Ask Not What You Can Do For James Brown, Ask What Can James Brown Do For You

In the case of James Brown's death, I'm on Stage Three: Bargaining. "Oh, benevolent all-knowing Being", my tearful negotiations would begin, "How about we offer you a different but infinitely less-talented past-it performer like John Cougar Mellencamp or Carlos Santana to kill instead?" The sadness is multiplied when you realize we now have nobody to pen triumphant funk credos extolling the strength and dignity of can-do self-reliance. You know the types of songs I mean: those sassy pumped-up tunes like Brown's own I Don't Want Nobody To Give Me Nothing (Open Up The Door I'll Get It Myself) or Brown-protege Marva Whitney's You Got To Have A Job. I've already accepted the challenge and written a number of New Style songs for today's (man's man's man's) world. Or as we'd say in Brown-speak: I wanna get up and do my thang:

Don't Be Sending Me My Yahoo E-Mail Password (It Will Come To Me Eventually)

I Don't Need You To Spot Me (On The YMCA's Recline Bench Press)

Ain't Nobody Going To Process My Groceries (Give The People Self-Check Registers At Trader Joe's)

Don't Be A Quitter (Say It Loud - Smoke Yourself Proud)

Get Up, Get Involved, Get Into That Banana Republic Silk/Cashmere V-Neck Sweater On Your Own (The Sales Clerk Is Just Talkin' Loud & Sayin' Nothing)

I Can't Stand Myself (When You Touch Yourself) (Papa's Got A Brand New Bag Of Viagra)