David sent this email to our friend JP and I thought it was funny. (For context: JP's band Pleaseeasaur played at Lars-from-Metallica's house for his son's 5th birthday, & Pleaseeasaur sometimes performs wearing an abominable snowman costume.)
I watched the Metallica "Some Kind of Monster" documentary yesterday.
I was waiting for that pivotal moment in the documentary where someone speaks the words of the title for the first time and you connect it to the band, ("Aha!") and to the story that is being told ("Gripping!"), and to your soul ("Poignant!",) and you finally see the big picture. Their struggle as artists. Our struggle as humans. The moment came NOT as I imagined it would (see below) but as they were passing around a clipboard, writing shitty lyrics to another shitty song.
After a year of horrible recording sessions, infighting, drunken rages, pouting, spit-soaked cursing, squandered riffs, and soiled drumbeats, the members of Metallica go their separate ways. James gets in his flame-ensconced hot rod with the skull shifter and drives to the remotest part of Alaska, where he hunts polar bears just for the stomachs, which when emptied, make great vodka satchels.
Llaarrss explores his roots, going to the Danish countryside, eating raspberry danishes, buying a great Dane, and playing tennis.
The other guy makes the solo record he always wanted, and sells it to Old Navy for use in their plus-sizes khaki radio and television commercials in exchange for a lifetime supply of fitted black t-shirts.
One year later, they decide to reunite at the birthday party for Llaarrss's son. There they are, sitting pensively, watching a small of spoiled rock children slobber and giggle while a man onstage sings goofy songs and changes costumes.
James: What the fuck is this?
James: What the fuck is a Pleaseasaur?
Llaars: Some kind of monster.
They all seem satisfied with this answer. Roll credits.
[Pleaseeasaur in the throes of passion]