Visually, the Cybertruck asked and answered pressing questions. Questions like: What if a hammerhead shark were also a microwave? What if the abstract concept of “toxic masculinity” took on a physical form? Can a car be so powerfully off-putting that it makes your wife divorce you? Can a person communicate, solely through their chosen mode of transit, where they were on January 6, 2021?
This reminds me–if something makes me laugh, you’re likely to see it right here on DL.
We do not yet live in a society where we can recall cars for being hideous. But no matter: Within six months of its debut, the Cybertruck was recalled four times for more material concerns, namely that the construction of these trucks was exceptionally shoddy and likely life-threatening. Trim pieces on the truck bed could detach, becoming a road hazard, as they were not properly adhered to the vehicle; a light bar could also detach and be a risk to other motorists and pedestrians. In April 2024, nearly 4,000 Cybertrucks were recalled after it was found that the accelerator pedal could become stuck—I’ll let you put duh and duh together on the likely consequence of that pesky hiccup. Last March, Tesla had to yank nearly every single Cybertruck off the road because of a stainless steel exterior panel that could fly off and, you guessed it, injure and/or kill people.
The Most Famous Black Taxidermist You Never Heard Of. Come to think of it, I’ve never heard of any taxidermists, but still:
His work can be seen in the preservation of the racehorse Phar Lap, whose mounted hide is on display at the Melbourne Museum in Australia, in the majestic herd of elephants in the Akeley Hall of African Mammals at the American Museum of Natural History in Manhattan and in the lifelike Henry, an 11-ton elephant demanding respect in the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History in Washington.
Yet few know of Sinclair Clark, the taxidermy tanner whose handiwork made these displays possible — and who was one of the taxidermy industry’s first African American practitioners.
Clark worked tirelessly to maintain the appearance of life, making tough, heavy, thick skins workable for taxidermists. Tanning is a crucial part of the process. Without pliant, clean, well-preserved skin to work with, taxidermists would not be able to create the exhibits seen in institutions around the world. And while tanning is a better known skill for turning the skin of an animal into shoes or a handbag, Clark’s labor-intensive practice focused on preserving the memory of the animal — history frozen for the future.
Clark’s work includes Henry, an 11-ton elephant in the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History.Credit…George Tames/The New York Times
Clark’s knowledge and control over his process has garnered admiration and respect across the industry — including his skills with blades and his uncanny control over the chemical mixtures used in tanning his hides. One of his protégés, John Janelli, often said that Clark determined if his concoctions were complete by dipping a hand in the vat and tasting them, much like a wine connoisseur.
Ho-kay, let’s move on…
Words Of Wisdom From Willie Nelson:
On being the Last Man Standing
Longevity is a blessing and also a burden. A blessing because you get to hang around to see your grandkids and maybe even your great-grandkids. But a burden because every day it seems like another friend has passed. Grieving becomes a full-time job. The last man standing can be lonely. Loss is something you don’t get over. That idea hit me hard when a friend’s wife died and he came to me for comfort. He saw me as a guy who might understand. The thing I know most, I told him, especially after my son Billy died in 1991, aged 33, is that you don’t get over it, but you will get through it. Best I can do is write a song.
On fighting the IRS
I told Annie it would always be smooth sailing … but man, was I wrong! I didn’t see the storm coming. The same year of Micah’s birth, the IRS showed up, guns blazing. Froze my bank accounts. Grabbed my assets. Seized my property. Padlocked my homes. Said I owed them $32m. That was the start of the 1990s, when suddenly God’s problem child had a problem. We were in the middle of a tour when we got a call telling us the IRS had seized our property and were auctioning off our personal belongings.
We asked my tax attorney Larry Goldfein to let them know our answer was fuck, no.
But out of that came more negotiations. The auctions stopped, but before they did, many of our good friends went in and bought a lot of our properties, and some of our personal belongings. They let us buy them back when everything was settled. We were grateful to have such great friends.
While the ranch was seized, we moved into a condo next to the studio. All four of us squeezed into a one-bedroom until things were settled. It was actually a special time, if also uncertain.
Eventually, I made a deal to give them an album called The IRS Tapes: Who’ll Buy My Memories?. We won our lawsuit, and the album paid off our debt; we moved back to the ranch and life resumed as usual. After that, I always made sure my taxes were paid. Or at least Larry Goldfein did. He is still with me today.
On touring with country music pioneer Ray Price in the 1960s
I was going wild. That’s because, for the first time in my life, I had money. My hit songs were hitting even harder. Every night was a party, and the party was on me. I booked big suites at the hotels and treated the boys in the band to all the booze they wanted. I drank like a fish and acted like an ass. It didn’t take more than three weeks for me to run through all my money. Like a patient father, Ray watched me play the fool and didn’t say a word until I was dead broke.
He didn’t chastise me; he advised me. He saw that I was speeding down a dead‑end street. Didn’t it make sense to slow down and turn around?
I couldn’t argue with Ray. He was seven years my senior. He had built a career driven by positive direction. Even in my boozy condition, I recognised positive energy. Ray’s energy was generous.
He was going to Nashville after the tour to record and invited me to play on his new album. He knew I was broke. The gig meant decent union pay. Ray also knew I didn’t know his new music and there wasn’t time to learn it. That’s why he handed me a guitar without an amp so I wouldn’t be heard. I pretended to play, and when the session was over, Ray pretended that I played well.
“Take this money, Willie,” he said. “Write me some songs, and leave the bottle alone.”
Took a long time – way too long – to renounce whiskey in favour of weed. But I never forgot how Ray looked after me.
We close with probably my fave Willie song:
