Castor Oil...sickeningly good

Wednesday, December 29, 2004

My beautiful words have been stolen

A long time ago my buddy James was hosting an open mic and posted a notice about it on the AMS message board. Being an asshole I wrote back with this (note the date and time). I thought it was amusing and it always kinda stuck in a crevice in me brain.

-----Original Message-----From: Steve Bowes [mailto:boweswana@h...]
Sent: Tuesday, December 10, 2002 2:18 PM
To: jamesvm7@y...;

Dear Mr. Lamont,Does the drumset have double kick drums and a gong, (you know, the standardrock set-up)? I built lo-rider hydraulics into my kit so it can bounce around the stage. You should see people go crazy when I light off a roman candle and turn the hydraulics on...its totally insane! I can bring my kit but you (and maybe two or three other guys) would have to help me carry it down the will be worth the effort! Please let me know if you want me to bring it because I need about two or three hours to set it up. I will also need eight electrical outlets because of the fire marshall.

If you have the kit with the kick drums and gong (I'm sure that you do!) I would like to sign up for a 24 - 30 minute drum solo. I can extend it if people are going nuts but I want to be cool to the other performers so I'll plan on 30 minutes tops. If you can schedule my time for around 10:50 that would be good but if that's too specific 10:35 works too.

Do the performers get a free meal or t-shirt? I always got a t-shirt when I jammed at talent shows. My band was awesome. We were called Four Play because there were FOUR guys in the band and we PLAYED kick ass music. Get it? If any guitarists want to jam out with me that's cool but try not to do any fancy finger tapping or anything when I'm in the middle of a tom roll or double kick trip. That drives me crazy.

See you at the bar Mr. Lamont!

So today some trolling bastard posts THIS in response to a message about setting up a benefit for the Tsunami victims:

From: "Yanni Chryssomitis" <ichrysso@y...>
Date: Wed Dec 29, 2004 9:43 pm
Subject: Re: tsunami benefit ??


I'd be very interested in doing this. I play a drum kit which flips up and down and side to side, complete with lots (LOTS!) of pyrotechnics. Think Tommy Lee meets the Evil Kenieval (though I bang hotter chicks than they ever did).

Ivan Chryssatov
Drummer at Large

What the fuck, if you're going to steal some of my shit at least go for the A-Material and not some dumbass two year old post on a message board. I already have to deal with the outright theft of the bro posts and now this? This blog thing is really a dirty business.

Fuck you Ivan you communist piece of shit.

I'm sick as hell

Off to the parentals with a nasty head cold and a chest full of snot. We'll see how four
Dayquil capsules and too many of my pops' ultra-strength Bloody Mary's treat me. Probably not well. I guess I could go over there and not drink.


Not an option.

I'll just use the celery stalk to wipe the snot off of my shirt.

Now playing - "6 Empty Bottles" by the Royal Court of China.

Tuesday, December 28, 2004

Anatomy of a Murder Scene

The victims and the alleged killer Posted by Hello

So I have a killer in my house. She’s a generous killer as she leaves me her lifeless victims as a testament of her love to me but she is a bloodthirsty murderess all the same. My cat….she kills everything. The picture above shows the latest of her sacrifices to my awesomeness; two sewer rats eviscerated and put on display in the garden by the front door of my mansion on the hill. In this same killing field I have found mice, moles, voles, birds, a baby possum, various body parts but the rats really took the cake. It’s scary to think that a cat will kill something and then display it so I am sure to find it. It’s right out of a crappy CSI episode or something. Wesley says it’s called “presenting”. Why…why does he know these things?

The cat, let’s call her Luna as that is her name, has no front claws so I have no clue as to how she hunts down and murders all this stuff but she is a truly adept killing machine. She’s small for a cat and ill of temper to be around most of the time. Truth be told she’s kind of a bitch that bites my feet when I'm sleeping and lives to torment the cat across the street but I know she adores me by the carcasses she leaves for me. Most of the time they are headless so I guess she finds crunching on skulls to be a rewarding experience.

The rats were about eight inches long before the tail. I mean, for rodents they were big not to mention horrendously disgusting looking. So cleaning up big dead bloody rats, (one with a tremendous pair of testes by the way) was how I spent part of the baby Jesus’ birthday. I have no idea how she will top this one and shudder to think what’s coming next but I have no doubt she will bring home something thoroughly revolting.

She’s sitting on my desk watching me type this. It’s kind of like hanging out with Damian Omen only fuzzy and with artificial tuna fish flavor breath.

Doo dee doo doo Doo dee doo doo

Now playing – All those Wasted Years by Hanoi Rocks. MENTAL BEAT!!!!!

Oh, one other thing that I wanted to touch on. I love having people give me ideas on what to ramble about but if you want to read shit-talk about some loose cannon heavy metal maniac that you have a grudge against sign up for an account, blog away and read your own fantastic thoughts. My opinions on the bro faction in the music “scene” around here have been documented and I will probably expound on them again (there is so much bro material out there after all) but I’m not plinking and plunking away just to shit-talk band dudes who seem to have misfiring cranial neurons and uncontrolled rage issues. You want that write it yourself or go to and hang out with another anonymous dude who seems to be scared to talk shit and put his/her name behind it.

Saturday, December 25, 2004

Back to Mystery City

Bangkok Shocks Saigon Shakes Hanoi Rocks Posted by Hello

I got an iPod for Xmas from the lovely and kind better half and have been hiding down in my basement importing CDs that have lived for years in milk crates and my memories. Some upon re-listening are, well, terrible but others totally live up to my fond recollections.

Aside from the entire Hanoi Rocks published catalog and 2 live discs + 4 bootlegs I have run the gamut from Johnny Cash to Faster Pussycat. I'm totally looking forward to going on a road trip and jamming away with my iPod and awesome musical tastes.

Anybody got any suggestions?

Imported thus far today (I have about 100 other playlists already in iTunes)-

Hanoi Rocks - Entire catalog
Motley Crue - Too Fast and SATD
Circus of Power - 1st and Vices
Johnny Cash - American and Man Comes Around
Ray Charles - Birth of Soul 4 CDs
Jane's Addiction - Nothing's Shocking and Ritual
Life Sex and Death - Silent Majority
Faster Pussycat - Wake me When it's Over
Royal Court of China - Geared and Primed
Sweet - Desolation Boulevard
GnR - Appetite
Veruca Salt - American Thighs and 8 Arms to Hold You
Mother Love Bone - Hello Hometown (bootleg)
Leonard Cohen - Masters
Sex Pistols - Never Mind the Bollocks
James Brown - Best of JB (two CDs)
Temple of the Dog
Afghan Whigs - Uptown Avondale and What Jail is Like
Tom Waits - Early years Vol. 1 and Vol. 2

Wednesday, December 22, 2004

Random events that my brain relates to one another

Behind the wheel of the mighty tan Oldsmobile. Posted by Hello

Some crazy crackhead woman almost cut my finger off when she ran up and slammed the door shut on a cooler I was reaching into at the Barrell House Liquor store on 14th Street.

I bought 28 cases of Milwaukee’s Best and drove it to Ocean City in a tan Oldsmobile.

The tan Oldsmobile broke down on the way to Thanksgiving and I got so mad at it I pissed on it right there on the side of the road.

One Thanksgiving I was starving in Hollywood and me and Russell got invited to a big Thanksgiving dinner. We each got a slice of ham and a warm Budweiser. I nearly cried.

When the Beltway was closed in the mid-summer sauna due to a tanker-truck rollover me and Jeff drank nearly a case of warm Budweisers waiting for the road to be opened.

When the Beltway was closed due to a bridge opening my friend’s girlfriend tried to take her spandex pants off and got a leg cramp so severe she started screaming in agony. Next thing we knew a bunch of guys were running over to save her as they were sure she was being raped and pillaged.

The worst cramp I ever got was in Russell’s Dodge Omni. It was in my ass.

I had to take a shower at Russell’s house once and him and the rest of my asshole friends pushed me outside naked and locked all the doors thus exposing my ass and dirty bits to the world .

Two summers ago I was standing outside of my own house screaming and banging on the door for one of my unwanted houseguests to open the goddamn door that they had locked after repeatedly assuring me they would not.

I had a girlfriend that banged another dude after repeatedly assuring me she would not.

She repeatedly banged and reassured.

I repeatedly binge drank (drunk?)

I need to go have a drink.

Tuesday, December 21, 2004


Cold and full of fat people. More later...

Sunday, December 19, 2004

Oh crap

I don't think soberiety, me and Lubbock are gonna be warm and happy bed partners. I'm bombed and this place still sucks. HELP!!!! Can't type anymore...need to see if more booze will make it all go away.

Friday, December 17, 2004

Rock yourselves well this weekend. I have to go to Lubbock Texas. Posted by Hello

Thursday, December 16, 2004

Scenes from a Chinese Restaurant

Life before Photoshop and regular employment Posted by Hello

Back in the day, as they say, in a place called Dumfries, Virginia there was a very interesting, scary and smelly place called the Tiki Fala. The Tiki as it was commonly known was a Chinese restaurant by day and a heavy metal bar by night. It was split into two halves by the front door. To the right, always off-limits and dark at night was the actual dining area that looked like any other health code mocking Chinese place and to the left was the “club.”


The club side had a stage and a very beaten and large sound system, broken lights, a bar, some pool tables with rips in them, a couple video games and lots of small tables just made for tossing at someone’s head. It had a dressing room of sorts for the bands which was so fantastically disgusting that when I saw Trainspotting I laughed at the “worst toilet in Scotland” scene. That thing was a Martha Stewart showpiece compared to the green room at the Tiki.

The smell of the place was famous and/or infamous. It was like a nerve agent that dulled the brain and made really ugly people want to have sex with each other in the parking lot. Imagine the smell of the dirtiest dive bar you have ever been in with all the requisite piss and vomit and spewing from drunks. Got it? Take that smell and cross it with a three year old eggroll and you have the unique and un-washoutable smell of the Tiki Fala.

There was a very familiar and scary dance that happened there on more nights than not. Dumfries is squarely situated between the redneck heart of Prince William County, Virginia and the Quantico Marine Base. Take two opposing, mean, drunk, and amped up on heavy metal factions like that and mix them in a room full of sluts and violence is a given. It would usually start with some hard staring and then one drunk would bump another and the place would explode. It was amazing standing on this crappy stage and watching these Bros and fake ID wielding Marines just beat the living shit out of each other. It was wildly entertaining and as gross and horrific as the place was I have a soft spot in my brain for it.

