Ten days or so ago, QGM asked, “What are the top three musicians you would most want to be your next door neighbor?”

Now, my first spasm of thought was “Slayer!SlayerSlayer,” but after a couple of minutes, I wasn’t so sure. John Garcia of Kyuss? Angus Young of AC/DC? The ‘Nuge? I mean I might like kicking back with a little Cat Scratch Fever every now and again, but would I really want the friggin ‘Nuge anywhere near the apartment next door to me in any permanent or semi-permanent basis? Very doubtful. I want neighbors who don’t make noise and stay so far out of my business that the casual observer would assume that they owe me money. What I don’t want are neighbors who bust through the walls of my apartment drunk at 3 AM unleashing rivers of vomit underneath my door.

The meme called for 3, but I wisely overpicked in case some of my choices were locked into their leases…

Samantha Fox, Kylie Minogue, Lindsay Lohan, Beyonce Knoweles, or Lynda Carter: I couldn’t find a good reason not to include them.

The Donnas: 200 pillows. 4 hot rock chicks. 1 apartment. Me next door with a power drill and tiny robot cams. DonnaDorm.com is born. High Five.

Leonard Nemoy: I would pretend that I had never seen Star Trek and cheerily greet him with “NaNoo Nanoo, Mr. Nimoy!” every time I saw him walking his dog. I would also try to borrow any of his copies of “In Search of…”

Eddie Murphy: “I’d play “My Girl Wants to Party All the Time” all the time at full volume until he called the cops on me. Then, I’d just stash some transvestite hookers outside his door. When the cops asked what was going on, I’d just roll my eyes and make that hand sign that insinuated that Eddie had been hitting the bottle pretty hard and blasting the music himself. This would happen every week until he apologized for making that fucking song or gave me a “Mumford Phys Ed” T-shirt. Either or.

William Shatner: You fucking wish you thought of that one. Oh yea. And I’d do up my apartment like that weirdo in England so it looks like the inside of the Enterprise. Then, I’d just kick back and let him record another craptacular album where he feels most at home: on the bridge in the middle my living room.

James Brown: Every morning when I heard James Brown yelling at his wife, I would invite him over and make him omelettes and bacon to calm him down (maybe even pancakes if the situation warrants it). I would also invite my friends over and not tell them James Brown came over every morning to eat breakfast at my apartment. Then, when James knocked on the door, I’d tell my friends, “Now, that’s probably an angry James Brown at the door, so just shut the fuck up because James don’t take no mess.” And they’d laugh, but the joke would be on them, because it really would be James Brown. I’d have my camera ready. Good times. Gooood times.

Gene Simmons: Given his uncanny ability to elevate a crappy rock band into a legendary marketing machine, I’m almost positive that if Gene Simmons lived next door, I could get my Jon action figure line off the ground.

Chuck Norris: I know he didn’t sing, so he won’t live next door. But, if he did, it would be the last song you would ever hear.

Jerry Reed: Jerry Reed. Smokey and the Bandit Trucker guy. East Bound and Down, loaded up and truckin’. Yeaaa, him. I would buy a CB rig and CB that fucker all day until he couldn’t take it anymore. I would then apologize and invite him over to have an omelette with James Brown.

Weird Al: Not only would I live next to Weird Al, but I’d build a custom wrestling ring in the courtyard of the complex the minute I heard he was moving in. After winning his trust, I’d convince him to enter into a steel cage match against Carrot Top for charity. I would then make them fight to the death. If they refused, I’d simply electrify the cage and wait for Tina Turner to show up. Two men enter, and hopefully no man leave.

Mr. T.: He sang “T’s Commandment”, so he counts as much as Samantha Fox or Eddie Murphy does. He’ll move in, introduce himself, I’ll cut the sleeves off of a denim jacket, and he’ll give me a proper haircut. Then, we’ll grab something to eat, and do whatever the fuck Mr. T wants to do. This will definitely involve pitying fools, and probably involve going to the mall to get “best friend” t-shirts made. Maybe hats. I’m not sure. Ebony and ivory, baby.

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