Gastric Intensity and Drawstring Pants

Man…I feel fat as a fucking house with a gland problem.

I went to Sports Authority at 7:00 this morning to buy a treadmill that’s on the super “only till noon” sale. It’s a pretty wang feeling walking into the mall at 7:00, like…I am so fucking consumerly pathetic that I completely buy into this “biggest shopping day of the year” garbage and drag my slightly hungover and well stuffed ass out of my comfortable bed so I can be the first in line to get ripped off. I want to punch myself in the penis for my actions on one hand but on the other I’m glad I did it cuz I got the last one at half-price. HA-HA, take that Mister, “I’m going to stay in bed and have sex instead of going to the mall at a ridiculous hour of the morning” blog-reading bastard!

With my super new treadmill I’m going to have a six pack and well developed shoulders in no time and then the small percentage of people out there who don’t already find me devastatingly attractive will have no choice but to want to get all up on my toned and firm-calved ass. That will be sweet! Of course in reality I will probably never go near the damn thing but treadmills make dandy laundry hanging devices for the 99% of people who buy them and never use them for their intended purpose so either way I figure I’m ahead of where I was at 6:45.

I also bought a new pair of Sambas for the super good (these days anyways) price of 29 bucks. During my travels with Philito the other night I deduced that Sambas have somehow become a hip shoe amongst the nerf-headed girl pant wearing walking baskets of heartbreak set. Can’t ya stick to Pumas and Roos or whatever the hell else you’re wearing and leave the classics to the old people that have trod in them all these years? You’ve already bastardized my beloved Iron Maiden concert shirts for your soulless purpose; do you have to take my shoes as well? I have basically worn Sambas and Chucks as my primary footwear for the past twenty years; all of a sudden I’m part of a trend? I don’t get it…

Anyway…

Turkey Day was chill, tons of food and watching football with the family. I think I was buzzed as a result of my dad’s predilection for making sure everyone is drinking at all times while in his home. I didn’t particularly feel banged up but when I dunked the top of the sugar bowl into a cup of coffee…twice….pretty much destroying the tablecloth it was a strong indication that I was getting housed. Just to make sure Trey and I went to a bar after the family festivities and drank beers into the night. We met a cool bartender named E.J. that used to work at the Grog and Tankard and now is pouring booze in good ole Virginny. It’s always fun telling stories about how atrocious the owners of the Grog are and what a flaming shithole it is. I gave E.J. a copy of the CD to put in the juke so I can go in to the bar at my leisure and ego-trip to my hearts delight for two plays to the dollar. Lovely…lovely lovely.

Trey is still asleep on my couch that lazy fucker. Texans, you can’t do a thing with em’.

I gotta go, there’s leftovers calling me like a siren calls a sailor.

Gobble Gobble

Happy Thanksgiving you magnificent bastards.

Now go get stuffed!

The dance of many bars

Philito and I headed out early to take care of some band business and basically go carousing. It was quite the fun time and we made lots of great new friends although Philito managed to totally piss off some hatchet faced no fun pissed off dildo of a woman at Ben’s Chili Bowl. Despite her it was thoroughly a fantastical evening full of mirth and good tidings and massive quantities of cheap yet tasty domestic beer.

Stop 1 – Wesley’s house: I had forgotten to get CD’s so it was off to Wesley’s to pick up a supply. He let us in and called us a name or two and then went back into the studio and produced the…..the object. It was the first time I was allowed to hold it and caress it. I kinda wanted to lick it all over and taste its golden caramel goodness. I think I got a wee bit of a tightening in the loins, it was just that sexy. Goddamit, it’s a beautiful guitar that Wesley is building for me. I’m in love with it. He took it away after a bit and looked repulsed, gave us CD’s and sent us on our way.

Stop 2 – Rite-Aid: Had to stop and pick up supplies. I got a pack of swank airmail envelopes, a notepad, two pens, some Altoids and a Dr. Pepper. We were armed and ready to roll.

Stop 3 – CD Cellar: Dropped flyers for the show, looked at some CD’s and left. As we were walking up the street I stepped on something that was both squishy and crackly at the same time. I didn’t know quite what it was at first but was reasonably sure I wasn’t going to be a fan of stepping in whatever it was. I looked down and it was a dead bird…a squished and oozing dead bird. I somehow managed to squelch the explosive vomit reflex that was kicking in and kept on truckin’!

Stop 4 – Galaxy Hut: Popped in for a beer and to write a letter to the powers that be at Iota. There’s something about actually writing with pen and paper anymore that seems really foreign which is sad. We had some happy hour beers and I scrawled my note. Friend Jon was at the bar and we chatted with him and his pal about Natalie Wood and wars in outer space and stuff like that, good guys and good chatter for the gray matter.

Stop 5 – Iota: Had to drop off my letter and, of course, have a beer. I was amazed that the new bartender who I had only met once before remembered my full name from our previous encounter. I can barely remember how to get home from the grocery store, between that and not caring an ounce about the happiness of my customers it’s no wonder I was such a shitty bartender. Not sure who played at Iota last night but the woman that was soundchecking had a great voice and was wearing a totally snazzy bright red outfit. If you have a time machine I suggest you go back and check her out. Friend Jon was there having migrated from Galaxy Hut and he took our picture with a disposable camera. I think he now owns our souls. Ah well, who needs them anyway.

