The Fucky Gaylord Show

2002-10-04T18:13:00.000-04:00

An Interview with Peter Gabriel

Recently, I sat down with the legendary Peter Gabriel to discuss his new album, Up, growing older, and the current states of the music business, politics, and the world in general.

FG: I just heard your new single, The Barry Williams Show. I’m stunned by how bad it is.

PG: Yeah, sorry about that.

FG: I mean, what were you thinking? It’s soooo awful. It makes Biko sound like what you’d get if Sgt. Pepper and Led Zeppelin IV had a baby. It makes Steam sound like Biko. I loved you.

PG: Like I said, I’m really very sorry. What in particular didn’t you like about it?

FG: For one thing, thematically you’re about 8 years too late. Trying to make an incisive commentary on trash TV would’ve been culturally relevant in 1994, when Carnie Wilson had her own show.

PG: It was suposed to be called The Carnie Wilson Show, but then I took eleven years to make the album and by the time it was ready nobody remembered who Carnie Wilson was. So I changed it to “Barry Williams”.

FG: You know Barry Williams is the name of the actor who played Greg Brady on The Brady Bunch, right?

PG: Oh, shit. I knew that name was familiar.

FG: Familiar? I take it you didn’t watch Celebrity Boxing?

PG: That was him?

FG: Getting back to this train wreck of a single... So, are you just, like, emotionally dead inside? Is there ANY remaining trace of the guy who wrote Shock the Monkey?

PG: Nope. He’s gone.

FG: No shit? <---- super-sarcasm.

PG: What did you think of the rest of the album?

FG: Are you serious? To hear the rest I would have to buy it, and I’m not buying this record!

PG: You don’t have to. Here... I’ll give you one.

FG: No, no, NO!!! I don’t want that! Get it away! YOU get away!!!

PG: Well, Fucky, thanks for having me on your show.

FG: GET AWAY!!!

2002-09-27T13:33:00.000-04:00

My friend Christian Finnegan just did a post about bad band names, so I thought I'd follow with my List of Diseases or Conditions that would make a good name for a bad band:

Acoustic Neuroma

Whiplash

Precocious Puberty

Clubfoot

Essential Tremor

Dementia

Chronic Pain

Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever

Kleptomania

Anaphylactic Shock

Laryngitis

Arnold Chiari Malformation

Black Lung

Neuroblastoma

Concussion

2002-09-25T03:33:00.000-04:00

This is Part 2 of a True Story...

Scroll Down and read Monday, Sptember 23rd for Part 1.

We take off, and Dean falls asleep. I slept too. Dean slept the whole flight.

When we land in Honolulu, Frank’s car is waiting for us. Frank’s driver, Angie, is at the wheel. Angie, as you may imagine, is a big fella, which helps with the fact that driving isn’t the only duty in his job description. Having a side of beef like him around doesn’t hurt when things get dicey, which when you hang with the Pack, is not too unusual.

On the way to the venue, Dean asks Angie what gun he brought to Hawaii. Angie says he decided to keep it simple and stick with his .45. Dean brought a .38 snub, one of many, many guns in his collection. In Dean’s house, there’s a special room dedicated to guns. Dean always wanted to know what piece you were carrying, and if you had a new one, he wanted to see it.

Normally, if you ask a guy to see his gun, he’s going to point it at you. Most of the guys in those days knew about Dean, though, and nobody seemed to take it personally. I know there were even a few guys, like me, who had received a gun as a gift from Dean at some time or other.

We get to the venue and Frank is working, so we have to wait around. David Bowie is in Frank’s dressing room with smudged lipstick all around his mouth. Dean-o is busting his balls, asking whose cock he’s been sucking and all that. Bowie says Mick Jagger, and everybody laughs. Who knew?

Dean wants to know what gun Bowie brought to Honolulu, and Bowie admits he’s not packing. This seems to send Dean into a bit of a funk, and he lectures Bowie about songwriting. Apparently nothing on Aladin Sane is floating Dean’s boat; he likes Rebel Rebel. Bowie tries to defend himself, but Dean puts him in a headlock until Bowie’s face turns completely red. It was a little embarrassing, but you have to remember this was before he got big in the eighties. He was a good sport.

Frank comes in and he’s got lipstick all over his shirt collar. That must have come from the ladies with him: Jaclyn Smith, Cindy Williams, and Rosalyn Carter. Cindy is pie-eyed and her shirt is on inside-out; Rosalyn’s helping her walk. Rosalyn was such a sweetheart, her and Jimmy both.

We all hung out and visited. I think at one point Frank pulled me aside to talk about some business or something, and he asked me to keep an eye out for Cindy (only he called her “Shirley”- I’m not sure he knew her name was really Cindy).