All of the character of the bar was exemplified by its owner, a short little ill-tempered alcoholic troll of a woman with a vocabulary taken from the English School of Gunnery Sgt. Hartman and breath that could take out Darth Vader and his pussy gasmask without missing a beat. Her name was Yoong or Yung or something approximate to that. She did all the hands-on swindling of the stupid idiots that played there, (like me). This is a typical conversation with Yoong when trying to get paid after a show:

Doode – Ummm, hi..we’re all packed up now and was wondering if we could get paid.
Yoong – Get paid!!! You want get paid….for what?? Fuck youself son of bitch you band is terrible. No one pay to see you. You owe me money for stupid drunk friends at bar. Fuck you!
Doode – But the place was packed…
Yoong – PACKED!!! You so stupid, not packed. You not get shit!!!
Doode – I think that’s really unfair, I mean you promised us fifty dollars
Yoong – I NEVER PROMISE NOTHING!!!! (picks up frying pan) YOU CALLING ME LIAR!!!!!
Doode – No…..I must have been confused…..sorry…..uhhhh…
Yoong – You nice kid, here twenty bucks. You play next Tuesday, OK?

It was really insane. Once I was playing there and a big commotion broke out by the front door. One of the bartender’s started screaming, “Big Terry (the doorman) been stabbed…..WITH A HARPOON!!!!” Really, what kind of fucking bar has people getting stabbed with harpoons? That’s how whacky this place was. I saw fights, gross rednecks having sex in the bathroom, a woman beat her husband to unconsciousness with a boot, bared and terrifying breasts and some goddamn awful bands in that place but the one thing that I never ever saw was anyone order food. I wonder if it was any good.

The Tiki closed down a number of years ago when heavy metal kinda petered out. The metal bands tried to go grunge but it just wasn’t the same. Chicks didn’t wear spandex to grunge shows so instead of rocking the Marines headed out to the local Asian handjob parlors and the rednecks drifted up the road to Manassas. I have no idea what became of Yoong. I know Dave the soundguy died a few years back which was sad but inevitable. You can’t expect a guy named Dumb Dave whose proudest accomplishment was hiding his weed underneath his cigarettes in a plastic soap holder to hold out for very long once his natural habitat has been eliminated.

For all I know the building has been razed, it was in the parking lot of a strip mall. I bet the smell lingers though, like the hazardous waste at Love Canal. That shit has a half-life that will outlast all of us and our stupid musical offspring. A google search on "Tiki Fala Dumfries" revealed the following.

In the spring of 1999 Genesis (Formerly Tiki Fala) had their liquor license suspended for 45 days and was fined $1,000 for rowdy and disorderly conduct.

A band called Sexsist (YEAH!) listed the Tiki on their venues page along with this confusing and incomprehensible sentence – (you wouldn't think that they like to play out a lot wouldn't you?)

Larry Guggenheim played there!

As did Ronnie Rogers! (For the love of all things unintentionally comedic please visit Ronnie’s page)

Spur jammed there too!

Some guy named Biker Tom had this pithy memory – “still remember how a bar-maid brought me a beer on a tray, which I decided to lift off the tray myself, subsequently causing the rest of the drinks on her tray to fall to the ground.” Way to go Biker Tom!

Somehow I have a feeling that me and Biker Tom drank together at some point back then, either that or he kicked my ass.

Tuesday, December 14, 2004

Down at the Korova Oxygen Bar

So me and Wesley traipsed out to Chantilly today to go to a bankruptcy auction that was being held at a public storage unit. Not normally being prone to bottom-feeding on other people’s garbage I was hesitant to attend until Wesley sent me a partial list of items up on the block. Keep in mind this is a very partial list of the stuff for sale –

General Shit
tanning bed
massage table
exercise bike LifeFitness Model 9500
elliptical exercise machine LifeFitness 5500
bowflex power pro
foosball table
wine refrigerator
2 Segway scooters
tap-rite beer cooler
11 pillow sectional couch, white
2 4-foot black lights
blue & black leather chair & couch set
phillips flat-screen tv 42"
sony trinitron tv
bang & olafson tv 36"
several pieces of Bang & Olafson stereo gear
stainless steel bar stools
oxygen bar and 4 service stations
bose wave radi
o4 apple flat screen "tvs" approx 24"
nec flat screen monitor model #lcd2010
several sony vhs & dvd players
1st apple computer w/supporting documentation and keyboard"

Music Shit
mackie 808 mixer
johnson millenium amp
fender squier bass ("base guitar")
yamaha 740 synth
5 pc pearl drum kit
3 sabian cymbals
fender amp ser # 2340
taylor 814ce
another taylor listed by serial
#4 dan armstrong guitars, clear (lucite)
PRS w/brown stripes
fender telecaster
fender telecaster", purple (could be a custom shop)
guild electric/red #BM20179 (Brian May)
Gibson "Yahoo" les paul
rickenbacker doubleneck
Gibson "Austin Powers" les paul
AP0001 <--2 gibson acoustics
martin hd-18
12 custom shop les pauls
gibson bigsby flying v
9 gibson les pauls w/serial #s that indicate they are reissues

Now after getting out there and freezing our nuts off for a bit the word on who the previous owner of said booty was started getting around. Like a lot of people with a lot of money it was very apparent that a total lack of any sort of taste kept the universe in proportion with the enormous wealth at this person’s disposal. Shit brown leather couches and funk-crusted massage tables…..very nice.