Stop 6 – Black Cat: Dropped off ye olde Press Kit with Bernie who runs the place. I have met Bernie about 9,000 times and he still has no idea who I am. That’s the thing I guess, he’s the kind of person that people want to meet and I’m the kind of person that wants to meet people. Sniffle. Had some beers, the bartender was cool and the tunes were rocking on the juke. Good stop and it had us revved up for the long walk to 9th Street.

Stop 7 – café’ Saint-Ex: Stopped in to see my old drummer and lifelong compadre’ James but he wasn’t working. Philito had never been to Saint-Ex before so we wandered through and went downstairs to receive the complimentary stare-down from the loner homosexuals at the bar. It’s like the old drunk lunatic stare only openly carnivorous and not closeted. We beat a hasty retreat and headed down the road.

Stop 8 – Bar Nun: After three blocks it was time to have some refreshment so we popped into Bar Nun. There were these two idiots dressed up like extras from a Harvey Keitel gangster movie who were obviously scared to go in because of the four black people sitting at the bar. We brushed past them and hunkered down to have some beers and really kick-ass pretzels. We started shooting the shit with the patrons and gave out some flyers and just had a good old time talking with the kind of folks that in the course of my day I don’t usually get a chance to talk to. I think one or two of the gang might actually show up which would be cool as shit. When we were leaving the bartender said, “Stay cool playah”, which totally made me feel like a supreme badass and I strutted on to the next destination.

Stop 9 – Velvet Lounge: Our primary destination of the evening as we had a bag full of flyers and a new roll of tape to get rid of. Well armed, we were ready to plaster the place silly but we started drinking first as it would have been rude to just start hanging flyers up without properly settling in to the environs. We talked for a while with the bartender and Rob who books the place and runs sound. Rob is a cool dude and I think he likes the band a lot. He clued us in on an email he got from someone super-secret but totally bossarific asking him to record our show which sent us into tizzies of joy exacerbated by the gallons of alcohol that had been poured down the old gullets by that time. Good stuff. We got to flyering and wallpapered the place pretty well, our marketing efforts have been put to good use. After two more beers we belched our farewells and happy Thanksgivings’ and stumbled out the door. Philito promptly stepped on an empty pint bottle that went skittering down the sidewalk with a fantastic clatter and made me laugh hysterically. Alcohol is great when you don’t have a lot of A-grade humor material around.

Stop 10 – DC9: By the time we got to DC9 our heads were beginning to spin quite magnificently. We went in and paid the cover and headed up the steps, which seemed very long because I was sorta drunk. A band called I In time was playing and we both found them to be cool, I thought they were sorta Joe Jackson-y in a good way, (my opinion being that Joe Jackson is either really good or really really shitty most of the time but all the time he is better than Pete Yorn. Just in general, because Pete Yorn eats ox cock). Anyway, the band finished and we headed downstairs to get the stuff together that we needed to drop off with the folks at DC9 and drink some more beers. We sat at the end of the bar and this hopped-up totally whacked out maniac from Ghana decided that Philito was the one and only person on earth that he should be shouting at and he had a lot to say…so he said it….at 500 miles per hour with his eyes bugging out of his head like the Judge when he got flattened at the end of “Who Framed Roger Rabbit”. Mike Holden walked by as the ranting was going on, Mike being a local guy around town that was playing later on that night, and laughed obviously having seen us in this kind of situation before.

Eventually the bouncer bounced the cackling refugee and left us to our thoughts and beers. We had totally lost our train of purpose regarding why we were there in the first place and sat plugging away at the longnecks watching the crazy dude out on the sidewalk yelling at cars. Another friend, Jon Kaplan from the Bicycle Thieves, came in and looked at us with a smile. He told me that I looked a bit tired and I said I was but I was lying as I was really just drunk and fuzzy in my brain. We paid out and left with the bag of stuff that we had been carrying around all night with the sole purpose of leaving at DC9. We might be fun but sometimes we’re really stupid.

Stop 11 – Ben’s Chili Bowl: Ben’s is a D.C. institution known for giving their patrons institutional levels of flatulence and gastric distress. It’s fantastically great for the drunken palette not to mention the fact that Bill Cosby loves it and Charles Barkely supposedly pissed on the sidewalk out front one time. We went in to rest our heads and sop up the booze with some chili dogs and chips and do some people watching because that place is all full of interesting people. After macking down the grub and burping and dropping chili on my pants I went to the can and left some flyers over the urinals, (that’s high-quality marketing right there boys and girls).

Post pee-pee and band promotion I came back out to pay up and head for the comfortable environs of old Virginny. As I turned the corner I saw Philito talking up some folks at a table, two rummy looking guys and a shrew that looked like taming her would take an army of Siegfreid and Roy’s teamed up with an armored battalion of Archie Bunkers. The guys were flapping their gums about this or that and the shrew was battle-axing about the state of this or that in rock and roll and how it disempowers the ladies or some such thing. Philito told her blithely that, “your friends seem to really enjoy it”, which garnered them laser-death stares and sent her further into a tizzy.

She sucked so we summarily ignored her yammering and went about our business, leaving her filthy presence with a wave and a cloud of dust (coming out of our butts and aimed at her face).

So it was a long walk with burning bellies down the misty streets and we were all joy to the world and full of good cheer. We passed the Black Cat and pondered a return visit but decided it was the better idea to head on back which we did. All in all a really good night save for the squished bird and the bitchy hag at the Chili Bowl. We need to do that kind of thing more often…like this Saturday when I know I’m going to Iota to see a kick-assula rock and roll machine called Kung Fury. Good times ahead if you wanna join in the mayhem.

