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Disclaimer: It seems there is some confusion amongst the masses as to what the hell the point of this rambling mess called "random thoughts" is. The point is exactly that, it is random. I try to capture the random thoughts I have, that one fleeting moment that glimmers in and out of consciousness and dissipates as quickly as it entered your mind. We all have these thoughts, I'm just the idiot who tries to freeze, explore and write about these feelings. Many of the thoughts are negative and I find those more interesting to dissect. Either way, I write about them, they disappear and I move on. But in the moment I meant every word I said. Send your love to rockstarclubmen@hotmail.com, or post your comments for the world to read here.
A Fortress of Solitude 11/11/05
Ignition 10/14/05
The end of Wicker Park - for anyone who has ever liked anything cool. When the neighborhood started to gentrify, around 1994, right before Double Door moved in, things started to change. Condos were built and new bars, restaurants and art galleries starting moving into the neighborhood. It was obvious that money had targeted the six corners (Damen Ave, North Ave, Milwaukee Ave.) of Wicker Park. The sidewalks got fixed, the streets got cleaned and the drug dealers moved west because the police presence increased tenfold. I can't remember what year MTV filmed the Real World in Wicker, but around that time the neighborhood was perfect. Clubs and art everywhere, the pioneering yuppies living there actually moved to Wicker Park because they had money and enjoyed music and art. So you had a neighborhood that was supported by artistic money, still cheap enough to be livable, which had some of the better clubs and restaurants in town. Then came Starbucks and M-TV, the money trail thickened and the freaks and weirdoes had to go. Real Estate is money. If you are in money's way you will soon be priced out of the neighborhood. It's happening in my neighborhood right now. I don't think people realize that quirks are what make the neighborhood desirable in the first place. You need the little shops, like Quimby's or Myopic Books, or the elote man to feel like you are in a city and not a burb. It's not quite there yet, but if Double Door goes the end is near. Loud frat boys don't make for interesting nightlife and those chodes have already found the 5am bars of Wicker Park. Soon the hip clubs will leave and the hot chicks will follow because The Gap and Bennigan's don't offer any hip options. And everyone will follow the hot girls wherever they go, won't they. Pilsen? Humboldt Park? Uptown? Where next ladies? It had to happen. It always happens, but I always like to pretend it won't. THE WAR ON CULTURE: LANDLORD WANTS TO SHUT DOWN WICKER PARK'S DOUBLE DOOR
Big as Montana and small as Indiana I think it started with Sandra Fyock. She made me crazy and I blame her. I was the new kid at Jackson Township Elementary School. I had just moved away from Cooks Corner Elementary in Valparaiso Indiana. I left behind my first crush, Julie Buchanan. It was a devastating loss and the wreckage was grim at best. I was a mess. I can remember walking into Ms. Rugg's third grade class and seeing her for the first time. God damn, Sandra, she was gorgeous and I loved her instantly. Julie who? I was 9, but as I got older those feelings never really changed. If I think hard enough I can almost make those feelings real again, right there, just out of reach, if I could just touch it. But I can't. Once you get some pubes downstairs things change, but that initial feeling never changes. I don't mean that I am still in love with a 9 year-old girl, but that powerful feeling effects you and first love is strong. However, every time I meet a beautiful, intelligent, woman I find myself back in that same classroom, overwhelmed, confused and wondering what my next move will be. And that's how it starts. Thank God a day later I can't even remember her name because another girl will come along and blow me away. Maybe I'm a sucker. It's good beauty is skin deep and brains are forever because I can't love a dummy. But when you see a girl like Sandra, you remember her name for a lifetime. There are relationships I will never forget. Actually, I never forget any of the girls and there have been hundreds that I have loved for a brief moment. There have been a few that I will love forever. I think that's why people get caught up in the whole mess and think if they get it right, just one time, that it will all work out. Maybe I am crazy and other people aren't killed by these overwhelming emotions that make one fall in and out of love everyday. There is always that one you love so much and she can't love you back. No matter how hard you try you can never have her. Like Paul Westerberg said in that song, "The one's who love us best are the one's will lay to rest, and visit their graves on holidays at best. The one's who love us least are the one's will die to please, if it's any consolation I don't begin to understand." That guy is a fucking genius. Aren't we all that line? All us single one's, yes we are. But it's so obvious, the one's who love us most don't have what we want. The one's who don't love us do. We want what we can't have. I have been there. How? I don't have the things that she wants. The very things that she sees in me, what she wants; I see in another girl who sees it someone else. And that girlshe does, but I don't, he does. And so we all chase like fucking idiots. But I don't chase very well. How the fuck can you predict what makes people tick, smart, funny and good looking doesn't mean shit compared to chemistry. And the sickness continues. How can you like him more than me? I am wonderful, aren't I? She thinks so, but I broke her fucking heart. Can't you see I have a love as big as Montana, but I can be as small as Indiana in my petty ways. I swear that I can be pure. No one is gonna make it all work out. No one can make it better. They can help, but they cannot create something that doesn't exist and no lover will ever be more than a temporary pause. Or I like to tell myself that after another year of heart-breaking ups and downs that makes me want to puke. Maybe we are all like this and never satisfied with what we have or who we are with. I hope not. It's hard bouncing up and down. It hurts. But I think I love being in love and all this surliness is just a ruse to keep me safe. Maybe I will stop being crazy alone and get crazy with another who will make sure I don't fuck it all up again. It's always maybe. Maybe I will be a dad. Maybe I will go to Japan. Maybe I will be a star. Maybe. Hey, I wonder what Sandra Fyock is doing. If she thought I was a hot third grader wait till she gets a look at me now.
