Shoot the Sherbet

So my late grandmother always used to say this when she was upset about something. Rather than swearing or yelling, she’d say, “Shoot the sherbet!” My cousin Jess and I would play cards against her as kids and if we’d beat her in King’s Corners or something, she’d actually get upset and say, “Shoot the sherbet!” as she threw her cards down.

Sometimes she was just being funny, but other times she was legitimately upset. My grandmother was a competitive card player. She was good. (Although she was known to try and cheat against Jess and I.) My grandfather, dad, and uncles would always play poker down in the basement and on the occasions that my grandmother would sit in with them, she would often rake it in. I miss those poker games. There was something pretty special about sitting nearby the card table while The Mills Brothers or Don Ho records played in the other room. The sound of those cheap plastic poker chips rattling on the middle of my grandfather’s handmade octagon poker table is still one of my favorite sounds.

I have the honor of being the owner of that table now. As we speak it sits in my kitchen. It’s heavier than my stove and the felt is a little torn in the middle, but it’s probably the most priceless thing I own, as far as I’m concerned.

Anyway, the reason I bring this up is because since the birth of The Finalists, I’ve wanted to write a song called “Shoot the Sherbet.”

This really probably isn’t exactly what my grandmother (or anyone in my family) might have imagined this to sound like were they to anticipate me writing a song with this title, but nevertheless, this is what I’ve come up with so far:

UPDATE (4.28.06): I’ve taken to heart the comments from my sister and my Miss Monk and I think some changes are in order. See below:

Shoot the Sherbet

Why am I to crazies what broth is to soup?
I can’t escape reality, without knowing the truth?
It’s probably who I am, it’s the way I behave.
It’s my own fault — it’s the nuts I seem to crave.

Shoot the sherbet, you really piss me off.
Shoot the sherbet, you don’t read Nabikov.
Shoot the sherbet, you really piss me off. just a little bit.
Shoot the freakin’ sherbet, why won’t you just fuck off? I’m so angry I could spit.

But one too many is one too few.
But maybe just one more will finally do.
Though escape is pretty doubtful, that much is clearly true.
Shoot the freakin’ sherbet, is what I say to you.

Shoot the sherbet, you really piss me off.
Shoot the sherbet, don’t knock Rachmaninov.
Shoot the sherbet, you really piss me off. I’m gonna have a fit.
Shoot the freakin’ sherbet, why won’t you just fuck off? I’m so angry I could spit.

(bridge)
You were priced to sell.
So you was bought.
For a buck fitty-nine one mighta thought
that you was busted. A dud.
But you isn’t.
You make that clever little sound with your mouth,
oh yeah it’s called talking.
Conversation.
We had it.
Once — was I drunk?
Who woulda thunk?

Shoot the sherbet, you really piss me off.
Shoot the sherbet, don’t knock Rachmaninov. Mikael Barishnikov
Shoot the sherbet, you really piss me off. Kenneth Brannaugh is a Brit.
Shoot the freakin’ sherbet, why won’t you just fuck off? I’m so angry I could spit.

The fact of the matter isn’t a matter of fact.
The thing of it is that you and I had a pact.
A deal. A bargain. A plan of of attack.
Something that said we knew where we was at.

But now we don’t, the deal’s been busted.
I just knew you shouldn’t be trusted.
My rainbow sherbet’s been dusted
With anger. Our love is rusted.

Tin roof!

Shoot the sherbet, you really piss me off.
Shoot the sherbet, David Hasselhoff.
Shoot the sherbet, a glass of Glenlivet.
Shoot the freakin’ sherbet, I’m so angry I could spit.
Shoot the sherbet, I’m so angry I could spit.

Shoot the sherbet, you really piss me off.
Shoot the sherbet, turkey stroganoff.
Shoot the sherbet, reluctant conduit.
Shoot the freakin’ sherbet, I’m so angry I could spit.
Shoot the sherbet, I’m so angry I could spit.
I’m so angry I could spit.

And that’s what I got so far. Not exactly a masterpiece, but it will be.
I need a final verse though.
update (continued): Alright, I added a couple final verses and switched the chorus around. Now I just need to set the tune and convince Todd and Matt that this is a number one.

UPDATE (March 10, 2011): We recorded this song, and Todd made a video for it. Please enjoy that here.



The world’s greatest power ballad.

So in preparing for our first ever band rehearsal this weekend, I’ve written a power ballad. It’s based on two conversations that are completely unrelated. The first of which is one I had with Freddy Malinowski where we recognized the fact that if there were no such thing as a ballad, there would be no such thing as rock. Hence, we realized that “you cannot rock without the ballad.”

The other conversation was with Hoyer and DeRosa about whether we should practice during the day or at night. Turns out we’re rockin’ during the day because I’m going to the Bulls game with Carlita tomorrow night, so the daytime is our only option.