“Keep an eye out” meant that he wanted to keep her around so he could be alone with her after the show, but he was worried that she might be too fucked up. My job for the night was to judge whether it was safe to keep her out, and get her back to the hotel if it wasn’t. By the time Sammy went on it was clear she wasn’t going to last. Furthermore, Dean and I hadn’t checked in yet, so I brought her back to the hotel and checked us in while Dean stayed at the venue sucking pimentos and trying to get a piece of the First Lady.

When I got back to the venue Sammy was off and Frank was on. Bowie and Jaclyn Smith were actually backstage listening, so the dressing room was empty. No sign of Dean, Sammy, or Rosalyn. They came back during the encores, and they were all sweaty and disheveled. You might as well know, I missed out on the First Lady’s good stuff!

The show ends and the dressing room fills back up. Frank busts the balls of some local promoter and Press types, and when it’s time to clear everybody out, I notice Jerry has appeared from somewhere. shit. Not that I care about lying to him, it’s just that he’s such an asshole. If I wanted assholes, we got them back in LA.

The promoter and Press types file out, and here’s who is left: Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., Fucky Gaylord, David Bowie, Redd Foxx, Leonard Nemoy, Donald Sutherland, Cap, Angie the “Driver”, First Lady Rosalyn Carter, Jaclyn Smith, Jane Fonda, Charlene Tilton, Dinah Shore, Suzanne Sommers, Marlo Thomas, a pair of Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders, Frank’s Girls, and a hula dancer. Oh, and Jerry Lewis, the Asshole.

We go back to a suite at the hotel and the party starts. It goes real good for awhile. The hula dancer is a riot, and the cheerleaders do a special cheer for Frank (until he tells them to clam up). Dean amuses himself by giving Bowie some good-natured shit, and Bowie takes it like a man. But here’s where the trouble starts.

Jerry wanders over to where Dean is dishing it out to Bowie. Every word out of Dean’s mouth, Jerry is laughing real loud like, well, like Jerry Lewis. Very annoying. The wind goes out of Dean’s sails and he gives Bowie a “sorry, what-are you-gonna do?” look. Dean wraps it up, excuses himself, and wanders over to me, leaving Bowie to fend for himself.

I ask Dean if he’s sure that’s a good idea, leaving Bowie defenseless against Jerry. “Kid’s gotta learn sometime,” is Dean’s reply. He starts talking about how Bowie is a good apple and all that, leaning in close and almost falling on me. I’m trying to help him keep his balance and there’s a crash on the other side of the room.

Bowie has broken a wine bottle in half and is wielding the jagged neck in Jerry’s direction. He’s shrieking; a high, tortured sound that makes Aladin Sane sound like Rebel Rebel. Jerry is nervous and sweaty (surprise, surprise) but laughing. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a Derringer. I personally think it’s insulting to bring a Derringer to Hawaii. Save it for St. Paul, you prick.

In a truly faggoty gesture, Bowie lobs his jagged bottle at Jerry and hits him in the hand. The Derringer goes off into the ceiling, and THERE GOES YOUR ONE BULLET, ASSHOLE. Now that a shot has been fired, Angie, Sammy, and I rush over to make sure it doesn’t get out of control. I’m not too worried, because Bowie isn’t packing. I wish he was, though.

I never even had time to wonder what started the fracas, but I’m pretty sure that Jerry has never once been in a fight where he didn’t deserve to get his ass kicked. It only took a second, but it was clear that these two were going to fuck, and they weren’t going to take it outside.

Watching David Bowie and Jerry Lewis raise their fists to each other was beautiful and strange. I never saw a grown man pull hair in a fight before, and Jerry combs his hair with buttered toast so it’s not easy to do, but Bowie is a magical fellow and he managed to get a handful. He was punching Jerry in the face over and over again and I was wishing I had some popcorn. Jerry did get a few licks in, but when you get right down to it, Bowie is nuts and you can’t beat somebody like that unless you really know what you’re doing.

I could’ve stayed all night watching Jerry getting pummeled by a dandy fop, but David was getting a little too into it and he socked Jerry in the throat. That’s when Angie stepped in and lifted Bowie over his shoulder like a farmer carrying a scarecrow. I was sorry to see that the fight was over, because I knew what was coming next. Frank was going to want us to take Bowie outside and dust him up a little for fighting inside, but since he had taken the throat shot we were going to have to make it a little worse.

Jerry was on the floor checking for his teeth. Despite having discharged his gun and fighting indoors, we all knew that getting beaten by David Bowie in front of the First Lady was to be the extent of his punishment.

