035 - A Place for My Stuff: Vol. 2
Rudy Giuliani's 9/11 restaurant + my dog's variable names + filthy found poems
April 12 marks the eight-year anniversary of the debut of Start Talkin’ with Scott Rogowsky — a show I was so excited to make that practically nobody saw. The reason for that was: it aired exclusively on go90. If you’re asking yourself, “What’s go90?” — precisely.
You can read elsewhere about the spectacular billion-dollar disaster that was Verizon’s mid-2010s bet on short-form digital media, but in short: go90 crawled so Quibi could walk. Sadly, the direction they crawled/walked was straight off the side of a very steep cliff.
The full telling of the years-long saga of how Start Talkin’ got made might better off be saved for another day, but suffice to say: it started with a one-off spin-off of my Running Late talk show that picked up the attention of an executive at TruTV (where it was initially developed but never bought), who then left Tru for Seriously.TV (which was part of Complex Networks who had an overall deal with go90) where he ultimately convinced his new bosses to gave me an eight-episode order.
There I was at 32, after nearly 10 years of toughing it out as an indie talk show host and producer, with my very own professionally produced TV show… Who cared that it wasn’t really “on TV” but available only on “the phone” (and specifically, for Verizon customers)? Who cared that the Executive Producer they paired me with didn’t quite share my sensibility and insisted in oversweetening every scene with canned laughter, rather than allowing the subtle awkwardness (aka, the comedy) to breath? Who cared that our budget was such that I would have earned 3x more money over the same amount of time worked had I instead been employed as a Subway sandwich artist?
I was living my DREAM and I couldn’t have been happier.
Until the show “premiered”… and by that I mean, “buried in a barely navigable app that 0.001% of the American public had heard of, let alone downloaded.” I remember thinking, “Oh well, at least these episodes will live online forever, and one day I’ll be able to show my kids and say, ‘Look at your Pops cracking wise in a suit with Awkwafina and Sal Vulcano! I was really something!’”
But alas, even that simple egotistical pleasure will likely elude me as my show appears to have been mysteriously wiped from the Internet — the only remaining evidence of it ever having existed being its IMDb page and this low-res, 25-second, non-sequitur clip I just found on YouTube.
HOWEVER, I will forever own the rights to the sole promotional video allocated in the Start Talkin’ budget: the “Save the Human Centipedes” shenanigans which I’m revisiting here today. Dated references to early Trump 1.0 policies and cabinet members aside, I stand by its premise as one of my all-time great dumb ideas. I’m also particularly proud that despite coming extremely close to breaking, I was able to stick the landing on the delivery of some of those egregiously stupid lines. Please enjoy.
And without further ado, more dumb shit:
How Has Rudy Giuliani Not Opened a 9/11-Themed Restaurant By Now?
Michael Jordan presides over a steakhouse empire; even Dan Majerle has a regional “sports grill” chain to his name. Who other than Rudy Giuliani can rightfully lay claim to being the Michael Jordan — or at the very least, the Thunder Dan — of 9/11?
Where’s that famous Giuliani sense of imagination responsible for the career-destroying voter fraud claims that got him into his personal bankruptcy mess in the first place? Where’s the outside-the-bun thinking that inspired his phantasmagorical Four Seasons Total Landscaping presser in Philadelphia? You can’t tell me Trump was the only very stable genius in his first administration!
Rudy, Rudy, Rudy… may I be so bold as to offer my assistance in your current plight? Now that it seems you’ve fully satisfied the $148 million dollar defamation judgment against you, am I correct to assume those Georgia election workers took every last penny to your name? You must be desperate for quick cash flow to satisfy your own dire, hair dye-related needs. Just For Men can’t be cheap!
Actually I just checked, and it’s quite affordable…
Nevertheless, if you’re as flat broke as I suspect you are, you’re likely a dollar short of even the Dollar Menu. This is where your menu comes in — and where I’m happy to lend my creative direction, pro bono.
Introducing the first upscale eatery themed around the September 11th attacks and the exciting new geopolitical environment left in its wake…
Rudy’s Place aka America’s Steakhouse!
Been workshopping taglines with friends and neighbors. The favorites:
Ground Zero for Good Eats!
We’re Hijacking Your Hunger!
Join Our Coalition of the Grilling!
