(actual suggestions made to WAS by Justin, who is not our Uncle)
Do you have any friends who are the children of famous people? Better, do
you know any 20-30 year old hot young actors/actresses? If you add just one
of these to the WAS crew, you will at least get a little press. Hell, if
you held auditions with those criteria and publicized it right, you could
probably get press based on that (actually, that might be the better
approach—nothing the press likes better than cynical gimmicks). So these
are good ideas. Maybe five band-days of work and you achieve a modicum of
Gretchen Moll and Paul Rudd, Pastis Bistro, Meatpacking District – My first real celebrity-sighting in NYC. They sat down at a table 10 feet to my left during lunch. I barely even recognized Rudd, he looked so bad; all bearded and slovenly, going for that Regular Joe Film Star look and hitting only the first part. Gretchen Moll, whom I’ve never been that impressed with, was f-ing hot. I proposed marriage several times over the course of the meal in my head. Even in my head she said no.
Christina Ricci, Pastis again, different day – I was eating outside this time. Christina Ricci stood outside the door looking all pale and thin and quiet, flowing even. Maybe she was checking out the menu. I can’t remember whether she went inside; I just see her standing there effervescing and shit.
Julian Schnabel, Pastis, same day as C.R. – I’ll be honest: I don’t know Julian Schnabel, notorious art-film director and painter, from an overweight balding dude schlepping with great difficulty his own ass across the sun-starched cobble square toward Pastis – which is exactly what he was doing on the day in question – but the person I was with I.D.ed him and is to be trusted on matters of this sort, so yeah, whoa, Julian Schnabel, darling directoire, perfidious peintre, comb-over shyly waving in the wind.
Liza Minelli, sidewalk, Lexington and E. 70s – Short and badger-like in appearance, with an emphasis on the shortness and the badgerosity. I just passed her while walking north; she was standing outside a deli talking to someone. What else can be said? Liza Minelli is not imposing.
Carol Kane, Astor Place, E. Village – I saw this Carol Kane-looking woman walking toward me and remarked to myself that she resembled Carol Kane. Then she spoke to her walking buddy in that little helium voice and I noted this was Carol Kane here that I was dealing with.
Dear WAS Employees:
The rumors are flying concerning the recent departure of two key individuals from our company. They are flying, and they are quite often spurious, so this – here – is rumor control. I want to explain these resignations to the extent that it’s possible for me to do so. And that’s actually to a pretty large extent, as I have been good friends with both Gene and Steve for quite some time. We were boys together in Andover during the war, you might say.
To boil it down to the essentials, Gene is leaving for money. He was being paid several hundred thousand dollars per year by WAS, and The Paddington Bear Historical Restoration Society has offered him nearly twenty five dollars more than that annually. Gene is no idiot. Gene has to look out for Gene, and twenty five dollars will buy Gene a lot of Skittles, is Gene’s thinking as he’s reported it to me over glasses of Dewar’s and tea-cups of Skittles.
Steve’s situation is a slightly different one. “Steve is leaving to pursue other things,” reads the press release that we issued to all employees and the public at large last week, and that’s not so terribly far from the truth. Steve – ‘Herr Stevedore’ as we all used to call him on the hopscotch court – is leaving to pursue Herr Stevedore’s Dream. He has decided that the only good seal is a dead seal and is going to rely on his savings to support him while he undertakes to “club them right the hell off this spinning seal-ridden rock.” Now, why is HS doing this? Whence his belief in the disposability of seals? Without violating HS’s privacy on this issue, I can tell you that it has to do with the filth. HS says that seals are “filthy, filthy, filthy” and that he can’t abide that kind of filth and furthermore that he won’t. He says that nothing that filthy can be allowed to sit out there on the rocks and bark all afternoon. I can tell you that he’s kind of fixated on that image, the image of them out there on the rocks barking for the better part of the afternoon.
So I hope that helps. I know that losing Steve and Marty or whatever the hell his name is is sort of a shake-up. It’s sort of a trying time that we all have to try to get through together, by remembering them as they were during the good times, and not as they are right now, out there on the shores of Patagonia with an aluminum bat and rain gear.
There once were a girl named Bistabat who loved, above all else, her life. Depending on how you look at it, that sort of outlook could seem either self-centered or a great example of positive thinking. It was neither, though, because Bistabat’s life was perfect, in nearly every detail. So it was just perceptiveness, really. She was not a lustful person, but whatever she did lust after she got – whether it was fashionable, well-made clothes we’re talking or a nice sit-down dinner with Keith, her innocent, well-formed neighbor, followed by a sexing. She was rarely sad, but when she was it never lasted and was always interesting for her and her friends and enriching besides. She was far from dependent on others for a good time, but impressive by any standard was the abundance of intelligent, active people who would list among their most treasured (and coveted) possessions Bistabat’s friendship. One day, however, Bistabat was rocking in her rocking chair – an heirloom whose frame was cut from walnut by her own great-grandfather – when the chair suddenly tumbled and so did she and she died from a bad break of the neck.