Musical Bush
the response from Tom "Fred Sanford" Deflumere The scare tactics are to keep the white vote locked up, all the sneaky contracts and payroll jobs in return for political support keep the big money donors behind him and keep the potential voting blocs that could topple him in his debt- the HDO ( hispanic democratic organization ) and all those black preacher/hustlers are weapons against minorities, but most of the minorities can't figure it out. If they did, they'd undersand why no viable opposition rises from their ranks. Jesse, Jr. will dance around the race but not run. The Jackson empire is healthier as Daley's friend than in conflict with him. They are well-taken care of by the Machine.
Nashbling Rolling through the hills of Kentucky and Tennessee is a remarkable sight and it's much prettier than the flatlands of Illinois that just spit us out into the South. Things seem tranquil here and instead of wanting to kill myself I found myself enjoying the scenery as the band cruised towards Nashville. Maybe I wasn't bored because we were watching "Curb your Enthusiasm" on DVD, but nonetheless, I wasn't bored. I was happy being on the road with my band. We finally got to Music City and found ourselves staying on the campus of Vanderbilt at a Holiday Inn Select ($80 a night, excellent.) We hung out with our friends Jay McDowell and John Delworth and played a show at the Springwater. We saw a great band named Rescue from Detroit that you will hear about in the near future. I spent a lot of time-sharing drug stories with their crazy road manager Chris. Playboy model Taylor Kennedy and her awesome husband Scott showed up and everything was rolling. We are in Nashville and the world is fine. On Tuesday we went to the Music City strip and saw a guy named Porter (plays in Tanya Tucker's band) do things on a guitar I have never seen. It was 2pm and he was playing for tips and we were loving life and music. Everything is cool when you don't have to work. I was getting quite drunk. Later that night we played an amazing show at The End, good club. Taylor and Scott want to take us to a strip club Nashville style and we were willing. We load up the trailer with our gear, ready to go. We climb into this giant, bling, bling suburban: rims, DVD screens, leather, room for 9 people. The suburban is owned by the genius operator of www.rockconfidential.com (rock and porn stars, check it out.) As we get in I start to laugh at my life. Shouldn't I be married with kids, working on whittling down that mortgage and building some equity so the missus and me can retire some place good. Shouldn't I be bitching about the man and my shitty job? Shouldn't I be lecturing my kids about the virtues of the church and the evils of terrorism? Shouldn't I be telling my horny ass family dog to stop humping the fuck out of my leg as me and the neighbor I hate talk about my new kick ass grill. Shouldn't I pretend that I am happy and convince myself that cheating on my wife is ok if I am too afraid to confront her about our lousy sex life and horrid sham of a marriage that we pretend isn't a farce for the family and the kids? Shouldn't I thank the Lord that I was afraid to die alone and settling down was the best thing that ever happened to poor, lonely me? Nah, not me, I was born for this, no matter how sad and bitter it seems. If I do settle up it's never going to be for cowardly reasons like the one I stated above. I can have it all and I can do it and nothing can stop me. As we continue to roll down Broadway I can see the streetlights shining into the truck, Missy Elliott is cranked on the massive stereo and I feel like a star. All my life I have wanted to be someone, be something, anyone and it occurs to me that I have reached all these goals on a much smaller scale and without the help of a record label. Paul and I, its been us, for all these years, fighting each other, loving each other, hating each other, fighting these self made demons; not even seeing that we have already done the things that all the other dreamers still dream. No matter how small our inconsequential it may be, this is ours. We needed Zuckler and Eli and now it all works. Anyway, the music is loud and I can barely hear. I am drinking another cold beer, it's 2am and we are headed to the club. We are smiling and laughing. I turn around and see a Playboy model sitting on Paul's lap and whispering in his ear. Is this real? It's like a fucking Nelly video, but someone forgot to tell Nelly. This is how it is supposed to be, isn't it? Simple tastes, but no one said we were complex. We walk into a club that actually has some hotties working the pole. And that's all I can say. I have been sworn to secrecy and as a career loud mouth I have to keep my oath or lose my guy privileges. Let's just say this, going to a strip club with a Playboy girl is a far different experience than going with your dopey guy friends-very different. I recommend it to all stars. At this point there is not a whole lot RSC has not done. We have launched a career, destroyed it, re-built it and lasted long enough not to give a fuck what anyone else thinks. We have done this on our terms. No one can touch us and we are clean without any guilty bullshit hanging off our sides. I was once told when you get old the goal is to have lived your life just like we have lived this band. Your terms, no regrets, no reason to care what anyone thinks because you lived your way. You trust yourself and you are finally free. The problem, you're 85 years old and you have no time to enjoy it. Well, I feel ok about where I am at and I am going to continue to do it my way because I do trust myself. I have to or it all falls apart. I think the guys in my band are in the same place. We are feeling pretty damn good. And if it all goes to hell it's ok, we have each other, for better or worse.
Caffeine, cocaine and alcohol
Leaving Chicago Anyway, I was a little upset today when I open my computer and saw that RSC was not included the Metromix list of top local Chicago bands. Then I realized I was waking up a hotel in Nashville,TN., music fucking city USA, where we have been playing music and living for the last three days. I suppose it's hard to be a local Chicago band when you are staying in another city. I was also surprised to pick up the Nashville paper and see that RSC was picked as the 9th best local rock n roll act in Nashville. Part of me was sad; sad that we had left the warm embrace of local rock and gone national. The other half of me couldn't give a shit because it's 70 here and the girls are jogging by in their belly shirts and saying hello to the newest Nashville rock sensation in that adorable southern way, "Hey y'all." Admitedly, by tomorrow that accent will make me wanna blow my brains out, but for today it's pretty fucking sexy. And all of this has nothing to do with the point that the best band on this list is 'My Left Arm.' They are a great band and their new CD is excellent. Go to metromix and help them win. Yours, CFTIII
Tales from the road
Obeying the law will kill me.