“Who’s going?” Frank asked. I volunteered. I didn’t want to, but I knew I had to make sure Dean didn’t get too rough. Sammy came too. The three of us followed Angie outside, and he let Bowie walk instead of being carried.

We tuned him up a little, but our hearts weren’t in it so we kept it light, and naturally we didn’t go near his face. Dean and Sammy piled on him, and I joined in. Angie knew better than to risk crushing anybody, so he just watched. I took the opportunity of the hog-pile to give Dean a few hard kidney punches. I pretended they weren’t meant for him but we both knew better. Don’t kid yourselves; he loved it.

Before the hog-pile ended we managed to get one of Sammy’s shoes off and Dean threw it as hard as he could across the parking lot. When we let up Sammy walked back into the party with one shoe missing, laughing and drunk. Angie made sure Bowie got to his room okay.

I saw him again in 1984, when I was a presenter at the Grammys. I was flattered that he remembered me and we joked around a little. I was worried that he’d hold a grudge, but he was a class act. In my nervousness, I forgot to ask him exactly why he’d fought with Jerry that night, but when you’re talking about Jerry Lewis, I guess the reasons are all pretty much the same.

The End.

2002-09-23T13:13:00.000-04:00

True story:

It's 1978, and I get a telegram from Frank that he's in Honolulu for a
show, and Sammy (Davis Jr.) is opening. He's sending the plane to LA
tomorrow for me and Dean (Martin). Don't tell Jerry (Lewis).

This was something Frank did a lot. Whenever one of us was opening for him
someplece nifty, he'd send the plane to get the rest of us and we'd go hang
out. It wasn't every month, but about 10 times a year; places like
Honolulu, Miami, Rio, Madrid, Osaka. And of course we all had places in LA,
Vegas, and New York, so we were always at those shows too.

The shows themselves were reasonably tedious. Frank was great, but when
you're seeing him for the one hundredth time you stop giving a shit about
the nuances of Summer Wind. Dean and I used to amuse ourselves by
fucking with the courtesy table so it looked like shit by the time Frank
got to it. Dean's favorite trick was to suck all the pimentos out of the
olives and spit them out in a glass, which he left in Franks' bathroom. So
disgusting. It didn't take long for Frank to figure out it was Dean, and
once when Dean played Omaha, Frank got some aging fan to give him the top
half of her dentures and did the pimento gag on him, only he left
the dentures in the glass too. Dean almost puked, but he was still laughing.

So, anyway, I get the telegram and I've got one day to get out of whatever
it was I had to do; some bullshit or other. The next morning I have to get
up at 6:00 AM because the flight is long and Frank always wants to see us
before he gets to the venue. But at 4:30 the fucking phone rings, and I
don't even have to tell you who it is: Jerry. He knows that Frank is
playing Honolulu and he's hoping Frank decided to call us up. Only he
never calls Jerry and Jerry never takes the hint. He's asking
all sorts of questions and I lose track of how many lies I have to tell to
get him off the phone. You see, even if you lie and tell him you're not
going to be with the Pack, he tries to pin you down on what you are
doing. Because he knows you're doing something, and sometimes
you've got to let him in on it. It's the law of averages.

Now that I've spent twenty minutes lying to Jerry, my nerves are shot and
there's no chance I'll get back to sleep. Have you ever noticed how in his
movies his voice is the chomping of teeth on the tin foil of the soul?
Well, it's the same way at 4:30 in the morning. I take my time getting
ready, but I'm already packed from the night before. After breakfast, all
that's left to do is pick out which piece I'm going to bring, and I've only
got three so it goes quick. It's Honolulu; the .22 will be enough.

The net result is that I'm a full hour early. The plane was there, but you
can't really get on until the crew gives the okay, and they're not
expecting us for an hour. Once they got word that I was there they opened
up. Strange thing is, if Dean had been with me, they would've made us wait.
Dean is a total fucking troublemaker, and the crew can't finish making
preparations with him around.

I get on the plane and say hi to the crew. Now, when I say "crew", that
refers to a pilot, co-pilot, a guy who gets drinks and pillows and shit,
and anywhere from two to five of Frank's girls. These are real stewardesses
that Frank stole away from the airlines. Frank's manager was never on the
plane, always flew the airlines, so Frank tells him to get numbers from the
best looking ones. Then he parties with them, and the ones he likes get
jobs on Air Frank. Nice, huh?

Today there are four girls, and I know Dean likes them with no
underpanties, that perverted FUCK, so I pass the time waiting for Dean by
taking the girls into the bathroom one at a time and confiscating their
drawers. I tell my favorite one to take off her lipstick and muss up her
coif a little bit. This way, when Dean gets on he'll be less likely to want
her.