Have a good Thanksgiving and be thankful that I’m around, you know I make your world a better place.

Lil help..yes you, the abomination up front!!!

Let me just say this one thing….

If you are reading this and have not yet had kids yet know in your heart that you are a tremendous fucking asshole with a crappy outlook on life that hates everything that scares you which is just about everything on the planet and you happen to be physically repulsive not via genetics but by the horrendous atrocities of diet and fashion that you have subjected your body to and have a grating voice that is as melodious as a pile of broken glass being sucked into a vacuum cleaner and on top of all of that think everyone on the face of the fucking planet wants to hear your loud and completely uninformed opinions about the shitty state of just about everything do us all a favor and don’t go out there and find a miserable shit just like you only of the opposite sex and start fucking and have some miserable little fuckfaced kids that are the next generation of everything shitty about the both of you.

If you refuse to follow this directive at least have the courtesy to stay the fuck away from me you soul-eating zombie bastard fuckhearts in your embroidered sweat clothing and Laura Bush haircuts you goddam things you.

GAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!

It’s fucking coffee…..order it and move on or better yet drop the whole 10-gallon container on your round fucking head and scald the shitty look off of your fat fucking face with the scalding hot liquid inside.

This message brought to you by the “I’m in a hurry and think I’ll pop in here for a quick cup of coffee but no the shit in front of me has decided to act out all the worst parts of the human experience in conjunction with having no csah and a maxxed out and declined credit card so I'm stuck listening to their horrid bullshit and smelling the kid's loaded diaper for ten minutes” Association of America.

I’m a fag and I just don’t care

PHILITO ON THE MARCH!!!


According to the maniac at the bar on Sunday I'm a fag and I don't care about nuthin'.

Here's where THAT came from...

We had a Sunday afternoon practice on Sunday afternoon and then retreated to the bar near Benifer’s house (where we create our melodious wonderments) to watch the Redskins completely and totally suck festering donkey anus against the Bengals. But I digress, this is not about football but about crazy people and hatred and booze and lovely ladies that can save your soul with a simple sentence.

We get get settled for our day of bondo broken down the middle into two camps; smart guys and not-so-smart guys. Wesley and Benifer are the brains of the operation in that not only do they not drink but they don’t drink to the excessively stupid amounts that me and Philito do. Me and Philito, we represent the downtrodden and chemically dependent slice of life and I like to think we do so with panache and aplomb.

Anyway we get in there and settle in at the bar and within three seconds crazy old drunk motherfucker the next stool over is giving me the hairy eyeball and muttering to himself and his ashtray and I think. “Wow….this feels very uncomfortably familiar.” I got a beer and did my best to ignore old hard-and-Looney-eyes but it got more and more difficult as he would randomly turn to me, get within about ten inches and say interesting things like:

“FAG”
“YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT SHIT DO YOU?!?!?!”
“FAGGOT”
“HEY YOU DON’T WANT TO HEAR ME I’M SORRY!!!!”
“FUCK THOSE RAIDER FAGGOTS YOU FAG!!!”
“THOSE YOUR CIGARETTES….FAG!!!!!”

So I finally say “look man, I’m just here to watch the game so why don’t we just ignore each other and everything will be really much happier, alright?”

“FAG!”

This is where I started plotting how long it would take from him pulling a shank to me jumping off my barstool and running to hide behind Wes while squealing like a second grade girl with harshly pulled pigtails. I mean on the internet I would give him a flying spin-kick to the neck and punch him so hard in the throat that his nuts would get pulled up to his nostrils but as I have noted in earlier posts I don’t fight in real life anymore because I suck at it and sucking at fighting correlates directly to absurd amounts of pain.

He finally shoved off after telling the very cute bartender that he wanted to fuck her. She handled it with more grace than could be reasonably expected and I tipped her well for her simple excellence as a human being and pourer or alcohol. Another patron came in and said, "man....there's this crazy dude out in the street yelling at a bunch of muslims...calling them all sorts of crazy shit." I wondered quietly if they were being called fags as well and pondered to myself why crazy old rednecks love to love to hate me. If I wasn't having so much fun getting drunk I imagine I would have been a tad melancholy, as it was I was cursing the TV and spilling beer on my pants and generally feeling pretty swell about things.

Eventually Philito’s lovely other half arrived and I asked her why crazy old drunken men always decide to single me out and give me shit at bars. She patted my hand and in the most endearing way possible said, “because you’re so much cuter than they are it makes them mad.” And since then it has just all totally made so much sense. I can't believe I never thought of that before!!!

So Philito, he is a lucky young man blessed with many talents and a lovely woman that loves him dearly. He has a dog named Tipsy that adores the ground upon which he stumbles and a liver that is tougher than Mr. T in his prime. I feel lucky to have him as a compadre’ and am glad he is sufficiently self-absorbed and egotistical enough not to resent me for my inherent and gawd given wonderfulness.

I'm pretty lucky...excluding all those popeyed motherfuckers out there that want to shank me for my dimples.

Whoo!

I can't really post much today because I have to go get busy getting intoxicated with Philito but I will link you to some good old internet(s) based snarking and carping and generally being mean as hell to each other.

This guy - http://dceiver.blogspot.com/

vs:

These guys - http://wwwbigyawn.net

It's a knockdown dragout war of the words over internet dominance!!!! YEAH!!! I've been reading it all day. Check it out and choose your robot. Red or blue yer gonna have a rock'em sock'em good time. I don't know if you can declare a winner but I love the idea of the mutual enemnity interview. Sign me up for one of those anyday.