We hung around for a while and watched the fascinating business of the public auction. There was one very very angry serial-killer there who bid on everything but won nothing. I think he was just trying to be a dick and run the prices up while he made everyone around him nervous and scared for the sanctity of their flesh. It was like the Maharajha’s garage sale with garage sale types in full effect only instead of spending a dollar here and a dollar there things were going for thousands, all payable on the spot in cash. If the crew from Dead Presidents had been on hand they could have made a strong arm buttload of cash!

If you peruse the list above you will see that there were two Segway scooters for sale. Apparently they once had a more grandiose transfer of ownership as befitted this press release from April, 2002. I have changed the names to protect my own petrified of litigation ass but this is the real and true text about the Segway being sold today aside from the names:

Cockface Inc., Wins with Bid on Historic TechnologyCEO Jerkoff McMasters Wins Prototype Segway on ebay™

Alexandria, VA, April 10, 2002 -- Cockface Inc.,, Inc. an application service and managed hosting provider, announced today that founder and CEO Jerkoff McMasters was ebayª's winning bidder on a prototype Segway, one of three limited edition Human Transporters auctioned by Segway founder and inventor Dean Kamen.

Jerkoff McMasters’ bid of $106,500 closed the auction and will move the Segway from Los Angeles, CA to Cockface's Alexandria, VA headquarters. The purchase was made as "an investment in an exciting summer," says McMasters. He notes, "it's very easy for (Cockface employees) to become fixated on keyboards and monitors. The Segway is a great escape - a reminder that technology is a tool for liberation."

Today the Segway was liberated from a public storage unit by a work-release program guy in a jumpsuit. It sold for less than $2,000. Life is rich I tell ya, even for those who get that way by some act of mischief.

It was cold as hell so we left before any of the guitars went up for bid which was too bad. I would have loved to have learned what the one of a kind Yahoo! Guitar sold for and who would have been sad enough to think it was cool. I sure would have loved to have gotten my hands on that oxygen bar though, as long as the oxygen tasted like whiskey.

Monday, December 13, 2004

His underwear is worthless and weak

I saw a story on the DCeiver site today about a 41 year old woman banging a trophy off the head of a 14 year old cheerleader during a brawl that broke out at a Pom-Pom competition.


I mean really, how am I supposed to compete comedically with the maniacs that are out there doing crazy shit like that all day every damn day? It’s impossible. I could write a zillion stories about the Bush family and their ball-gag escapades or stupid Bros manhandling each other in a homo-erotic, wall of Marshall amps driven mating ritual but can that stand up to a Pom-Pom- brawl?

I think FUCKING not bro.

I’m starting to figure out why most blogs are just a bunch of links to other sites and a bit of commentary. True life offers so much juicy ridiculousness why even bother trying to top it? Just the other day the guy across the street was hanging up his laundry to dry on the line and YELLING AT IT! Not like a shirt fell off and he cursed his confounded luck. He was having an extended screamo fest with his wet clothing. Other than that he really seems pretty harmless…..a little odd…..keeps to himself…..quiet…..

Great, I have the it puts the lotion in the basket guy living across the street. I hope when he decides to murder me and make me into a pasty skin colored mini-dress that he makes it quick and wears a clean clown suit. I do hate me some germs.

Friday, December 10, 2004

Bro Nation is wearing black (so what else is new?)

I feel bad for Bro nation.

I mean, it’s almost uncanny that I invent the Bros and then one of the demi-Bros get murdered by a psychopathic Bro underling. That is a totally non-Bro maneuver and he will get docked Bro points upon arrival at the galvanized steel gates of Bro Heaven. Saint FUCKING Pete will undoubtedly bring some shit down on that Bro hater.

It’s a tragedy and all but if you peruse message boards it’s hard not to find the Bro posts a tad ridiculous to the point of entertainment. There are Bro candlelight vigils and Bro poems abounding and Bro benefit concerts and tribute albums in the works.

Not that I knew Dimebag Darrell but I would have to think that he would want the Bros to be a little bit more hardcore about this whole thing. The guy wrote the riff to “Cowboys From Hell”! He named himself DIMEBAG!!!!!!!

Seriously, Bro nation you need to take a look in the mirror at your misshapen tear-stained heads and think to yourself, “is this what Dime would have expected of me?” Jut ponder, in a similar circumstance, “WHAT WOULD DIMEBAG DO?”

I doubt he would sit in a parking lot playing Kumbiya and leaving stuffed animals in the rain. He would have punched a hole in the wall and gone to rock the fuck out.


Thursday, December 09, 2004

A sad sad day for rock and roll

Dick Clark has had a stroke and will not be able to host New Year's Rocking Eve. Sob.

Seriously, my condolences to all you Dimebag fans. That is a seriously shitty thing to have happen to anybody let alone a guy who always seemed to be having shitloads of fun playing music and being a rock star. Regardless of what I thought of his music rock and roll needs more Dimebags and less mopey pop-punk emo dorks crying about their mean parents.