Five years ago - Sitting in my old car, the Honda Civic, at a stoplight waiting for the light to turn green so I can make a sound check at the Metro. A dump truck comes out of a construction site and hits my car pushing me into a nearby Shell station. The car is crumpled and I nearly lose a leg. - Status: sober 1996 - A 19 year old gang banger named Demanuel Salto runs a red light in his 1988 Cadillac. He proceeds to crush my girlfriend, my prized Ford Festiva, and myself. Status: sober. I have learned my lesson. Obeying the law does not pay. I am in my lab day and night making meth and selling it on the streets to fuel my filthy tequila habit. I cannot quit. I want to live. I have been up for 17 days straight and no one suspects a thing. These aliens won't stop chattering in my brain and the bugs on the wall seem safe enough. They are my friends. So far, so good. Postscript: I know the Webb Brothers a little and we attended many of the same party's at the famed Liars Club. They recently moved to L.A. I still go to the Liars Club every now and then and it's always a great time. However, I have moved on to other scenes and drama and I no longer know everyone who works at the club. The Webb Brothers record "Maroon" was an average cd. However, the song 'Liars Club,' off that same cd absolutely nailed the feeling of getting older in a world where everyone remains 21. From today's Chicago Reader: 'and soon they were at work on a second LP, Maroon, whose bitter, despairing songs centered on the scene at the Liar's Club.' ("Yeah we're getting older but we like to think we're young /And when the lights are low I look as though I'm 21.")
Crazy, Brilliant and Dead That paragraph has always killed me. It seems very sad, or it makes me feel that way. I have felt like that at various times in my life. That I was there for a special moment in time and that I was lucky to be there and feel it, live it. Sometimes I wish I were back there. Out of this ancillary bullshit I live in now and back to the good times, those good old days. I realize my idealized vision is much better than it was, but it still feels good to think about it. Kind of like that first love that was so crazy and fucked up that it made your insides sick. But you kept pumping that needle into your arm because the only thing that took the sick away was a little more love. I wonder if thats what killed the doc. He owned the 70s. Maybe life was never the same for him and he just got tired of living? Nevertheless, his writing had an overreaching, aching, emotional heartbreak and hope that something better was just out of reach. I feel like that everyday and maybe thats why Hunters writing has actually made me cry. It was funny, but it was sad. At times, I have thought that this volatile, drunken man hide behind his anger and pain and just needed someone to help. But its hard to ask for help when you are trapped within a caricature that is so out of control it seems his "new wife had no concept of anything but what he supposed to be- the legend. I dont know and may never find out, but the man was a genius and I will never be 1/1000th the writer he was. He was a brilliant political writer and his quest for truth was unwavering. Cest la vie HST, I am sure where ever you are the tide has finally broke. Here are some articles that shed some light on what happened and the man himself: DENVER, Colorado (AP) -- Journalist Hunter S. Thompson did not take his life "in a moment of haste or anger or despondency" and probably planned his suicide well in advance because of his declining health, the family's spokesman said Wednesday. Douglas Brinkley, a historian and author who has edited some of Thompson's work, said the founder of "gonzo" journalism shot himself Sunday night after weeks of pain from a host of physical problems that included a broken leg and a hip replacement. "I think he made a conscious decision that he had an incredible run of 67 years, lived the way he wanted to, and wasn't going to suffer the indignities of old age," Brinkley said in a telephone interview from Aspen. "He was not going to let anybody dictate how he was going to die." Thompson, famous for "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" and other works of New Journalism, spent an intimate weekend with his son, Juan, daughter-in-law, Jennifer, and young grandson, William, the spokesman said. "He was trying to really bond and be close to the family" before his suicide, Brinkley said. "This was not just an act of irrationality. It was a very pre-planned act." The family is looking into whether Thompson's cremated remains can be blasted out of a cannon, a wish the gun-loving writer often expressed, Brinkley said. "The optimal, best-case scenario is the ashes will be shot out of a cannon," he said. Other arrangements were pending. Hunter S Thompson's wife heard suicide. Anita Thompson was talking on the phone with her husband, "Gonzo" journalist Hunter S Thompson, when she heard the trigger click in the gun the renowned US author used to kill himself. Anita Thompson recounted her last conversation with the author of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas in an interview to the Aspen Daily News in Colorado. She says they were speaking on the phone when her 67-year-old husband asked his wife, who was working out at a fitness centre, to come home and help him with his weekly column for a sports website. During the conversation, he placed the telephone next to his typewriter, which rested on the kitchen counter, loaded his revolver and pulled the trigger, she told the newspaper. Thompson's son found his father's body at his rural home in Woody Creek, near the ski resort of Aspen, Colorado. "I was on the phone with him, he set the receiver down and he did it - I heard the clicking of the gun," 32-year-old Anita Thompson said, who married the author in April 2003. She told the newspaper that she heard a loud, muffled noise in the background, but did not know what had happened. "I was waiting for him to get back on the phone," she said. She says her husband had talked about killing himself in recent months, putting an intense strain on their relationship. "He wanted to leave on top of his game - I wish I could have been more supportive of his decision, it was a problem for us," she said. She says she was initially angry after he killed himself. "He was my best friend, my lover, my partner, and my teacher," she said. "But I know he is much more powerful and alive now than ever before. "He is in all of our hearts, his death was a triumph of his own human spirit because this is what he wanted. "He lived and died like a champion." Newspaper associate editor Troy Hooper, a friend of the late author, told AFP on Tuesday that Thompson, an icon of 1960s counter-culture who inserted himself and his personal views into the story, wanted his ashes to be fired from a cannon after his funeral. Anita Thompson told the newspaper the family will probably respect his last wish. "I think we should - the more explosions, the