Jack Bruce is dead. Kurt Cobain is dead. Cream and Nirvana are gone while SUM41 is going strong.
There is no justice in the world. But this is one power trio I simply can’t do without. Tristan Rodman, Alex Sammon, Kyle Giddon. Call them the quintessential quipsters, the stooges sans Iggy, the weekly wisecrackers—whoever they are, I’m sad to see them go, man. I’m just glad that, in the wake of the break-up, Alex and Kyle are able to give us some parting words.
Our dearly departing seniors. :((((((((((((((((((((((
Four days of sunny skies. All four days, sunny skies—this is the way I like it. This is the way I like it when I am shopping for boats.
I am in Sarasota, Florida, on the gulf. The Suncoast Boat Show. Once a year, the last week of April, the best of us arrive. What a place to shop for boats. There is sunlight on the pier. A breeze is in the air. Westward, a shallow shelf of sea extends for over one hundred miles. This is where I like to shop for boats.
I prowl along the docks. Avast! My eye catches a sight to behold—a 40-meter yawl, a towering mast of baby blue, a simple tautness, origin Westport, Connecticut. Its name? Capital Gains.
“I want that boat,” I say, “I want that boat. I want that boat. I will do whatever it takes to buy that boat. I will spend whatever it takes. I will pursue this boat to the edges of the earth.”
I lower my cigar. My hand slides against the plexiglass, and I sigh. Smooth as can be. Perfectly waxed. Supple, elegant. Refined. I tap some carbon fiber—light as a feather, hard as diamond. I catch my reflection in the handrail. I am shopping for boats. This boat. And soon it will be mine.
You can’t have this boat. You can’t touch this boat. Na na na na. –KG
The past 50 years have seen some seriously sick summers. So sick, in fact, it’s tough to pick a resounding favorite. The summer of ‘69 might be the obvious choice, at least according to Bryan Adams. Or ‘67’s acid-fueled Summer of Love. Even the summer of ‘89, with Kid Rock as campaign manager, has surged into close contention as of late. What a time to be alive.
And while these obvious heavyweights certainly have their strengths, perhaps the most epic, summer-to-end-all-summers flies below the radar—the summer of ‘72.
“What” you may wonder indignantly, “has the summer of ‘72 done to earn a spot in the pantheon of legendary summers?!”
Yet, what the summer of ‘72 lacks in anthemic ballads and titular drugs it makes up for in finality. It is, of course, the summer that Alice Cooper issued the indelible creed that would motivate the youth for years to come—
“School’s out for summer.
School’s out forever.
School’s been blown to pieces.”
Thirty-two all-time summers later, those words ring ominously true. What was supposed to serve as a rallying cry for mythological binge drinking, mullet-wearing, and promiscuity unleashed has instead become the sorry tagline of a faltering public school system: lack of after school programming, decreased funding for the arts, crumbling facilities.
Alice Cooper, progenitor of Alice Cooper’s Solid Rock foundation and the Rock Teen Center, is a man with a conscience. He is a man who cares about legacy, not just revelry, and will not see his legacy sullied like this. “Blacking out should not come at the expense of vocational programs,” reads the long-lost extended version of “School’s Out.”
And Cooper is not the only one. This week, the golfing community in Mesa, Arizona has turned out en masse for Alice Cooper’s Rock and Roll Golf Classic, a hardcore fundraising opportunity for the Center, which teaches teens dance, drums, guitar, and voice lessons for free. The event is a local favorite, second only to the Cooper’s annual Christmas Pudding show.
“School’s out completely!” a younger Cooper unknowingly eulogized. Youth gets soo wasted on the young. –AS