Drink your whiskey, crank your records, kick holes in the wall...whatever you do when one of your favorites dies. It always sucks.

Still, the magnitude that this kind of crap happens in our society all the time to non-newsworthy people is sickening. Kids get shot, no one cares. It's rack the magazines and pop in the Halo 2, killing is good for you! Maybe this will sober up some of the more, "kick-ass at all costs" folks around. Doubtful, but at least it would give some measure of sanity to a totally insane circumstance.


Wednesday, December 08, 2004

The Down Boys

I made mention of sending Warrant to Anancostia one night on a message board and someone asked if it was true. Of course it’s true, who would make up something stupid like that? Here’s the story;

Back in “the day” Warrant played up in Maryland at Merriweather Post Pavilion on a multi-band tour that included (pulled from the Warrant website..not my brain) Paul Stanley, Queensryche, Cinderella, Poison, Kingdom Come and “others”. I did not attend as even then I hated most of those bands, had little money or reliable transportation, had no “rock chicks” willing to drive my busted ass up there and besides that the next day I was moving to Hollywood to be a rock and roll superstar just like the idiots I was not going to see.

The moving to Hollywood misadventure deserves a book of it’s own for down right foolishness and heartache so I will not delve into it now other than to use it as reference as to why I was at the Bayou that night and how I was partying with and being an asshole to the guys in Warrant. My friend (R.I.P.) was a bouncer at the Bayou and had me come down with some Bros for a “send the moron to the West Coast where he is certain to find failure and starvation” party. It was cool, I felt really good about myself (surprising I know) and was wildly whacked up on a cocktail of pharmaceuticals and cheap liquor floating round my innards in a beer Jacuzzi.

There was a girl there who I was making painful and lusty efforts to get to know and getting nowhere at all but I had hope until these short little leather clad poofters sauntered into the “green room” area where I was drooling away and established themselves as the big cheeses. My hatred for them was massive as I had cheese envy and they were rich and all the girls wanted to give them oral. They were 60% of Warrant, the Down Boys, Dirty Stinking something or other assholes that had what I was about to go and get and my lord did I despise them for it. They on the other hand took very little notice of me and seemed to care less about my existence. Those bastards.

In my early years I worked very hard to be as much of an obnoxious twit as humanly and superhumanly possible, my superhuman powers being totally chemically driven. The Silver Surfer had the Power Cosmic, I had the Power Misanthrope and I wielded it mightily. If there was something petty yet amusing that required an iron will and no aversion to jail or physical danger I was pretty much up for it. With that attitude I got thrown out of lots of bars, chased by people that wanted to beat me up and banned for life from several of the more sense of humorless places in town like the Grog and Tankard and F.B.I. Headquarters.

Being that I was on the eve of burgeoning super-stardom myself I had no problem sauntering up to the Down Boys and integrating myself into their witless conversation. I don’t think they were used to people mocking them so it became an internal contest for me to come up with the most assholeish things possible to say without them realizing I was just being a dick and having me thrown out. It was my party after all (at least in MY opinion) so being evicted would have been in bad form.

I asked the bass player if he hurt himself knocking over a chair with his bass during a wicked and intense moment during the Uncle Tom’s cabin video. He said, “No dude, not at all”, to which I replied, “Are you sure….because that was some INTENSE rocking you were doing to that chair. I thought for sure you would have sprained something or another doing the moves that hard.” He looked confused and uni-browed and started talking to my woman who still wouldn’t acknowledge me.

I overheard a conversation about the Exorcist being filmed in D.C. and some dim-bulbed hair farmer kissing Warrant’s ass about how he could show them the Exorcist stairs. In a flash of inspiration I asked their tour manager if I could have a “moment” and told him that said hair farmer was a notorious troublemaker and the stairs were nowhere near where we were and the neighborhood could be kind of rough. “Just looking out for the guys!” was my line. So the tour manager tells the bouncer to boot the hair farmer, who got booted, and thanked me for watching out for the Bros and we were all Bros and damn if I didn’t hate them more and more with every passing second.

I drew a map of sorts with directions on a brown paper towel with a purloined pen and approached the receding Cheery Pie hair-lined guitarist with my cartographic masterpiece. He looked confused and balding so I explained:
Me - “Dude, that other guy was a total piece of shit but the Exorcist stairs ARE rad. If you can get
a ride just follow these directions and check them out.”
Him – “I don’t know what we’re doing”
Me – “Ask your tour dude, he’ll take you. You HAVE to go”
Him – (asks tour manager, much nodding and deep Broness)
Tour Guy – “Hey, ummm, this sounds cool and wer’e going to check it out but we’re heading right back to the hotel after and you know I don’t want you to be stranded…”

It was amazing! The tour guy was blowing me off totally getting me off the hook for the consequences of my dickness. Thank god those dudes were all such condescending assholes or this plan would have been much more difficult to execute.

Me – “Oh hey man, I gotta get going anyway. I’m moving to L.A. tomorrow!”
Tour Guy – (procures card) Awesome! Call me when you get there man, I can return your favor and show you around the Strip!!”
Me – (totally believing him) AWESOME!!!!”
Tour Guy – You sure these are good directions because I’m driving and I don’t know shit about this place.
Me – “Totally man, it’s easy as pie”

So off they went with my woman in tow, that trollop. They had well written directions to the stairs and were in good shape to get there. Not the Exorcist stairs of course but I assume there were stairs somewhere on the random street in Anancostia where I directed them.