When he finally arrives, he's a half hour late. It's 8:00 AM and it's
pretty clear he's drunk and hasn't been to bed yet. DEAN! What a mess...

I'm sitting down in my seat, and he walks over and stands next to me,
drunken legs uncertain. "Did Jerry call you?" he asks. "I told him to find
out what you were up to today." He starts to laugh, and I reach over and
punch him hard in the thigh, and now we're both laughing. "You gave Dean-o
a bruise, you fucker!" he says, choking on laughter as he collapses into
the nearest seat.

You can tell it feels good for him to be sitting down. "Hey, Fucky. What piece did you bring?" he asks.

"The .22. I mean, it's only Honolulu, right?"

"Right-O," Says Dean, and then Cap comes back and tells us if we feel like buckling up today, now's the time.

to be continued...

2002-09-20T17:33:00.000-04:00

Welcome to the first ever episode of The Fucky Gaylord Show!

Since most of America is meeting me for the first time, I thought I'd answer some of your letters in a segment I call America's Bag.

Here we go:

Dear Mr. Gaylord,

Is "Fucky Gaylord" your "real name"?

Sincerely,
Mitch Gaylord
Aberdeen, CO

Fucky replies:

Dear Mitch,

Thanks for your letter. Are we related? Just kidding! I can't help but wonder if you are the same Mitch Gaylord from that piece of shit movie American Anthem and the olympics.

My legal name is Johannes Fuckforth Gaylord. "Fucky" is one of my many nicknames.

Yours,
JFG

New letter

Dear Fucky,

I bet with a name like yours, people often think you are a homosexual. Are you?

I mean, your last name is Gaylord, so you might as well be.

Sincerely,
Mitch Felatio
Tampa, KS

Fucky replies:

Thanks for your question, Mitch. I'm glad you're enjoying the show!

I've been asked about my sexuality many times over the years, starting with a rather persistent inquiry the first day of Kindergarten that lasted until I graduated from college.

The answer is no (sorry fellas). I'm no more homosexual than Mitch Gaylord is; the one from that piece of shit movie, American Anthem and the olympics, not the one whose question appears above.

But, now that I think of it, Mitch Gaylord The Gymnast was probably an ass-wrangler. So, despite the fact that we share the same last name, and the fact that our last name has the word "gay" in it, I'd like to distance myself from that comparison.

To help America keep the difference "straight" (<---- PUN!), please refer to this:

Fucky Gaylord = Likes the ladies
Mitch Gaylord = Scrotum Breath

Hope that helps!
J.F. Gaylord

New letter

Dear Mr. Gaylord,

Isn't it true that you are gay and that you have a crush on Scott Baio from Charles in Charge?

Yours Truly,
Mitch von Glove
Annapolis, SD

Fucky replies:

Mitch,

It's nice to know we've got fans in the great state of South Dakota! Thanks for your support!

To answer your question, this is a rumor that got started on the world-wide internet, following comments I made on the Today Show back in 1993 that I could only become sexually aroused when Charles in Charge was on. These comments were taken out of context and should not be construed as any kind of definitive lifestyle affirmation.

The rumor gained momentum in the Autumn of 1999 when the wire services picked up on a story that I'd offered Mr. Baio $600 to impregnate my then-girlfriend, actress Liv Tyler, while I watched. It is completely untrue that I ever offered Scott Baio $600. I mean, if he wanted to get it on with my girlfriend for free while I was tied up at the foot of the bed, I wouldn't stop him. Along with Marlon Brando and Robert DeNiro, Mr. Baio is one of our nation's greatest actors and the sexual potency shimmers off of him like heat on the highway. I don't want to stand in the way of that kind of mojo! If only they'd cast him in American Anthem and not that squid-licker, Mitch Gaylord, maybe it wouldn't have been such a poo-for-all. Or, they could've cast him as the rebel/gymnast, and cast Mitch Gaylord as the weelchair/musician guy who writes the lame gymnastics music for What's-Her-Tits in the end.

Also, I tend to date some of Hollywood's sexiest ladies, so if I were excited by the prospect, it would only be a natural response to the presence of a naked lady starlet and not at all queer.

Now that the Fucky Gaylord Show is going national, I hope that this rumor will be put to rest once and for all.

Peace,
Fucky

I just want to say that I think our first show has been a success, but I am a little weirded out by the personal nature of some of the letters and the fact that they were all written by people named "Mitch". I'm sure it's just a coincidence, but still.

Thanks for tuning in!
Goodnight, kids!