Three Things a Week From Ol' Dave...How’s That Sound?

Trying to gauge how much Substack is too much Substack

So I’m tryna get into a Substack groove here, and it seems to me that the best pattern I can fall into is to post three times a week: The Week That Perished on Sunday (with added commentary to sweeten the deal for my kind, generous Substack subscribers), my regular column on Tuesday (ditto with added commentary), and then something totally new and exclusive later in the week.

Whaddya think? Sound good? Or is it too much? I don’t want a flood of unsubs; that’ll discourage me, and I’m easily discouraged from public interaction these days.

So, let’s agree: you’ll get three things a week from me. If that sits poorly with you, unsub now, and I will not mock you. Unsub later? I’ll roast your retarded delayed-reaction ass like a fat duck in a boat full of Chinamen.

A few nights ago I’m talking with Mark Weber, director of the Institute for Historical Review and vice president of Fluffy McSweetiekins Beanbag Puppies and Kitten Plushies (a division of Industrielle Ätzende Flüssigkeit Inc., Osnabrück), and I’m pitching him the idea that he and I should do a one-on-one interview about our Holocaust years. Mark’s been one of my best friends for 34 years, and in the early 1990s we did a lot of mischief together...mischief that’s routinely posted on Twitter these days by large-follower Elon-coddled accounts.

And I’ll be honest with you...I got a belly full o’ rum and regret for some of the shit I did 1991-1994. It was only three years, a drop in the bucket of the average life, but for me, it’s what, unfortunately, defines me now and will define me after I’m dead. So, I says to Mark I says, let’s the two of us, the old-schoolers, the originators, the wooden doorsers, have it out, on video.

And he’s like “Well..ahem...indeed, David, a most perspicacious proposal of an...ahem...embeckoning nature.”

Because that’s how Mark talks.

But he adds, “perhaps we can speak of matters other than the Holocaust.”

Because that’s Mark’s conundrum. He’s no denier, but he runs a publishing house and he doesn’t want to alienate potential book buyers of Holocaust deniers like Arthur Butz and Sam Dickson (authors of the popular Dickson/Butz Report).

Now, when you’ve been friends with a guy for 34 years, you can be direct. And I said to Mark, “the fuck else we gonna talk about? Gardening? Needlepoint? Million-follower Twitter accounts post the Montel Williams Show and that damnable Auschwitz video I did for the IHR in ‘92. If we’re gonna do a vodcast together, that’s what folks’ll wanna hear about.”

And in a flash I was reminded of why I hate concerts. I’m not a concert goer; never have been. I love music but I don’t like musicians, and I don’t want to see ‘em in person. Play your tune, cokehead faggot, and I’ll listen to it at home; I don’t need to see you preening on stage. And every time some childlike bimbo has dragged my tired ass to a concert because it’s a musician from “my era,” I’ve had to endure 90 minutes of has-beens playing their new shit before favoring the crowd with 10 minutes of the classics I came to hear.

Christ...I remember Rosie and Paulie dragging me to see Springsteen...I don’t even LIKE Springsteen, and he does two hours of new shit, and then ends with Dancing in the Dark like he’s favoring us with the cure for cancer or something.

Paulie was incapable of taking a photo that didn’t look like a forced-smile hostage held-at-gunpoint pic. That’s why she’s such a big movie star today.

There’s been only one concert in my entire life I’ve truly enjoyed: The Doobies and Chicago, performing together at Universal Amphitheatre…I think it was 2009. My beautiful friend Natalie got me tickets, because her friend Anthony was a manager at Citywalk.

And the Doobs and Chicago ONLY did their classics. Together, like a supergroup. No new shit, just the music that takes me back to my carefree childhood in the 1970s.

See that pic below? That’s the happiest you’ll ever see me. I haven’t been that happy in a decade.

I think that was while they were playing Beginnings.

See this? This is the opposite of happy Dave. Forget Beginnings; this is Endings.

This was last month, and Ann was in town, but my gout made every footstep an ocean of pain. Am I hiding it? I don’t think so. I see it in my eyes. Plus, those umbrellas in the background make it look like I’m wearing one of those Dutch girlie hats.

That is not a happy Dave pic.

Anyway, my point was, if Weber and I do a show together and talk about, say, inflation in Kosovo or batholiths in Greenland, you’ll feel cheated. It’ll be a classic rock group doing new material nobody cares about. You wanna hear about wooden doorths and doorths that open in and Mark and I would be doing no service to anyone by talking about anything else.

Also, that belly full of regret is slowly killing me. I’m not sure how to empty it – in theory a new edition of my banned book or a totally new book, but a publishing house recently sent reps to my house to discuss such a matter, and they lowballed me on the payment issue to such an extent that, you remember in the Flintstones how Fred would physically chuck Barney out the door and he’d bounce down the walkway accompanied by cartoon “thud” sounds?

Well...I wanted to do that to my visitors, but I was too drunk and too weak.

I always am.

So that’s this week’s post. Chime in: what would you want to hear David Cole and Mark Weber talk about? Wooden doorths? Or precipitation forecasts for the micropolitan metro of Watertown-Fort Atkinson? Pitch me some questions for the Cole/Weber Montel Show reunion vodcast.

And as always, please Buy Me a Beer! I actually don’t use the money for beer. Rum, sometimes. But more often, McDonald’s. Every burger you buy me is greatly appreciated, and helps fill my belly with something other than sadness.