I never saw them in person again, they were on a different social stratus than I was when I got to Hollywood and there were no green room parties for me on that side of the country. For all I know they went to Anacostia and got butt raped or they might have just been lying all along and gone back to their hotel to gang-bang my unrequited love. Who knows? Internally I roll with the thought of them rolling Griswald family style through the darkened streets and Tour Guy saying “ROLL EM’ UP!!!” That makes me happy and has for years.

I did call the Tour Guy once I got out to Hollywood. His number was out of service. No wonder I hated him so much that fucking liar.

Tuesday, December 07, 2004

The Bros

I am taking credit for creation of the term “The Bros.” Use it at your own risk as I will sue whoever bastardizes my beautiful creation. The Bros consist of band doodez that use the word “bro” or one of it’s many derivatives in their never-ending dopey posts on internet message boards claiming how hardass they all are and how down they are with each other.

Bro derivatives are (but not limited to) – Brother, Brah, Braugh, Broham, Bros (pl), Brudder, Bruthah, Brotherman, Broman, Broham, and the all caps BRO!

The Bros routinely play really stupid fucking music and are incredibly lyrically bankrupt. They love to share their lyrics with each other and marvel at their own deepness and the blackness of their hearts. The Bros have a lot to say and not a lot of intelligent ways to say it. The terms broken, lost, closed, hate, love, destroy and soul comprise about 100% of the lyrical offerings. Oh yeah, the Bros always err on the side of bone-crushing volume when in doubt on where to go in a song. They think loud equates to awesome and if you don’t like it you’re no Bro….You’re a fag!!!

The Bros are hard as adamantium but they universally love Metallica, (except for the new shit), guns, watching sports, video games and porno. The Bros love to play shows together where the Broditude rules supreme. Bro-fests usually consist of Bros (band members), ugly girlfriends, relatives and parents. The parents love their little Bros and are there to support the idiocy they had a hand in creating.

The Bros also love nicknames and interspersing the word fuck throughout them for effect when they are seriously rocking out in their postings. A typical Bro post might read –

“Can’t wait to rock the fuck out with you bros on Thursday at Luigi’s!!! It’s going to be MAYHEM!!!!! PEACE OUT!!

Lightning FUCKING Fingers
Metal Master from RazorSkin

The Bros as a whole are ugly as shit and look like they came crawling out of a basement or a trash truck. Their penchant for stupid tattoos is as ingrained as their gay love for Dave Mustaine from Megadeth, (deep and burning like a red hot herpee). The Bros are usually pretty nice overall but you would never have them over to the house unless they were there to fix something. There are old Bros and young Bros and fat Bros and thin Bros but they are all Bros and Bros are what they will always be.

It’s not that I hate the Bros, not at all. I played heavy music in heavy bands for years and had some good Bro times if I do say so myself. I just think the Broaciousness while endearing to one another does the music a disservice because as dopey as they are a lot of the Bros are talented musicians. It’s unfortunate that they let being stupid Neanderthalic idiots get in the way of their musical abilities. If the Bros wore burkas and muzzled themselves and had zero input into the songwriting process they could probably be decent session musicians. That will never happen though…that would entail losing Bro cred which is crucial. Crucial to what….well that’s a post for another day.

If nothing else the Bros have inspired me to post twice in one day. Now that’s some hard ass posting Bro!!!!

Castor Fucking Oil
Mad Blogger from DickTown

Uptown girl I'm rotten in the guts

One time long ago I went to Cincinnati for New Year’s Eve. I had a 102 degree fever but went out anyway and partied like a madman. At 1:00 a.m. my feet started feeling very hot and all of a sudden the heat shot through my whole body like a roman candle. I passed out on the floor and started hallucinating wildly, (or so I was told). When I came to I was in a crappy motel room and smelled atrocious. The moral of the story is that Cincinnati is not only hard to spell but that it’s bad for you.

Thus endeth today’s Public Service Announcement

I had to go out to dinner last night and really felt like crap but off I went regardless as my social responsibility knows no boundaries. I met some folks at Café’ Asia and looked around at the beeyooteefull people. The food there is pretty mediocre but once I start drinking sake’ it’s really a nominal concern. All in all a good time but my body is simply on the verge of telling me to go to hell. I feel poisoned. Who’s up for happy hour????

This is the lamest post of all time but it’s the best I got.

Oh, one more thing. I have to go see that Billy Joel musical tonight so I can almost guarantee I’ll pick up some sound people-snarking material to use tomorrow. Until then sing me a song I’m the hungover man sing me an aspirin tonight because my stomach feels like a port-a-john and my liver isn’t feeling alright.

Monday, December 06, 2004

Going to Hell in a Black Trans-Am

Well it was really quite something. Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue….in a shot glass.

First off my buddy Ira came into town for the show from New York. Ira is a genius and a metric assload of a good time but he is diabolical in nature of this I can assure you. His preferred method of evil involves shots of alcohol in amounts that would make Charles Bukowski roll over in his grave so he doesn’t barf on his shirt. Ira got into town and we headed up to yon local rock club to meet Dennis from Chrysalis and ostensibly pick up the bass amp for Saturday night from him. Mostly we went up there to get intoxicated and at least on Ira’s part that mission was accomplished and accomplished well.