Hey go here and learn about me..

Here I am - ze Pharmacy Prophets

Give it a try, maybe it'll make some blood flow down to yer nethers.

Stage Seven – this is the end, my non-existent friends

When last we left the crew the rock was about to drop….

And with a One…Two…Three….Four….from the drummer shaky hands grip guitar picks in a Kung-Fu death pinch, knees knock and hearts palpitate. There is a micro-second of peace in the air and then

BUYWHONNNNNGGGGGG!!!!!!

A dissonant rattle comprised of vibrations from a snare drum and cymbals and severely out of tune and way too loud guitar and bass notes bouncing off the highly sheened wood paneling on the other side of the room fills the room. The few people in attendance are stunned, they don’t know what to do so they look at the floor, the ceiling, the cigarette machine, their beers…….anywhere but at the band. Should it sound like this? Shouldn’t the band stop and fix whatever the fuck is going on in the name of sweet baby Jesus before we all go deaf?!?!?!?!

To the credit of P.T. Barnum’s eternally damned soul stopping would not be an option even if the band had any idea how insane and horridly atrocious they sounded. The show, no matter how retarded, must go on. This is why musicians drink so much, alcohol helps them cope with facts by enveloping their brains and auditory senses in a haze of thickly applied bullshit. It’s not that they don’t care that it doesn’t sound good; they have no idea that it doesn’t so they keep pounding away. The band has been playing for six seconds before the guitarist turns up his amp.

Now it is time for the star of the show, the VOICE of the band to be introduced to the “fans” that are blinking uncontrollably with every hit of the snare drum and trying desperately to avoid eye contact with any of the band. The singer’s stomach is squarely in his soft palette as he steps up to the mic, closes his eyes, accidentally lets loose a fart and zaps the fucking shit out of himself when he opens his mouth and his spittle hitting the ungrounded microphones completes a circuit that sends electrical current across his lips and into his metal dental fillings.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHHHH……fuck…..”

Plunk. Enter the feedback…….

Being out of tune and microphone feedback truly comprises the soundtrack of our lives for the shitty gig musician. It doesn’t matter what the band’s style or makeup it always sounds the same….the same cacophonous death rattle of the patron saint of melody and goodness. It happens all the time but the look of panic, of guilt and of utter and complete lack of control dawns anew on the faces of the bands that it happens to. The band chugs on for a full minute and seems to be getting things under control until.....

CLAAAAAAAAAAAANNGGGGGGGGGGGGGg………..

Someone dropped a tray in the dishroom. People laugh. This can’t be happening.

So the singer decides to make up for the hiccups with severe rocking out. There are several variations of the shitty gig rock move but all pretty much make the mover look like a guy having a seizure and dropping a big load in his drawers at the same time. He shimmies, he shakes, he finger points and he makes little kissy faces at the microphone to avoid touching it and electrocuting himself.

Mercifully the first song ends and the spirit of Diamond David Lee Roth is invoked by for the bazillionth time by the bazillionth unimaginative and wholly unprepared front-man. In response to the half-hearted and almost frightened clapping and the single “whoo” mercifully uttered by the bass players cousin the singer replies –

“WELL ALRIGHT…..HELLO (town)….YOU READY TO ROCK TONIGHT…YOU KNOW (band) IS!!!! AIN’T THAT RIGHT???? (band looks up in confusion. Guitarist smiles like a village idiot and hoists his cup for a toast, catches it on his guitar strap and spills beer all over his gig shirt. Shit.)

The band tries in vain to tune their instruments for three of the longest minutes of the singer’s life. He glares, he shrugs playfully at the 12 people left in attendance, he tells jokes, and eventually he starts to mumble. Finally with a painfully loud DUNT DWANT DUNT from the guitarist’s guitar the band is ready to re-launch into the rock universe.

Song number two, just as out-of-tune as song number 1. The band plays on and the singer pussyfoots around and things are getting better all the time. Three people sneak out with a half-hearted wave while pointing at their watches. This is a classic shitty gig maneuver that seems to be part of the human genetic imprint as it is replicated in every town in the civilized world where assholes can buy guitars and someone sells pizza.

Songs three – six are terrible but unremarkable. Average time between the start and stop of a song is 93 seconds. Nothing happens during these horrendous soul-destroying lapses in the rocking except a lot of foot shuffling and staring.

Song seven – Rocking away..in the groove….DUN DA DUN DA DUN POINK!!! da diddle diddle poot poot poot….. Something has gone wrong. Houston, we have a problem! There is a hole in the sound and the singer has the look of a crazed animal. He glares at the guitarist and the drummer but they look dopily confused and innocent and then he turns to the bass player. Mouth agape he is looking at his axe and the limp string hanging off of it. He has broken his A-String, he is butt confused and has tried to transpose what he plays on the broken string and move over to non-broken ones. He has failed miserably. The song limps to a merciful end.

Singer - “We’re gonna take a quick break (four people bolt for the door) so we can take care of an equipment issue…be right back…..”

The drummer and guitarist sprint to the bar. There are five people looking miserable and the night is a disaster. The singer is pissed, pissed at his band, pissed at the P.A., pissed at the inventor of the calendar system that made Tuesday’s suck and pissed at God. The one person he is not pissed at is himself because after all, he’s awesome. The bass palyer is kneeling by his amp but not changing the string, ten minutes has passed and the night is going downhill. The owner of the pizza parlor is resigned to this shittiness and grumbles in the background. The singer asks the bass player “what the fuck is going on man…?”

