4 Hour Hard On

It’s no secret that Nostradamus is having the time of his life, in Ours. But try getting him to admit it! Take your best shot, and see if the curmudgeonly coot even gives you the time of day.

You might have heard that recently, working as a duo, we (being Nostradamus and me) released a trippy music video on You Tube, to the tune of 42 million uploads in one week alone. And it’s a cover song! Un-Fucking-Believable, I shit you NOT.

To nail this You Tube gig, I play an old school Moog Synth Bass, as accompaniment for Nostry’s spoken-word rendition of the classic Dr. John hit, "Right Place - Wrong Time", the tempo of which is slowed down, to about three quarter speed, perfect for accommodating Nostry’s oratorical baritone cadence. Not unlike the way William Shatner scored hella big with that freakish record of his, a few years back. Then, I added some cascading surf sounds to the tracks, over-dubbed a plaintive seagull screech or two, as well as a moaning didgeridoo, while Nostradamus looked sternly at the camera, laying down his verses like Orson Welles in those old Gallo commercials.

You know.

Where No Wine is Sold Before its Time?


-I was… in
the right place,

Nostry solemnly intones,

-But it must... have
been… the wrong…


Etcetera.


The best part of the video? Well, it's a testament to my own theatrical creativity, and occurs just after Nostry puts down the phrase:


Slipping, dodging
Sneaking creeping
Hiding out down
The street…


At which point comes a flash of Mr. Bill Style fisted handkerchief! This cheap prop is doctored up with a big red lipstick OH of open-mouthed awe, or shock, or both. Then, at the appropriate time, I shove this little handy Ghost Fuck Puppet into the bullet-headed maw of the Web Cam, totally in sync with the Colored Girl Keyboard Sample that rings out:

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOO!


A little later in the song, Nostry says:


Refried confusion...
Is a Makiing Itself
CLEAR…

Then, my Ghost Puppet jumps up, and goes:

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!


And Nostry finishes up:


What a way
To Wake I go,

Get on
out of

Here…


Or something like that. Whatever the fuck the lyrics are. We weren't concentrating so much on lyrical verisimilitude, as getting people's attention. Then, as an adjunct to the music, Nostradamus throws in a few standard Soothsayer Quatrains at the end of the song’s rendition. Just to let everybody know he’s for real.


-Yeah, buddy, Nostry said to me, as we were completing the production. -I don’t want any Refried Confusion, on that score. These god damned motherfuckers need to know who’s their Daddy.

-Refried Confusion! I snickered. -Yeah, that’s good.



Bottom line, now?

Me and Nostry are a HIT. Last week, Howard Stern had us on his creepy Sirius Show, for a ninety second spot to put us on the map, and old Art Bell has been ringing us up-- rather regular-like.

-Art Bell has a serious Hard On for you, I tell Nostradamus. -He called, like, 4 times yesterday. Four fucking times!

We are kicked back in my living room, watching a very strange infomercial.

On my wall-mounted, high definition digital screen, Sir Gordon Sumner, A.K.A. Sting, is going on and on (and on and on and on!) about these patented Tantric Sexual Techniques of his, whereby he swears he can stay ENGORGED for hours at a time, even DAYS if need be, to totally satisfy a bevy of horny babes, or, if one prefers, just a single lucky single lady wired on puppy love and bathtub speed.

We stare at the television, Nostry and me, our minds on other matters, while Sting lays it on, heavy slick and thick.

-Why doesn’t Sting just sing?- I wonder, -Guy with a voice like he’s got, and all of a sudden he’s no longer a musician, but the Huckster of Fuck. What’s up with that?

-Your people have Fuck All on the Brains, that’s what I been trying to tell you! Nostry replies, sighing and massaging his Silver Fox temples with long, nicotine-stained fingers.

-Man, I sure love that song called BALI, from the solo work of Sting Man. Hey! Maybe if we get rich enough off all this crazy shit we’ve got planned, we can hit the beach of Bali, for like, a fortnight. How does that grab ya?

Nostradamus shakes his large head at me--sadly, shaggily.

-You just don’t get it, do you?

Meanwhile the calls keep coming in, and I’m forced to give serious weight to the matter Nostradamus had brought to the forefront, the previous day— about shyster agents, so-called Representation and such. Although I’m not too keen on kicking down fifteen per cent of my sudden Windfall to some bottom feeder in a seer sucker, especially when I’m pretty sure I can handle all that, my own self.

Fuck.

Charles Gibson? Charlie Rose?
Montel Williams? Bring ‘em all on.


-I wanna get you on Montel's Show man, I say to Nostry, -have you go head to head with that Sylvia Browne chick, of the Pop Eyed Histrionics and six inch sequined fingernails… You could just about tear her phony psychic facade a brand new one, couldn’t you, Mr. N?

-Focus, kid, Nostry reminds me. -There isn’t much Time, so don’t fade on me, now.