It would seem, then, that Bistabat’s life was nothing more than a…
We’re trying to get your opinion on something here (yes, you!). Let’s say you’ve never heard a We Are Scientists song. Pretend, we said already. Can’t you pretend? Let’s pretend you’ve never heard a We Are Scientists song, OK? OK. If you could hear only one We Are Scientists song, which song would it be? Please answer based on what you know the songs to sound like. In other words, don’t pretend that you don’t know what any of these songs sound like and therefore choose based on the title or something like that. We want you to choose based on the sound of the song, like which song would you like, not which song title would you like. You feel me? I mean, we don’t even have to say you’ve never heard a We Are Scientists song, although that’s kind of why we’re asking the question. We’re just looking for what song you like the most. And can we keep it limited to the recorded version? So, if you really like, say, the way, say, Mothra sounds live but think the recording of it is quite rank (this is hypothetical, of course), then don’t choose that song. Unless, of course, you’ve only heard us live, in which case it is perfectly appropriate for you to vote for that song that struck you so deeply in the live setting. Is this clear? Let me say it another way: Choose a song (one song only) that represents for you the song that sounds best to you. Sonically. Not just production-wise, though. The song itself. So that will include the words and the beats and the music and the other sounds in there. The whole thing. What song just gets you going, revs up your innards? Maybe it makes you cry or even seethe with anger. I don’t know. Whatever you like. We’re looking for that one song. So we’ve come to you because we thought you might know. If you’ve never heard a We Are Scientists song, then please go listen to a We Are Scientists song before you vote. (There are some mp3s on the songs page, or you can order a CD from our merchandise page. Those are a couple ways you could listen to some songs. Maybe there are other ways. Those are fine, too.) That’ll help with the reliability of the data set. We’d like to restrict the data set to reliable data only. That means, then, that we’d also like you to only vote once. That’s just fair, too. But don’t let all these restrictions and clarifications keep you from voting. Please vote! We need you! If you’re going to err, please err on the side of voting rather than not voting. But, you know, just try to be honest and all that. We’re just wondering what you think. For our files. Doing research. No big deal or whatever. (But beware that this voting opportunity will only be up for a limited time! Not long! Vote now! Vote now!) So, yeah, you can vote by choosing one of the songs on the right by clicking in the little circle next to the song’s name and then clicking the Submit Vote button. It’s pretty straightforward, we think.
Your friendly, neighborhood We Are Scientists
If you mess with me,
if you think to mess with me,
if it occurs to you to mess with me
and you do it,
if you step to me
and fuck with me
and try to mess up my hair and ruffle my shirt
or fuck with me with your fists,
or come at me with a broom, bat,
shiv, pole, tire iron, shovel,
rake, garbage can lid, or scooper,
if you invade my personal space with your fat,
dumb head or your fat, dumbass nose,
or should you try to throw something at me
from a few feet away,
like a can or bottle or radio,
or if you should, god help you, try to drop something on me
from above, like a box or cake,
I will use my rabbit attack on your mind.
The other day, I was doing some yard work (lawn mowing, tree cutting, cat hopping – the whole deal), and (as is often the case) I eventually found myself knee deep in a pile of leaves. When I finally extracted myself from the mess, I happened to glance down and notice that my shoes and socks and the sweet bare patch of ankle-skin that was exposed beneath the modestly-cut cuff of my pants were covered, just COVERED, with ants. Like, really MEAN ants, who were just swarming on the skin and making as if to bite and acting in a generally offensive manner. I can’t remember if they actually bit me. I seem to recall feeling bites, but, as you will see, such an event is suspect. Anyway, I did what any rational man or woman would do in such a situation – I screamed and jumped around and acted like a goddamn baby. That is, until I glanced down and noticed that there were, in fact, no ants on my legs. At all. There may have been one in the grass nearby, but in retrospect, I think that it might have been a grass seed or a nickel.
So, what the hell was going on there? I have a couple of theories, but none seems more plausible than any other. Here they are: here: now:
1) I was momentarily insane, and seeing what I really wanted to see. That is: what I really wanted to see was: ants.
2) The ants on my legs were actually the ghosts of ants I’ve murdered or generally wronged in the past.
3) The ants were placed on my leg by a clever enemy, who then, as i was jumping around, surreptitiously removed said ants. So, essentially, what I’m thinking here is: psychological warfare.