There were some bands playing, they all sucked. The less said about them the better, Ira started running around cajoling everybody he could find into drinking with him and coming out to the velvet Lounge the next night. He is a fantastic pitch-man as lo and behold a bunch of them did indeed show up on Saturday… He has a good streak of P.T Barnum in him mixed with some Charles Manson-esque wild-eyed mania which makes an effective huckster for a rock and roll band. We drank till the bitter end with Embittered yet Witty Mr. Hyland and Dennis and that was that for Friday.

Saturday started painfully enough and I attended to familial duties for the early part of the day. I went to procure Philito later in the afternoon to eliminate the possibility of him being anywhere near the ignition switch and attached gas pedal of a death device later on in the evening. I may be an asshole but I’m a good friend like that at least once every four or eight years. We returned to the mansion on the hill (my home) and off I went to shower and primp and preen like a peacock for the rock show while Philito and Ira drank a beer or three and chatted with the Mrs. Wesley arrived soon thereafter to transport the equipment and the philistines (Me and Philito) to the show.

There must have been something in the air (well….there was DEFINITELY something in the air) because the three yahoos (Ira, Wesley, Philito) made non-stop trips to my basement bathroom for like half an hour. One after the other….very strange. I checked today and there is no porn in there so either they all had a Borgian case of shared Gastro-madness or like to wank off to really old copies of Details in someone else’s house. The fact that the window was still cracked open (thanks for the heating bill you assholes) leads me to believe they were simply crapping….thank you Baby Jesus I accept your merciful benevolence.


We got to the Velvet without major incident and carried the very heavy shit up the very long and steep stairs and said “HI HOW ARE YA” to the gathering throng of band members and sound people and such. Trying to make the set-up of a rock show sound interesting is pretty impossible so I’ll skip it. We drank a beer or two and chit-chatted away. I chit-chatted with a jazz drummer named Tor who stopped in to see the club and that was cool until he tried to sell me on his real estate appraisal business. I felt my soul slipping away and left his presence as quickly as possible. Some dude that grew up with my older brother just randomly showed up and started talking about the neighborhood and stuff. That was weird. Folks were filtering in and I was getting pretty antsy but did not feel the puke reflex although I was stupid enough to eat Taco Bell for lunch so trouble was definitely brewing down below.

I had to head out to Wesley’s car to warm-up a bit. We had scored a great parking space right in front of the Velvet which is A-#-1 excellente’ unless you happen to be sitting in the front seat singing to yourself. I’m sure I looked like quite the imbecile bellowing away in there. I was browsing through the selections in the CD changer and lo and behold CD #1 was a RATT album. Are you kidding me? My guitarist is listening to RATT??!?!?!?!?! Of course it was my choice of warm-up tunage and after Laying it Down and You’re in Love(ing) I was primed and ready to rock out.

While I am a total and fanatical ego-maniac I’ll save the long-winded tales of the awesomeness of our rock Goddery to others. Suffice to say the room was packed, we rocked pretty damn hard and anybody who wants to talk shit about it can take two long pulls off of my wang. There were a couple hiccups and in fact we actually had to put the brakes on a song and start over. Fuck it. It was still balls out fantastic.

Immediately post-giggage I was sitting on the stage sweating like a Bedouin fat lady in a velour tracksuit and talking to all the nice folks coming up and saying nice things and just tremendously enjoying myself. That’s the great thing about the whole band experience…you put up with so much crap and nonsense and effort for that short bout of hyper-mania and when it hits just right you think you’re the luckiest bastard on the face of the planet. I was quite happy but atrociously sober so I packed up and headed to the bar to rectify that intolerable condition. Upon successful descent of the stairs I found the biggest collection of inveterate drunken maniacs all joy to the worlding together possibly imaginable. Ira was procuring shots by the armful and handing them out to Trey, Philito, Embittered Dave, Bobo, Adam, Kreinar, Lucky Kentucky Rob, Nutt, the Defender, Loud Greg and a cast of others…the alcohol consumption capability in that room was off the charts. If only that power could be harnessed for good. So sad.

So we started getting REALLY fucked up.

And continued doing so.

For a LONG time.

I believe I told almost everyone in the Velvet Lounge that I loved them except for the guy I told I would karate kick his nuts if he stepped on my foot again. On second thought I might actually have told him as well. It was just fantastically fun and loud and debaucheries abounded and when Chrysalis started to play I marveled at their excellence and felt my head start to spin in a marvelous fashion. After drunk-dialing the Mrs. and nearly lighting myself on fire I was singing a little song along with the jukebox before I realized I was even singing along. Much to my surprise and delight it was Mark Lanegan’s “Whiskey for the Holy Ghost” album, one of my all-time favorite records and one that I was reasonably sure I was one of the only owners of. So to top off this bizarrely great evening of things I had a hand in random fate provides me with the best soundtrack FOR ME to the revelry. It was perfect. A perfect party, the kind that comes along so rarely that you remembers them forever. Madness and yelling and some of my favorite people in the world just getting sick on the fun of it all.

