Not Wet Yet- Review

Not Wet Yet

by Ian Shoales (2.13.61)
by William Ham

Cultural commentator. I don’t recall those words popping up in Fortune‘s year-end list of top jobs to hold in the boom economy we’re allegedly experiencing (according to my timetable, that trickle-down effect Reagan promised us back in ’81 should just about be reaching me by now), but it’s one gig that everyone with the ability to string a course of semi-coherent phrases together and access to the media or at least a nice smudge-proof grade of corrosable bond seems to be applying for these days. (And, as the previous sentence makes plain, I’ve been in the waiting room for quite a while now, waiting for one of my names to be called.) It can get kinda psychotic at the fringes – really, what is Ted Kaczynski but a (very) frustrated op-ed writer in dire need of a good editor? – which is why the merely cynical ramblings of the likes of Ian Shoales ring out like the clear, sweet peal of common sense. (“Tom Paine with a laptop” – William Ham, Lollipop [I’ve given up on making my mark as a cult-com; all I want now is jacket-flap and paperback-cover quotes]) Shoales, a member of San Francisco’s Duck’s Breath Mystery Theatre, the same group that gave us one-time MTV personality (which means he got his fifteen minutes reduced to about six with lots of jump cuts) Randee of the Redwoods, has been gently haranguing us for over fifteen years in print and (now regrettably rare) radio and TV appearances, and, as compiled in Not Wet Yet, his lightly sarcastic rants and matching stance (in the intersection of the Venn diagram between “hip” and “square”) wear well, even long after the subjects at hand are outdated. Heck, he’s one up on the aforementioned lone-nut-with-a-bad-‘do-and-a-cheap-apartment in that his points are all made in pieces that are as bite-sized and easy to swallow as a Bit O’ Honey, making this a perfect bedside read for when you wake up with a queer craving for mildly agitated befuddlement. And, to pick a semi-random example of the many gems within these pages, he’s got a lot to say to the would-be rock gawds among our readership, too: “Drugwise, stick to ibuprofen, decaf lattes, and pale pilsners. … If your stomach is not a flat slab, please leave your shirt on while performing. … If your girlfriend asks you to choose between her and your music, sell your instruments immediately – especially if you’re a drummer. … Finally, go easy on the supermodels, don’t forget to tune, and remember: a tiny bit of dry ice and lasers goes a long way.” (And it gives me renewed faith in the future of the free press to know that the gentleman who runs this publishing company didn’t excise the final line:) “Ditto with tattoos.”