“I don’t have any extra strings.”

Poof goes the last vestiges of coherence for the frontman. This is the last straw. He storms out of the pizza parlor and starts dialing people on his cell phone to vent his outrage and frustration. Of course they are all avoiding him as it is gig day so he leaves a lot of …”sup dude, just wondering if you’re coming by….” guilt trips on people who don’t even like him that much anyway.

Going back inside he finds the band huddled by the drumkit. The bass player assures him that the gig can go on. He can manage, he is a pro. They shuffle back to the mics and start playing songs with no emotion, energy or thought. It is the march of the damned and blissfully no one is left to hear it that isn’t on the Joe’s Pizza payroll. The band plays on…and on and on and on and on until 12:15. The owner says, “you can wrap it up whenever” and they do. The amps are turned off, the cords wrapped up, the band is drunk, the singer is heartbroken.

The tab is rung up and the cover charge is added. For the privilege of rocking to 12 people for 76 minutes the band owes the pizza parlor $83.55. The singer pays it on his debit card and the band promises to settle up with him at practice. This will never…EVER…happen. The band loads their gear, smokes cigarettes in the parking lot and talks about how it wasn’t that bad and this song and that song sounded kick-ass and “practice on Thursday??? Yeah..yeah….sure…” and the cycle repeats itself. For there is as much hope and ego as there are Tuesdays in the future and the idiocy is as thick in the music world as the sheen of grease on the pizza parlor bar.

Yeah, they’re retards but they’re retards with purpose and guitars. So check your caller ID and watch the fuck out because like the Stone Temple Pilots said, "HERE THEY COME THEY COME THEY COME!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Stage Six – The final countdown and who has a magic marker

The band has arrived at the pizza parlor and has a hasty and edgy conversation in the parking lot about the gig. The singer is pissed because the drummer was supposed to be at the show for load-in at 6:00 for the show that starts at 10:00. Being that it is now almost 7:00 things are off schedule and the strain of the unknown is starting to crack the cool demeanor of the band of rock badasses. Following a stern admonishment about “focus” and “getting our shit together” from the singer the band shuffles into the pizza parlor and are greeted with the same words Bono probably gets when arriving at the venues U2 plays –

“Table for four?”

The singer is suddenly gripped by a wave of panic that coalesces in a tight ball of heat that centers at the top of the back of his thighs and radiates up through his balls and into the pit of his stomach. “How can they not know we’re the band?” And then the crack in the façade is born, the first focused look at the slob in the Tevas and the dork in slacks and especially the glue-headed feeb in the bowling shirt. “What have I gotten myself into? What the fuck is the matter with these assholes….they’re going to ruin my career!!!!” He stands silently while the bass player tells the maitre’d that they are indeed there to rock and asks where they should set up. Obviously the place is psyched for the rock but you wouldn’t know it by the look of puzzlement on the face of the menu distributor who yells to his boss, “HEY JOE ARE WE HAVING A BAND TONIGHT?????” With an affirmation from afar he nods at the band and points towards the west end of the dining room, “That’s where you play but you can’t bring anything in until we stop serving dinner.”


Uh-oh

Total and absolute panic envelops the singer. The rest of the band however feels a sense of relief and goes to the bar where they are treated to half price draft beers. They start drinking….and drinking….and drinking. Beer quickly turns to manly drinks like Appletinis and rum and cokes and time and sobriety start to slip away from the minstrels. The singer sitting glumly by himself watching TV gets up and frets….”we’re never going to get set up in time, what the fuck…..look at these jerkoffs….I have to do everything…….” Deciding to take what matters he can into his own hands he walks out to the parking lot and looks at the cars. Then he opens his trunk, unzips his gig bag, fumbles around in it for a bit and comes back inside. He asks the guitarist, “can I take a look at the setlists?” and gets a blank drunken stare in return.

Uh-oh numero dos.

Singer - “Dude….I specifically asked you to print off four copies of the set-list that we worked up at practice the other night….did you forget to print them or forget to bring them?”

Guitarist – “uhhhhhhh……….what difference does it make? “

Singer – “IT MAKES ALL THE DIFFERENCE IN THE WORLD. IF YOU FORGOT TO BRING THEM YOU’RE JUST STUPID IF YOU DIDN’T PRINT THEM WE HAVE A MAJOR COMMITMENT TO THIS BAND PROBLEM…”

Guitarist (lying) – “Chill dude…..I uh, man I forgot them on the counter. But I totally printed them man. Look, I’ll write up new ones while we’re waiting.”

Singer – “This is fucked man….really fucked…”

Exit singer to the other side of the bar to huff impressively.

So the guitarist bereft of any writing utensil or parchment upon which to scrawl asks the barkeep for what he needs. The bartender, reluctant to turn over his only pen to a sticky headed tenpin refugee gives old six-strings a couple of unused dinner checks and the grease pencil the restaurant uses to figure out table assignments for the waiters. The band minus the singer put their heads together desperately trying to remember not only the order but what songs they were going to play.

“dude we were going to open with ‘Rain Falls’….what does he call the dunt da dunt dunt da song…..uhhh, I think ‘Plush’ was supposed to go fourth….I know we close with “Foolish Hearts”….” Twenty minutes later there are four setlists written in smudged and barely legilble black grease, all four are different.