better," she said. From the AP: None of those will work. People whose brains have sentenced them to unrelenting depressive pain, generally because of an intrinsic chemical imbalance, must be treated medically. A guy like Thompson, who drunkenly barrels into public events, snorts coke in a thousand bathrooms, stands barefoot in the snow shooting guns in the middle of the night, hordes explosives, and repeatedly tells his wife that hes considering suicide, is a guy who needs help. Perhaps his wife did suggest he see a psychiatrist. She should have insisted. Instead, the Associated Press quotes her as having threatened to leave him. His final act certainly wasnt her fault. She couldnt have saved him. Only Thompson had a chance to do that. When Thompson broke his leg in Hawaii last year, Sean Penn immediately spent twenty-seven grand to fly him back to the writers "fortified compound" the focal point of his isolation and paranoia in Colorado. That was a compassionate gesture by Penn but would have been far more helpful had the jet been pointed toward a mental health facility. Thompson would have bellowed upon arriving. He probably would have refused treatment, claiming he didnt need it but the rest of the world did. He was, however, decidedly capable of admitting some kinds of pain. He acknowledged his hip hurt bad enough to be replaced, and underwent the operation. So Hunter S. Thompson, a very tough guy, or at least a tough talker, was willing to get the best treatment for his leg and his hip. But like too many others in mental distress, he didnt understand his brain also deserved the finest medical attention. Another article by Ralph Steadman: Hunter Thompson said these words to me many years ago: "I would feel real trapped in this life if I didn't know I could commit suicide at any time. " I knew he meant it. It wasn't a case of if, but when. He didn't reckon he would make it beyond 30 anyway, so he lived it all in the fast lane. There was no first, second, third and top gear in the car -- just overdrive. He was in a hurry. "Drive your stake into a darkened heart in a red Mercedes-Benz. The blackness hides a speeding tramp. The savage breast pretends. But never mind the nights, my love, because they never really happened anyway." So we wrote in a Beverly Hills house one drunken night. I wrote the stanzas, he wrote the chorus. "Don't write, Ralph," he said, "you'll bring shame on your family." "Those Weird and Twisted Nights." That was the song. On Sunday morning, I had just finished signing the 1,200 title pages for a limited-edition Taschen version of "The Curse of LONO," which Hunter had signed so uncharacteristically -- obedient and mechanical -- over the month of December. I thought that was very strange. He has to be cajoled like a child to do anything like that, so I drew his portrait across the last sheet, glaring out, his two eyes in the two Os of LONO, put the cigarette holder with the long Dunhill prodding upward in his grimacing mouth, signed it with an extra flourish and closed the last of the four boxes. The old bastard! He waited to make sure I had finished the task. Then he signed himself off. I knew it was too good to be true. Now I would be expected to build the monstrous cannon in Woody Creek, a 100 foot-high column of steel tubes, with the big red fist on its top and his ashes placed in a fire bomb in its palm. "Two thumbs, Ralph! Don't forget the two thumbs!!" It was the gonzo fist, and he really believes I can do it! Such were his demands as he tipped at his windmills. I had only just arrived in America in late April 1970, and was staying with a friend in the Hamptons to decompress. I got a call from JC Suares, art editor of Scanlan's Magazine in New York. He said: "How'd ya like to go to the Kentucky Derby with an ex-Hell's Angel who just shaved his head, and cover the race? His name is Hunter S. Thompson, and he wants an artist to nail the decadent, depraved faces of the local establishment who meet there. He doesn't want a photographer. He wants something weird, and we've seen your work." The editor, Don Goddard, had been the New York Times' foreign editor, and he thought I was nave enough to take this on. I was looking for work -- so I went. Finding Hunter -- or indeed anyone covering the prestigious Kentucky Derby who is not a bona fide registered journalist -- was no easy matter, and trying to explain my reasons for being there was even worse, especially as I was under the impression that this was an official trip and I was an accredited press man. Why shouldn't I think that? I assumed that Scanlan's was an established magazine. I had been watching someone chalk racing results on a blackboard while I sipped a beer, and I was about to turn and get myself another, when a voice like no other I had ever heard cut into my thoughts and sank its teeth into my brain. It was a cross between a slurred karate chop and gritty molasses. "Um-er, you-er wouldn't be from England, er, would you-er? An artist maybe-er -what the ...!" I had turned around, and two fierce eyes, firmly socketed inside a bullet- shaped head, were staring at a strange growth I was nurturing on the end of my chin. "Holy s -- !" he exclaimed. "They said I was looking for a matted-haired geek with string warts, and I guess I've found him." We took a beer together and sat in the press box. Somehow, he had got our accreditation and we were in. He asked me if I gambled, and I said only once, in 1952. I put two shillings on Early Mist to win in the 1953 Grand National. And it did. I picked a horse but didn't bet and it won, so then I picked another, backed it with a dollar, and lost. "That's why I don't gamble," I said. "I thought you had been picked up," he replied. "Picked up?" I didn't quite understand. "Er, yes, the police here are pretty keen. They tend to take an interest in something different. The, er-um, the beard. Not many of them around these parts. Not these days anyway." I was beginning to take in the whole of the man's appearance, and his was a little different, too. Certainly not what I was expecting. No time-worn leather, shining with old sump oil. No manic tattoo across a bare upper arm and, strangely, no hint of menace. This man had an impressive head chiseled from one piece of bone, and the top part was covered down to his eyes by a floppy brimmed sun-hat. His top half was draped in a loose-fitting hunting jacket of multicolored patchwork. He wore seersucker blue pants, and the whole torso was pivoted on a pair of huge white plimsolls with a fine red trim around the bulkheads. Damn near 6- foot-6 inches of solid bone and meat holding a beaten-up leather bag across his knee and a loaded cigarette holder between the arthritic fingers of his other hand. We found the decadent, depraved faces of Louisville by the end of the first week we spent together. They were staring at us from a mirror in the gents' toilet on the infield, where the rest of the riff-raff, who are not eligible to stand in the privileged boxes of the chosen few, spent their time