks at me, waiting, waiting, narrowing their eyes after they don’t get the expected response. They’re thinking: Hey, what’s gotten into this guy?
I don’t know, demons, maybe?
What you freakin' lookin' at?
What am I , a dog to you?
Do I amuse you?
Do you think I want my belly rubbed?
Go Scratch!
I gotta see a guy up in Jersey about a thing and a couple of dolls in Philly who make great leash candy, if you know what I mean. You do know what I mean, don't you? Jesus, a guy wins first prize in a dog contest and he never hears the end of it. Oh, and tell Bobby The Pug to keep his smushed in puss away from my daughter's backside.
From The Desk Of Walter's Brain:
Whenever I see one of those big guys, those beefy athletic guys, not roly-poly chubby guys, but stocky ex-high school jocks, that kind of guy. Every time I see one of them coming my way, especially in shorts, I think: “Man if I were ever stranded on a deserted island, no food, and had to resort to cannibalism, I’d sure like to have a guy like that along.”
Okay, I’m not a big fan of cannibalism, don’t get me wrong, I’m not a practicing cannibal; I don’t make a habit of it. But I respect it as a lifestyle choice, I guess, like vegans or the Rotary, if that’s your thing. So if the situation ever came up, if I was ever pressed into making that decision, and it’d be a tough one: eat human flesh or starve in the Andes, I really want to have a big beefy guy nearby.
I’m not thinking about his ass at this point, this meal ticket, when he’s lumbering toward me, though that’s where the biggest chunk of meat is, the rump roast. I’m not imagining that to be a tasty morsel. I’m turning my head to the side; I’m looking at his calves. I’m eyeing those two big drumsticks, those huge Fred Flintstone drumsticks. I’m picturing Wilma serving them to me on a giant, prehistoric dinner plate that tips my car on its side.
There’s no real point to the supermodel matchstick gams. Nice to look at, sure, but save those for the first course, the hors d’oeuvre platter. No, give me the six hours on the Stair Master ham-hocks, that softball-in-the-park, honkin’ juicy dark meat.
Think about it the next time you get on a plane. Switch seats with your fellow passengers until you’re next to the beefiest guy in the cabin. He may come in handy!
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