At 9:15 the final pie has been served and the last spumonti delivered and it is time to load-in and get the rock on the road. The band carries in their stuff bumbling drunkenly to and fro and sets things down in exactly the opposite order of what makes the most sense for getting ready in a timely manner. As this is going on several co-workers of the singers have come in and he sets out to do his #1 job, schmoozing the crowd. This irks the band who is carrying in the equipment and trying to figure out how to hook up the antiquated and woefully underpowered P.A. system that the busboy pulled out from behind the wetmop in the dish room. There is one P.A. speaker and no monitors, two radio shack microphones, three microphone stands in various states of bustedness, one very dirty and beaten power-strip and no extension cords. The area where the band is to rock the fuck out is in front of a window, on the way to the bathroom and has a single electrical outlet in the corner.

At 9:55 the singer has come over to ascertain what the hell is going on with the band. He turns on the P.A. and a horrific buzzing sound comes through the single speaker. Everyone stands around looking at each other. The singer unplugs the speaker cable and plugs it back in, recreating the noise. He goes through this exercise several times. The busboy comes over and sets the P.A. up correctly and walks off muttering in Spanish, most likely about how he wishes it was he who was about to take the stage (floor) and live the dream….the ROCK!!!! The singer runs over to hi co-workers who are putting their jackets on and assures them that the show is going to start. He skips back over to the band and glares at them really, really, really hard and says “WE NEED TO PLAY….NOW!!!!!.” The band, drunk and woefully unprepared to start playing scurry to and fro and trip over their guitar cases and microphone cables. Somehow, someway they have their guitars on and plugged in. The amps are on and the guitarist says, “just one sec and let me tune up,” He steps on his tuner to turn it on and……………

Nothing happens. The battery is dead and while he is flush with guitar picks, guitar magazines, bandanas for wiping off his axe and other unnecessary accoutrements neither he nor his band of fellows have the one thing that can make more difference in the shitty show than anything else, a functioning tuner. He decides to use his awesome ear and sense of internal pitch to tune up the old fashioned way and plink-plunks his way up and down the neck. Satisfied…..the bass player tunes to him string by string. The drummer is thudding away on his snare drum and the singer is gripping his mic stand. The band has arrived, they are plugged in and ready to go.

Oh God.

Next up…..the gig and it’s consequences.

Stage 5 – The prep and primp

It is the day of the gig and the harassing has hit maximum overdrive. Cell phones across the region are being turned off, scads of terrible flyers are in a big stack being ignored at Tower records and the band members are performing their pre-gig rituals.

Singer – Has trekked to Marshall’s to buy a new gig shirt. This is very important to the success of the rockfest as we all know that no one has ever made it big in rock and roll in an old t-shirt. The singer is very conscious of his diet all day and spends a lot of time sucking his stomach in and out to harden it up. He considers going for a run to open up the pipes but talks himself out of it. He is nervous and irritable all day and guilt trips everyone he knows about coming to the show. He is a basket case in six dollar sunglasses.

Guitarist(s) – Doesn’t bother to change the strings on his guitar or clean the electrical connections on his amp but does go to CVS to buy some new SuperSpike hair gel. The six-string slinger(s) spends an inordinate amount of time walking back and forth between his gig bag and his amp doing nothing but touching the amp lightly and picking up and putting down the gig bag while zipping and unzipping it about 723 times. Seven hours before load-in time for the gig he puts his gear in the ride and goes to Target to get a gig shirt of his own. The rock garment will be of the shiny polyester bowling shirt variety, usually black with a flame design or skull or some such nonsense on it, (the design signifies to anyone and everyone that this hombre’ is not to be messed with and is no doubt part of a forceful and dangerous rock and roll outfit). After leaving Target he makes the holy trek to Guitar Center where he futzes about, tries to engage the counter clerk in conversation about his “gig” later that night and buys the following –

45 guitar picks
New strap with badass design on it
Tuning fork
Guitar pick holder for mike stand
Two guitar stands
New cable

What he does not buy –
9 volt battery

This will come back to bite him in the ass.

After leaving Guitar Center he goes through the McDonald’s drive-thru and buys a super size value meal. The butterflies in his stomach go to work and by gig time el Mariachi will have a volcanic case of the shits complete with paint-peeling farts. Upon arriving home he gets in the shower where he washes his hair three to six times, gets out and cleans up his goatee and starts to go to work on his hair. As there is rock to be brought at a level of ten he uses ten times the regular and required amount of hair gel to work on his rock ‘do. The results leave him with a goopy mop on top of his head that will just not spike correctly no matter what twists and hand machinations he tries. Sensing disaster and with a tweak of panic he rubs a towel all over his head to straighten things out. This has the effect of making him look like Bozo so he starts matting down the bombsite with handfuls of water. In the end he looks about as rock and roll as the red stapler guy from Office Space on bowling night and his hair looks like someone poured a bucket of Elmer’s glue on it.

The bassist – Gets home from work, goes to his room, masturbates and goes to sleep. After he wakes up he slips on his Tevas and heads out to the gig. He has never broken a string on his bass before and sees no reason to put new ones on for the show, really what are the chances that a string would break for the first time EVER during this excellent rock event? More future ass biting will happen based on this foolish faith in a kind and merciful God. God hates delusional musicians; everyone should know that by now.