at the races, just like us. We spent many assignments together, bucking the trend, against the cheats and liars, the bagmen and the cronies; me an alien from the old country and him raging against the coming of the light. Before "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," we tried to cover the America's Cup yacht race in Rhode Island for Scanlan's (which was just about to go bust and get onto Richard Nixon's blacklist) from a three-masted schooner. There was a rock band on board for distraction; booze and, for Hunter, whatever he was gobbling at the time. I was seasick, and Hunter was fine. I asked him what he was taking, and he gave me one. It was psilocybin (magic mushroom), a psychedelic hallucinogen, my first and only drug trip apart from Librium. I was the artist from England, so I had a job to do. He handed me two spray-paint canisters. "What do I do with these?" "You're the artist, Ralph. Do what you want, but you must do it on the side of one of those multimillion-dollar yachts, moored hardly 50 yards away from where we are." "How about 'F -- the Pope?' " I said, now seeing in my mind red snarling dogs attacking a musician dressed as a nun singing at a piano at a shore-bound bar. "Are you a Catholic, Ralph?" "No," I replied, "it's just the first thing that came to mind." So that was the plan, and we made it to the boats, and I stood up in the little dinghy with the spray cans and shook them, as one does. They made a clicking sound and alerted a guard. "We must flee, Ralph! There'll be pigs everywhere. We have failed." He pulled fiercely on the oars and fell backward with legs in the air. He righted himself and started rowing again. We made it back to our boat, and while I was gabbling insanely, he was writing down all the gibberish that I uttered. I was now a basket case, and we had to get back to shore and flee. Hunter shot off two distress flares into the harbor, and we hailed a boat just coming in. The flares set fire to one of the boats, causing an emergency fire rescue as we got to dry land. There's more, and I won't go on, but I guess that was the genesis of "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas." I had the good fortune to meet one of the great originals of American literature. Maybe he is the Mark Twain of the late 20th century. Time will sort the bastard out. Artist Ralph Steadman was the creative collaborator and friend of Hunter S. Thompson. A longer version of this article appeared in the Independent of London.
When the going gets too weird, the weird say fuck it. CFT - 2/21/05
Homoerotic Film Fest
New dreams My trauma was two-fold. I know, poor me. I nearly got killed in a car accident and my girlfriend did get killed. Physically I have recovered well. I am stronger than I have ever been in my life. No one who looks at me would guess that I was in a coma for 12 days, my left knee has been totally rebuilt, that my right leg was shattered and a metal rod was inserted in my leg, that my pelvis was broken, my shoulder separated beyond repair and that my head and skull were pieced back together in an ER. I had great doctors. I was lucky and I refused to die. Mentally, I have recovered well. My IQ is above average and since the accident I have earned a masters degree. Emotionally, I have not done as well. I go through relationships like most people go through clothes. Maybe this is not the result of trauma, but I am starting to think it is. Looking for something that cannot be replaced. Never getting to say goodbye. Never getting closure. Never letting go. Never dreaming. Last night I did dream. I dreamed about her. I was having lunch on a sunny summer day in Chicago. For some reason I was eating with the former host (John Henson?) of Talk Soup, (the guy with a spot of gray in his hair.) I had not seen Diana since the accident and I was nervous. She was dating John Henson, (maybe there is a reason I don't dream) but she coming to see me. I wanted to kill Henson. I was jealous. She walked into the yard wearing jeans and a button up blouse, open at the bottom, that exposed her tummy. She looked up at me, smiling, the sun shining through her auburn hair. She looked sexy as hell. I shoved Henson aside and ran down the stairs to hug her. "Hi, Chuck," she said as she hugged me. "How have you been?" "I've been ok," I replied. "Where have you been? Why haven't I seen you?" She looked confused, "Well you've been with all those other girls. I didn't think you wanted to see me. And I've been busy." "Diana," I stammered like I had been jacked in the stomach, "I was with those girls because I couldn't find you. I didn't think you cared. I thought you were gone, forever." I got defensive, "What, was I supposed to be here alone?" "I never said that Chuck, but I did think you would wait for me." I felt helpless and sick. I turned and saw her give John Henson a kiss on the cheek. I was enraged, tearful, scared and I saw her leaving me once again. I didn't know what to do so I ran over and politely told Mr. Henson to leave us alone for a moment. He said, "No man, you had your chance." It never occurred to me that I would hit John Henson. And I didn't, but a stern blow to his 160-pound mid-section sent him sprawling and negated for the moment. I grabbed her arm and led her underneath a stairway where we could talk. I held her face and looked in her eyes and said, "I waited so long, but I never thought you were coming back. I never thought I would see you again." She looked at me and said, "I know Chuck, I know." I hugged her so hard I thought she would break but I was not going to let her get away. She felt so good. I said, "I've missed you so much. I miss you so much." I could feel her breath on my face and she whispered in my ear, "I miss you too." I woke up. My room was cold and I was alone. In the haze I thought she would be in my bed and that the accident and its aftermath were part of an incredible dream. But it's not a dream. It's real and my life is pretty good. I do miss her and I suppose it's easy for others to discount my feelings and act like the loss is something you put in a box and open it up every year or two and stroll down memory lane. I wish it were that simple and clean. It's not. However, she is never coming back and I risk the danger of making her some idealized woman she never was. That's wrong, she was special exactly as she was and my new dreams are something that can only happen in the here and now. It's funny, the new dreams and the old dreams aren't much different. A never-ending quest for happiness that always ends in a wanting for the things I cannot have. Who knows, maybe those are the keys to life and unending happiness. But I am starting to think that it's all a bunch of bullshit and you are much better off appreciating the things you have and the people that remain. In a week, or an hour, I might not feel like this any longer, but for now, I choose to believe the present has more power than my future or my past. I am here and this is my time. I am going to make the best of it.