Nathan Lane Is Gay

The winds of rock came blowing in,
softly like a breeze.
But then the gusts came thrusting in,
roughly filled with sleeze.

We came to rock out but a fear sets in,
will we be too loud?
How in god’s name are we supposed to explain
this bullshit to our crowd?

Do we care that the neighbors are sleeping?
Sleeping fast and sound?
I don’t give a crap, not in the least,
but then, this isn’t my town.

That’s why I say, screw the bastards, we’re drunk.

You cannot rock without the ballad,
You cannot rock with a tossed Greek Salad.
Olives with pits or kiss my grits,
You cannot rock without the ballad.

I said screw the bastards we’re drunk.
How else could we play such effective funk.
Like the golfer named Freddy we ain’t no punk.
Like the David Hasselhoff, we ain’t no hunk.

But softly the winds of rock still blow.
Slowly the crowd leaves the show,
having seen us jam and seen us grow, a
fifty-five foot love gun from down below.

You cannot rock without the ballad,
You cannot rock with a tossed greek salad.
Olives with pits or kiss my grits,
You cannot rock without the ballad.

Do we practice at night or during the day?
Do we care if the sun’s still up when we play?
There’s really no doubt Nathan Lane is gay.
But do we practice at night or in the day.

To me it doesn’t matter, I just play the bass.
Pluckin’ it, and thumpin’ it while making a face.
Bomp chica bomp bomp, boom chica mace.
To me it doesn’t matter, I just play the bass.

You cannot rock without the ballad,
You cannot rock with a tossed greek salad.
Olives with pits or kiss my grits,
You cannot rock without the ballad.

We’re getting the band back together — Mmmm, mmmm, good!

So as many of you are aware, I’m in a band. It’s a rock ‘n’ roll band. We rock. Okay, so many of you probably aren’t aware of that, but you soon will be. Some of you might be aware that I’m the bass player. Others might be aware that I don’t actually know how to play a bass. But I’m not sure that the bass player from Linkin Park does either, so really, what’s the difference?

Anyway, the band I’m in also features my buddies Todd Hoyer and Matthew DeRosa. We’ve had this band for quite awhile now, we’ve just never had a rehearsal. But that’s all changing this weekend when we get together at Matt’s new house for our first ever practice. I think we’ll probably spend the first four hours of practice hanging tie-dye tapestries and christmas lights, but it’s sure to be productive after that.

I know you’re curious as to the name of our band. Well you’re gonna have to wait to find out. I can tell you that we were formerly known as The Loveguns. But then our tour manager died (or rather, our tour manager didn’t magically arise from the ashes of our cigarettes) and we felt we just couldn’t go on with that name after that. We sort of went our separate ways for awhile. I started my own side project with some other guys who still want to learn to play instruments and for a couple months there we had our own fantasy band called Too Tall Mikey and the Not So Handsome Cabbies. We were a Linkin Park cover band.

Anyway, as soon as our debut double album hits the stores, we’ll let you know.

But earlier today Todd, Matt, and I were trading lyrics to songs. Matt and Todd had a real life collaborative duo where they actually wrote real songs. Good ones, too. So I was feeling a little left out of the creative circle, so I took a second to compose my own song. The melody has to be determined, but it is my pleasure to present to you the first song written by me for the band formerly known as The Loveguns and soon to be something else.

Soup

Soup with a fork, filled with pork,
stars and noodles.
Who invented the spork, what a dork,
stars and noodles.

My soup is condensed and tastes like water, my life is condensed and
fates they falter, as do I when I try. But I try and I try.
Stars and noodles.

Chicken, beef, broth in a bullion cube.
I’m the chicken, so are millions o’you.
Where’s the beef? Beatin’ my ass
like a honky with no hair but a great big chunky, yet condensed mullet
on his melon.

The guy’s a felon.
(female chorus sings: felon-felon-felon-felon-felon)

My jaw be busted, my life be broke,
my girl done left me with a nickel
plated .9 strapped to the back of a
three legged dog named Toke.

Puff puff fogive, puff puff forgive.
Too high to cry too afraid to die,
but sober enough to find the Progresso.

Chicken with stars?
Chicken with noodles?
Or do you like beans?
Pinto, lima, green, or Navy?

[break to Village People refrain]

In the Navy!
blah blah blah blah
In the Navy!

[and back to the song]

My stars and my noodles
pit bulls or poodles,
Hold up, I didn’t order Chinese.
I’m all goddamn outta Febreeze.

Whether tomato with basil,
lentil with crackers,
Crab bisque with honkies,
or Duck Soup (with quackers)
Soup is good food.
Hooray for soup.

Groucho, Chico, Harpo and you.
But not Zeppo or Shemp
NO SOUP FOR YOU!

Soup!

Yeah. (spoken)