The drummer – Can barely function on a normal day and this one has him especially keyed up and irritated. A flare-up at the work has caused him to not only not eat all day but to stay late. He gets stuck in traffic and does not have time to change or shower before the show. This sucks. The lord of Rhythm Nation heads to the big gig in a polo shirt and Savane Active slacks with uncomfortable shoes on. He was born to rock but tonight feels like an abortion. Pounding as hard as he can on the steering wheel he gets angrier and angrier when the singer calls every three minutes asking him where the fuck he is. By the time he hits the pizza parlor parking lot he is ready to chew nails, breathe fire and shit mountain lions.

The band has arrived and now the shit is on.

Next up – Setting up the stage and who brought the set list?

Seven Stages of the bad gig or the delusional idiot’s roadmap to the logical conclusion

A very few bands get to play lots of great gigs, some bands before their inevitable destruction can latch onto a couple to talk up for the next twenty years but for the vast majority the great gigs never come. These are the serfs that toil, that clog the inboxes of the world, that harass the telephone and guilt trip causal acquaintances in ways that would make the “for only 13 cents a day you can save this child” commercial producers proud. These are they that play on the Tuesday, on the floor, at the pizza parlor for no money and half-price beer. They are the players of the shitty gigs and lord, they are many.

Somebody’s gotta play them right? Say there are 8 decent to really good places for a local rock and roll band to play in a given area. You figure two bands a night on the weekends which leads to 32 decent to good gigs a week. Now in any given town there are going to be hundreds of bands looking to rock out and those 32 slots are gonna go quickly. Those that do get the good slots they stop appreciating them because musicians are unappreciative assholes with delusional senses of entitlement that get fed to beastly proportions upon even the slightest glimmer of attention from anyone outside the band. Every other band is dying to get to the point where they can be the assholes with the good gigs and for most it’s a pipe dream because A) they suck B) they’re on the verge of breaking up whether they know it or not and C) they’re not friends with the people who book the clubs (how else do you think the shitty bands you are forced to listen to on a Saturday night get the good gigs in the first place?)

Being that musicians can talk themselves into anything to avoid the reality that no one gives a flying fuck about their band there is a pattern of behavior that leads up to the shitty gig and the inevitable hellishness of the performance. I call this the Seven Stages of the Bad Gig.

Stage 1 - The book:
Part of the band awesomeness formation process is the singer telling all his new best friends about his amazing connections and how they will be totally hooked up with awesome shows once the band has written their (the singer’s) awesome songs. After the band has written a few of these magnum opuses and declared themselves primed to unleash themselves on a breathlessly waiting world the singer starts making phone calls to his guaranteed hook-ups. Twenty minutes later after getting completely rebuffed by every one of his “totally good buds” he starts calling the clubs to book his own goddamn shows what the fuck does he need those asshole’s shitty bands for anyway goddamit!!!! Upon getting ignored by the better clubs, the not-so-good clubs, and the “promoters” that promote wikkid rawk showz when they are off-duty from being line cooks at the Golden Corral buffet the singer calls every restaurant in town that is, for whatever reason, willing to move a table out of the way to allow bands to play. The restaurants, almost always pizza parlors, usually have bands play on Tuesdays and Thursdays as weekends are prime soccer party time for the pizza industry. They might support the rock but they ain’t crazy enough to miss the soccer crowd!!!! The singer asks for a Thursday (just as good as a weekend really) and is told he can have a Tuesday five weeks from now. He takes it.

Stage 2 – The layout:
The singer calls the rest of the band with the good news about the show. It will be awesome. He gets pissed when the band is mysteriously wondering how the promised Saturday night headlining show at Club Bass Player Is Sure To Get His Dick Sucked has morphed into a set on a Tuesday at Joe’s Suds and Pies. The singer is understandably miffed by this obvious attempt to take away the credit he is due by jealous dicks that don’t know shit about the music industry and he starts to pout really really hard. The rest of the band feels his pain and talks themselves into the fact that this is the gig they wanted all along and all their friends totally like to drink up and party like freaks on Tuesdays instead of the weekend anyway and boy howdy Joe’s is going to get rocked to the ground. The singer, now justified in his excellence, takes this as a mandate to boss everyone around and assigns tasks for promoting the fuck out of this rock and roll event.

Stage 3 – Developing the marketing strategy
When throwing down at a major rock event it is imperative that the masses who will drop everything including giving birth to be there know what the dillio is. This being the case upon directive from the singer the marketing machine gets gassed up and ready to roll. While the band surely deserves to get on the radio, TV, porn soundtrack, etc., promotion activities that do not involve harassing friends, co-workers, causal acquaintances, employees at the mall and the band’s parents are zilch. It’s common fact that bands as awesome as every band on earth playing on Tuesdays should not be required to proactively contact the media in any way shape or form to promote their kickass shows and it is squarely the fault of Clear Channel and those corporate whores at the local record store that don’t support the scene that there isn’t the justifiably deserved story with picture on the front page of the paper for this major rock event. It’s tough, you can’t fight the man, especially when he doesn’t even know you exist so the band turns to their fanbase…mom dad and anyone unlucky enough to have given a member their phone number or email address. The strategy is clear, you just gotta keep on telling your fans just how bad they want to rock……no matter how much they might protest otherwise.

Stage 4 – The ‘sup doode?
As spam filters become more advanced and thus band mailing lists culled from casual encounters and stealing the contents of the “win a free meal” goldfish bowl at the local Pizza Hut are rendered more and more worthless it is the direct contact that the “fans” get from the band. This happens by a series of communiqués starting with email, then instant messenger, then the phone call.