We are worthy
Man made
Randy Moss has a kick ass afro and that's all right by me.
How do the kids rebel? It makes me sad because the kids can no longer rebel. When I was a high school punk rocker I sure as fuck wasn't fucking cheerleaders. These days, that kid is fucking the entire cheerleading squad. I know, I went to an all ages punk rock show and those little sell out fuckers were like star football players. Girls swooning, and not the fat, oh no one likes me girls, but the princess perfect girls who have it all. It's over for all the kids that actually get it. By the way, rap was over 5 years ago. That's done been chewed up and spit back out on the kids by the marketing machine. Well, not quite, I think have an angle for the kids. There is still one final level of rebellion that cannot be marketed. Well, not as long as George Bush and the Christian Coalition is running the country. Black Metal. Pure. Evil, satanic rock. The black metal kids in Norway are burning down churches. These kids no how to rebel. They are high on meth, worshipping satan, killing goats and burning down anything in their path. In a way it seems that this is the last bastion of wholesome rebellion. So kids, paint that upside down cross on your forehead and rock on. Let's see the motherfuckers market this.
Quite an ending to the beginning On Thursday night I went to Johnny K's Annual New Years Eve pre-party. All my friends were there and I had an awesome time. As a matter of fact, Ms. Kemper and myself polished off a fine bottle of Herradurra tequila. I was fucking rocked. As a matter of fact I was so loaded I did not remember going through my fridge at 5am and eating anything I could find. I woke up at 4pm, showered and went out the door to pick up my hot date for a night of parties, RSC promotion and an early dinner. We went to Francesca's in little Italy. I did have the best ravioli I have ever tasted in my life. The restaurant wasn't even populated with a bunch of fat ass Sopranos's wanna-be's like i thought it would be. The service was poor, but the food was excellent. I started to feel cold, then hot, then nauseous. Then I felt it all at once. My date looked concerned and said I looked very red and flushed. She gracefully said, "You can take me to my car and you can meet me at the party later. Go lay down for an hour and then come to the party." She is so sweet and she looked so damn good I had no desire to go home. As we left the restaurant I was struggling not to puke. I wasn't gonna be some lame couples NYE highlight, "And oh my God! The neighborhood was so seedy, we saw a bum, nothing like Schaumburg at all and then this bald guy puked all over himself." I took her home and said I would see her later. She said "Ok," but the look on her face said good luck. I walked in the door, suit still on and projectile vomited, violently, for about 15 minutes. I struggled to tear off my clothes and stood naked looking in the mirror at an obese man with barf dripping down his chin. It wasn't pretty, but the wave of sickness came upon me so quick I didn't even have a chance to loath myself. I shoved my head in the total and yakked like a pro. I'm not sure how long it lasted, maybe 30 minutes, but it felt like 3 hours. I was down to the dry heaves, nothing left in the tank, ravioli all gone. I struggled to my feet, brushed my teeth, cleaned myself off and went to bed. I laid in bed with my trusty cat Dave and turned on the Tv. I thought, "This is sad, I am missing the parties, the rsc promo effort, oh well, at least I've got Dick Clark." So, like that sad loser I was, I turned on Dick Clark around midnight and Dave and I counted down the New Year. I looked around and I thought, "So, this is what you have become, home alone, sick, with your cat on New Years Eve. Mr. Party is dead and you hate this thing that you have become." I pondered my lameness and I realized that I was watching Dick Clark's Rockin NYE, but Dick wasn't on. It was fucking Regis and the generic Ashley Simpson whose backing band was the boys in Good Charlotte, or look liked it. You know, the current rock uniform- suit jacket, tie, eyeliner, hair in eyes or mohawk. I also realized that I had food poisoning from my drunken binge the night before and I started to laugh at my plight. I sat there laughing so hard I started to cry and I looked to the right and Dave was laughing right at me. He stood on my chest and looked my in the eye and said, "You clueless motherfucker, you have a bad run and you just give up and feel sorry for yourself?" I could not believe that Dave was talking. "When my sister died, (Pirner, my other cat woke up dead last year) did you see me acting like a sad sack motherfucker? Hell no you didn't. I am your cat and I learned from you, you got to get up or give up. We don't just quit, so get off your ass and do something." He jumped off my chest and went to take a kitty krap. (I was not on acid and my god damned cat was talking. Perhaps a visual hallucination brought on by severe poisoning.) Dave was right. He is old and wise and it is time for me to make a change. So fuck you 2004, Mr.Tipton is back.
This sleep alludes me.