Eventually they trundled me off to a chariot where I muttered incomprehensibly about the loveliness of everything. I got home at 3:30, fell up the stairs and walked around my bedroom in circles for a while, drunk and elated and thoroughly exhausted. I’m still tired, my neck hurts and my throat feels like I gargled razor-blades for breakfast. It’s fucking great; I wish I could share the majesty of my fatigue. You all should give it a try.

Oh yeah, I never did puke that night. Wonders never cease.

Saturday, December 04, 2004

Get it on, in one way or another

Tonight's the night you have all been waiting for, if you were me that is. The gang of racontuers will all be there - me, (obviously), Pilito, Ira, Trey, Jonesey, Nutt, the Defender of Heavy Metal, Vincent Garcello, Sexy Asian Dennis, Devestating Todd and many others. It's going to be a liquid evening of rock and mirth and stupid behavior.

If that ain't good for ya on a Saturday night then what is?

Rock and roll babies, it's the only way to die!!

Velvet Lounge
915 U street, NW
Washington, DC

Friday, December 03, 2004


Tomorrow night is this show that has been in the works for about eight months. Not that I have been working towards this particular evening but the band has been all up in the air with new folks joining and so forth since April and this is the first gig with all the new pieces in place. The pieces are named Philito and Benjamin, they’re good pieces.

I had almost forgotten what a maniacal dope I get to be as these things approach. Last night (for real) I had a dream that we played one song and then I saw people walking down the steps of the Velvet Lounge (where the gig is). In a panic I look to my left and see Philito stretched out on a cot sleeping, on my right Wesley was in a La-Z-Boy sleeping and behind me Benjamin was flat on his back…also asleep. So I kicked Philito as hard as I could in the ribs and he said, “Leave me alone I’m bored”. The dream then segued into a sequence where there was some sort of poison gas being let loose in the bar and the bars grew to be nine feet tall and thus I was unable to drink at them. The dream ended with me walking around the empty upstairs at the Velvet Lounge with a Rolling Rock and a gas-mask. No shit. How dopey is that? Did I mention that I also puke before almost every show? Like, five minutes before we start playing? It’s a charming habit.

I do love the live show though and more often than not it turns out to be really fun, we play and rock away the night and then I get terribly wasted and Wesley drives me home. On a couple of occasions upon returning to the estate I have logged on to the old ‘puter and posted on message boards, always with abysmal results. Once I posted something on a message board frequented by cover bands that if you play in one you are a disastrous pussy without an ounce of worth and should be destroyed. I also mentioned something to the effect that I was a god among men or some such shit.

For some reason they revoked my posting privileges……puny humans.

As it is I’m really geared up for this show tomorrow and will tell tales from it good and bad after it goes down. Hopefully I won’t puke but if I have to let it be from my friend Ira making me drinks god-awful shots of tequila and not from a nervous stomach.

Thanks to all the new folks reading this blog and to the ones who have been down this road before.


Thursday, December 02, 2004

Seven Stages of the Bad Gig

Reposting this as a single entry upon request....enjoy!!!

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!!!

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.

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? “
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

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.

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

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.....


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 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 playr 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…?”“ 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!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

The blog is out...somebody call the dogcatcher!

I sent out the band email note show pimp the other day and without thinking about it really at all included a link to this blog in it. The email list has lots and lots of folks on it from all walks of my varied and dichotomous life. Some have seen the band lots of times, others never will but like to get the emails and giggle at whatever it is I’m blabbering about. The emails themselves though are pretty tame, not at all like the crapola I routinely spew on here.

Y’see, due to the schizophrenic life I have built for myself I know lots of people in very different social and philosophical circles and I buzz with them all pretty easily. I enjoy having beers and shooting the shit with my buddy Wendell about our kids and football and people we think are dumb just as much as I do passing out on the bar at some biker bar after binge drinking with my buddy Trey talking about horrid experiences and saying equally horrid things about people we think are dumb (my loathing of those I find idiotic seems to be the constant thread in the macramé of my relationships).

Anyway, the blog has always been me venting away from the side of my brain that is geared more towards my dreg-like companions, the musicians and drunks and atheists and such and I took it as far as I could to be entertaining to myself in that section of my world (if that makes any sense). This blog is for Philito and Trey and the like I guess, although there’s no cover charge and I have pretty lax policies on fake I.D.s regarding my readership.

After I sent the email I realized that I opened up this part of my noggin to folks who weren’t familiar with it, and got a quick twinge to the gut about the repercussions of doing so. I mean, lots of people seem to think that stories about the President having sexual urges towards his marital aid wielding mom are funny, as do I, but for some folks I can see how they would think, “someone needs to call social services about those poor children!!!

But I came around to the realization that this is obviously a part of me just like the more Walton-esque parts of my life and if I’m ashamed by it then I should probably knock it off which I have no intention of doing so I guess it’s up to those that know me to figure me out for themselves. I ain’t such a bad guy really, unless you’re George Bush or the bass player for Voodoo Blue. If you’re them I assume you want to put a boot in my ass. But really, who cares about either of them?

The show that I have been gearing up for is this Saturday. I’m pretty much planning on going bat-shit insane so if you want to see that, come see that. It’s going to be a big fun time and I’d love to meet you all, unless you're a dick then please go about your business elsewhere.