I would argue the most important element of any establishment is the vibe. The foodie crowd appreciates authenticity when it comes to a restaurateur and his concept, so may I suggest suggest staying true to the 9/11 experience when it comes to decor and ambience? I’m thinking you could exhaust whatever tenuous clout you might yet possess and pull some strings with the WTC Museum to secure a few of the more elegant bits of burnt rubble and fuselage fragments to outfit the dining room? I also like the idea of pumping edible clouds of powdered sugar debris through the air ducts to rain down on our guests between courses — a sweet surprise for the senses!
I say we also lean into your authentic self as a sex-crazed drunk and — borrowing from the tried-and-true marketing tactics of American fixtures like Hooters, Twin Peaks, and the Tilted Kilt — restrict the hiring of our bartenders and servers to cartoonishly buxom, chiefly Caucasian females that will be forced to dress in Leg Avenue’s best approximation of the NYPD uniform.
As for the food? Well… at Rudy’s Place, we’re gonna do things a little differently…
We don’t appetizers; we have First Responders, including our Never Forget Nachos ($24), Oysters Wolfowitz ($26), Osama Bean Salad ($26), and Freedom Tartare ($28)
Splash out at the raw bar and crash into our Twin Seafood Towers ($255)
There is only one entrée: a pile of ribs and filet medallions and lobster tails and grilled swordfish topped with our signature Baked Patriotato ($22 a la carte). It’s called The Pile ($195)
For dessert, indulge in the Al-Qey Lime Pie ($22), the Inside Job Pineapple Cake ($22), the Molten Steel Beam Chocolate Jet Fuel Cake ($22), or wash down your dinner with a Salted Kharamel Milksheikh Mohammed ($24, or make it boozy for an additional $8)
Weekend brunch features Brioche Freedom Toast ($28), Short Rib Hashcroft ($28), and our world-famous Mohamed Atta Frittata ($28)
Free shots for all patrons and staff each night at 9:11pm
If the prices seem high, that’s because they are! It wouldn’t be your place if you weren’t overcharging for low-quality slop.
So there you have it: a surefire money-maker served up on a silver platter. But I can only get you this far, Mr. Mayor — it’s now up to you to make my dreams a reality. And if you do, Rudy’s Place will no doubt be remembered as the Michael Jordan’s Steakhouse of 9/11-themed restaurants.
You can even take over the space in Grand Central where Michael Jordan’s used to be!
Have a few Rumsfeld & Cokes ($22) and think it over.
WHAT’S MY DOG’S NAME?
Sometimes it’s JonBenét Jovi. Other times it’s Fuccboi Slim.
When a little old lady asked me in the parking lot at Vons, it was Adolf Adolf.
When the purple-haired, septum-pierced barista at the Starbucks in the Vons asked me, it was Truther Vandross.
When a group of fellas hooping it up in the park asked me, it was Dog Shammdog.
Most of the time it’s Barkminster Fuller.
When Paul Giamatti asked me, I told him it was A. Barklett Giamatti, and he seemed
genuinely touched.
One time someone asked me and I said, “Retired U.S. Congressdog Barkey Frank,”
but then they said, “Really?” and I had to admit, “No,” and I felt stupid for lying. If I’m being honest, his birth name is Incel Silverstein…
But everyone knows him as The Weeknd.
FILTHY POEMS I FOUND SCRAWLED IN THE MARGINS OF A FIRST EDITION COPY OF ANGELA’S ASHES AT AN ESTATE SALE IN ENCINO
That Kiss
Hey there miss, could I steal a kiss?
Could I have you kneel as I squirt my hot piss?
As it spurts on your skirt and pools in your K-Swiss?
Could I bend you straight backwards, a perfect right angle
and enter your backdoor while I disentangle
your hair from my belt
from when balls I did dangle
in front of your mouth
whose pink lips I did mangle
with hot yellow piss? I gave more than a spritz!
So there miss, could I still have that kiss?
The Best Sex
How the fuck we just do that?
How the fuck that just happen?
Didn’t know I could that
Girl I had your ass clappin’
Girl we had tables shakin’
Had you head over asswards
Girl that sex was so good
I’ma give you my passwords
The Dick-Sucking Poem
This poem sucks dick. It’s not a good poem.
It’s about my ex-lovers, how badly I blowed ‘em.
How madly I loved them but sadly I showed ‘em
I hadn’t much talent in oral traditions.
And how often I failed to accomplish the missions
Of squirting them eyeward, obscuring my vision.
So…
as honestly stated at the top of this poem.
This poem sucks dick.
Signing off,
Lamar Odom