It's a lot of pressure being a star, I know. "HUGE PONTOONS Chicago's Huge Pontoons are a guilty pleasure for grown-ups who have Weird Al tapes hidden in their sock drawers. The band's sole album, last year's Honky if You Love White People (Kapi-Tel), is an obnoxious but affectionate parody of 90s metal, pop punk, and college rock--the goofy cliches are packed so densely that not even light can escape. Over thrashin' ax, mullet-worthy drums, and the occasional low-budget synth, front man John Velousis belts out tunes like "RR2K (Race Riot 2000)" and "Taco Man" in a Kermit the Frog voice (and no particular key). For your money you get the obligatory carrying on about girls, a sprinkling of half-assed social consciousness ("There's even evil inside a quarter pounder"), and of course loads of the shameless gooning that makes my inner 12-year-old roll on the floor: over the pummeling, boneheaded riffs of "Cookie Monster," Velousis howls, "Oh dear God, how I long to digest a cookie / But they just fall crispily from my impotent tongue." The Slats open. 9 PM, Underground Lounge, 952 W. Newport, 773-327-2739, $6. --Ann Sterzinger " This is a lot of pressure and I will surely be at this show. Front man, John Velousis obviously slept with this Ann woman because that is the only way a local band gets in the Reader. I know, RSC was featured in The Reader long ago because Paul slept our way in. However, after reading this review, I am starting to think that the Huge Poontoons are fucking Ween or something. JV must be one hot lover. Paul is a legendary cocksmith and our write-up was pretty darn spectacular, but not as good as this one. As Paul, who is married like Velousis said, "It ain't cheating if it forwards my career." JV and Paul think along similar lines. This may explain the sexual tension between them. I expect to see JV and Paul (Psycho) exchange blows in some sort of local band sex symbol, death match this evening. JV is a legendary smart ass. A few months ago when RSC and the Huge Poontoons were attending an important local band summit at a German restaurant in Chicago the two came to blows. The fight ended with Psycho holding a fork to JV's eye, in front of horrified band members and dates, saying, "An eye for an eye mother fucker." Psycho-21 JV-0. Tonight JV will try to steal some of psycho's thunder. The pressure must be enormous because if JV sucks a packed house will only blame him. He is the leader and someone has to take the fall for sucking. However, if they do well the entire band will get credit. I credit all great Poontoons shows to Bob Conlin. He is my stunt double and I need him in top form at all times because I am rarely in top form these days and someone has to do it. So this is it, the final result of months and months of reahersals and hard work. A show, a write up, one chance to make it the top. It's local band fame andI may not live forever, butI am gonna feel pretty good tonight.
Learning is slow and difficult and I am a fucking retard.
Bush and Team Jesus
Time Magazine's view on this: President Bush has announced his plan to select Dr. W. David Hager to headup the Food and Drug Administration's (FDA) Reproductive Health Drugs Advisory Committee. The committee has not met for more than two years, during which time its charter lapsed. As a result, the Bush Administrationis tasked with filling all eleven positions with new members. This position does not require Congressional approval. The FDA's Reproductive Health Drugs Advisory Committee makes crucial decisions on matters relating to drugs used in the practice of obstetrics, gynecology and related specialties, including hormone therapy, contraception, treatment forinfertility, and medical alternatives to surgical procedures for sterilization and pregnancy termination. Dr. Hager is the author of "As Jesus Cared for Women: Restoring Women Then and Now." The book blends biblical accounts of Christ healing Women with case studies from Hager's practice. His views of reproductive health care are far outside the mainstream for reproductive technology. Dr. Hager is a practicing OB/GYN who describes himself as "pro-life" and refuses to prescribe contraceptives to unmarried women. In the book Dr. Hager wrote with his wife, entitled "Stress and the Woman's Body," he suggests that women who suffer from premenstrual syndrome should seek help from reading the bible and praying. As an editor and contributing author of "The Reproduction Revolution: A Christian Appraisal of Sexuality Reproductive Technologies and the Family," Dr. Hager appears to have endorsed the medically inaccurate assertion that the common birth control pill is an abortifacient. Good times brother, good times.
Give and get fucked
A Nation of Dummies. The America I live in is tolerant. The America I live in supports medical research. The America I live in has a separation of church and state. I live in an America where a woman has a right to choose. I live in an American that is racially and religiously tolerant. And that America is dead. The majority has spoken and they have said, in effect, that my America is not their America. They live by a different moral code. It's the hypocritical moral code. It is based on their Christian values and fear. Of course, these values apply to others and the code is never applied to their life. That is the God damned problem: "You'd think that reasonable people would be content with being born only once. These people are praised as models of piety and virtue. However a survey, conducted by the Roper Organization, has found the exact contra ry (6) - their behavior deteriorates. 12% of the respondents have claimed to driving intoxicated after being-born again, compared to 4% before. Same result for drugs - 5% were drug-users before they converted, and 9% take drugs now. Also, interestingly, illicit sex was also more frequently done by born-agains. The percentage after being born-again jumps from 2% to 5%,(www.objectivethought.com)." I am glad people came out of their caves to vote on gay marriage. Marriage is sacred and we ought to protect marriage with a new constitutional amendment. This is part of an article from the Boston Globe, Oct 31st By William V. D'Antonio "But don't take the US government's word for it. Take a look at the findings from the George Barna Research Group. George Barna, a born-again Christian whose company is in Ventura, Calif., found that Massachusetts does indeed have the lowest divorce rate among all 50 states. More disturbing was the finding that born-again Christians have among the highest divorce rates. The Associated Press, using data supplied by the US Census Bureau, found that the highest divorce rates are to be found in the Bible Belt. The AP report stated that "the divorce rates in these conservative states are roughly 50 percent above the national average of 4.2 per thousand people." The 10 Southern states with some of the highest divorce rates were Alabama, Arkansas, Arizona, Florida, Georgia, Mississippi, North Carolina, Oklahoma, South Carolina, and Texas. By comparison nine states in the Northeast were among those with the lowest divorce rates: Connecticut, Massachusetts, Maine, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New York, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, and Vermont." 