Email from band member to fan – Hey man, wanted to give you and the crew a heads up that we’re jamming out on (date) at (place). This show is going to kick MAJOR ASS!!! Would be fucking KICK FUCKING ASS for you to come out and rock out with your cock out!!!! ROFLMFAO!!!! THERE WILL BE TONS OF PUSSY THERE BRO!!!!!

Email reply – Shaun, this is my work address man, thanks a lot for getting me chewed out by my boss for writing that dumb stuff about your stupid band you retard.

IM exchange from band member to fan –
BassPlayaz2112 – doode, sorry about that shit with your work addy man.
BassPlayaz2112 – seriously bro, this shit is going to rock
(1234kittyface is typing)
BassPlayaz2112 – you’re going to be there right?
BassPlayaz2112 – I’ll see if I can get you on the guestlist…..
BassPlayaz2112 – the place is cool man
(1234kittyface is typing)
BassPlayaz2112 – I can see you typing bro….you writing a book or something.
BassPlayaz2112 – So can we meet up so I can give you some flyers to hand
1234kittyface has signed off

Phone Message from band member to fan – “Hey doode, I tried to call you 8 or 9 times but you never answer your damn phone!!!! Anyway bro, see you at the show man, call me back and I’ll give you the deetz!!! PEACE!!!!!!”

At this point this string of contact has taken place with approximately 158 people. Of the 158, four have committed to being there and the other two band member’s parents are either playing bridge or will be out of town but really wish they could come!!!

Stages 5 – 7 coming next post. The rock is dropped.

I’m amazingly over it

Weird. I mean I was apoplectic when I went to bed last night and now……nothing really. Must be that acceptance stage of death or something. Maybe it’s the vicious red wine hangover that has numbed any and all emotion. The sun still came out today, the dog barks, the baby swings and stuff….really I guess not much has changed. Boy do I feel like I wasted a lot of time and energy. I still think Bush is an asshole but you know, they’re all assholes. The supreme court is going to be propagated with hysterical Christian lunatics for the next 45 years but there’s nothing I can do about it. I voted, my team lost, boo fucking hoo. I’m not going to be one of these “I’M MOVING TO DENMARK” folks. America is still great, just the mechanics of it are tools.

I will now dedicate all my politically based energy to rock and roll and trying to get my danger zone touched by that special someone as often as I can.

Whee!!!

Seven stages of the bad gig coming tomorrow and I promise no more political shit for a LONG time.

oh my fucking god

Is this shit for real? How can we re-elect........aww fuck it, nevermind.

Fuck you fuck me we'll buy anything apparently.

More wine, less typing.

What are you doing reading this?

GO OUT AND VOTE THEN GET DRUNK AS SHIT AND YELL AT YOUR T.V.

Like I'm going to do....

If you wanna say who you voted for and why please comment away.

VOTE!

DRINK!!!!!

FUCK YOU GEORGE!!!!

Twinkle up your ass Mister President you shit

Ok, now that I have bared my soul it’s back to where I belong writing horrid things about other people. Hopefully by tomorrow at midnight I will be able to be refer to Georgie as our soon to be ex-fuckfaced excuse for a President instead of the how in the name of Christ did this guy get re-elected Commander in Chief.

For now here’s a lullaby about our President to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star that you can sing yourself to sleep with tonight….

Crashing drunk inside your car
The Devil asks you what you are
A stupid shit is your reply
My dad is rich so I just get high

I like to drink and toot some coke
My wife thinks I’m working what a joke
Nothing will I ever be
I’m the stupid Bush you see

Devil says I have a deal
You can be the Prez for real
What you say how can that be?
Who would elect a fool like me?

Just sit back and let me work
Close your mouth you fucking jerk
I can make you President
Just you bet your last red cent

Well what is it I have to do?
Won’t I owe my soul to you?
No no no you silly fool
Soul selling is just a media tool

I have another deal in mind
Not your soul just your behind
Park the car right over here
We’ll sign the deal upon your rear

Bend right over this Chevy hood?
I’d read the contract if I could
Hey what’s going on back there?
Why are you gripping all my hair?

Don’t you mind me right back here
Think of the White House for four years
Just grit your teeth and you will see
I’m teaching you your philosophy

When you’re Prez just try to look calm
Talk real tough but use aplomb
Scare the people half to death
Make them scared for their last breath

And just when they put their trust in you
Do this like I do to you
Pat their heads and fill their glass
Then drill them squarely up the ass

Now you can be the President
Your ass has surely paid the rent
Have fun bringing the Apocalypse
And don’t forget all of my tips

Georgie Georgie what will you be
The leader of the world you see
Lead it right into the ground
You assfucked fuckfuckfaced stupid clown

Oh my God that really stings
But hey I get to run these things
I can start fun stuff like wars
My dad's mean friends will be my whores

All my pals will think I'm swell
When I pay them really well
You don't like it you're a terrorist
Just like Nixon I'll have lists

Sure I'm getting fucked right now
But I will fuck them back and how
And actually this isn't all that bad
This is how mother always fucks dad

I can't wait to be the man
I have all these awesome plans
So just get ready here I come
Me and you will have some fun

And just when you think you've had enough
I can think of lots more stuff
You want more jammed up your rears
Just keep yelling "FOUR MORE YEARS!!!"

G'night kids, don’t forget to vote tomorrow!!!