72% of married Americans will cheat on their spouses (look it up.) 70% of Americans admit they have driven while intoxicated (look it up.) 90% of Americans have sexual intercourse before they are married (look it up.) I guess the moral code doesn't apply when you are drunk and fucking someone else. America has said they don't want stem cell research. America has said no to abortion (Until they need one. Around 1.5 million women per year choose to have an abortion.) We are now officially a religious nation, a Christian nation. America has said yes to a war on terrorism in a country that has never attacked America. America has said it's ok to put our soldiers asses on the line in a country that had no weapons of mass destruction, no ties to Bin Laden and was held in check by economic sanctions. Weren't the 9/11 terrorists Saudi? In effect, America has said yes to pussing out and letting Bin Laden run free. The majority has said that it is ok to not patrol our borders, get tough on immigration and protect the people here in the USA. Why should we, "Attorney General John Ashcroft and Commerce Secretary Don Evans resigned Tuesday, the first members of President Bush's Cabinet to leave as he headed from re-election into his second term. Ashcroft, in a five-page, handwritten letter to Bush, said, "The objective of securing the safety of Americans from crime and terror has been achieved (Chicago Sun Times.)" Can this freak be anymore delusional? So, America has chosen a leader and that man is George W. Bush. Admittedly, not everyone who voted for GW is stupid, but everyone has his or her own agenda. I will briefly explain the agenda of the dumb. The agenda of the rich is self-explanatory and you can figure that out on your own time. Perhaps a nation of dummies is too strong a statement. Let's call it a nation of average intelligence. GW is average and that could be the key to his masterful appeal. Briefly, the average IQ is 100. 68% of the population has an IQ between 85-115. This is the range of average intelligence. 6.8 of every ten persons you meet fall in this range. This is most of America. This includes liberals, conservatives, musicians, artists, bus drivers, cooks, carpenters, teachers, whatever their talent, the intelligence is average. If your IQ is betwee n 116-130 you are +1 standard deviation above the norm, it is in the top 14%. If it is +2, 131-146, it is in the top 2%. If you are 1 standard deviation, 84-70, the lower 14%, you may be retarded. (72 is considered mild mental retardation.) But you can still vote and breed and do all the amazing things the brianiacs do. The tards will also unwittingly give up their freedoms when faced with fear or anything that is unknown. Most of the average and dim-witted fear anything that is complex. If you have a low or middle IQ (107-85, high average is 107-115), complex becomes anything that is not known to you. Anything that is different is complex. Average intelligence makes it difficult to think abstractly, to put yourself in someone else's shoes and see a picture that you have never experienced before. Then again, maybe people ignore their curiosity and hate what is different? It is easier. I have small town friends tell me, "I hate Chicago." I ask, "What do you hate the not eating at Denny's, clubs without country music and mullets, the shopping?" "No, it's too crowded and you can't get anywhere." Untrue my friend, if you know where you are going it is less crowded than the Woodfield Mall in Schaumburg, IL. New towns can suck when you spend most of your time being lost. It's scary to be out of your element. People like what they know. Fear is ignorance based and often emotional. I will admit, before I went to college I did not know a lot of black people. I was not comfortable when I was the minority. The African Americans I did know were from sports or punk rock I grew up in a racially segregated area. The African Americans I saw on a regular basis where indigent and lived in the ghettos of Gary, IN. However, I always had an interest, an intellectual curiosity about others and I was bright enough to see that my daily example of black cultural was based on a devastated community. Gary, IN ca me and went with the steel industry and it is a perfect example of the effects of socio-economics on a city. Go to any town were the money and jobs have long gone and you will see a bleak picture, black or white. If you don't believe me take a drive through Flint, MI or Ford Heights, IL. When I first went to college (Indiana University Northwest, Gary, IN.) I met several amazing professors and students who were of African descent. My classmates and friends were white, black, yellow, Indian, Arab, Muslim, Jewish, Christians, agnostics. I saw it all. My own ignorance dissipated with knowledge. Going to a culturally diverse university allowed me to confirm that my suspicions were true, that Gary, IN was not the model for all black families. Unfortunately, a vast majority of America is unable to take advantage of this opportunity. However, it takes a certain curiosity to want to explore something that is different than what you "know." Some people do this by reading, incredible isn't it? GW preys on these fears. We live in a racist country. Go to BFE with a brown friend and you will learn this right quick. "What you doing here boy?" Take a Jewish friend to BFE, a Jewish person, what could be more mainstream, and you will feel the stares burning through the back of your skull. Christ, aliens would have an easier time. Most of Middle America doesn't know anything or anyone but white Christians. They have little tolerance for what they do not know and that is an average reaction. Fear is not an excuse for stupidity. However, in a nation of dummies I don't think this is going to change anytime in the near future. People don't like change. Change is work and it's hard. People want Wal-Mart, McDonalds, beer, sitcoms and their definition of normalcy left intact. GW keeps it simple stupid. Don't worry, he is right and they are wrong. Thinking is bad and evil. Questioning his motives is wrong. No worries, the paradigms of life will not change and you will not be asked to change the way you behave. God forbid that you are challenged. But pally boy, we gotta think. The government should never think for you. We cannot be too scared to think. GW is fucking up and you cannot allow your simple fear to cloud your vision you fucking dummies. I am not crazy about John Kerry, but it was time to make a change, any change. But no, it hurts my little head to think. I am scared of what I don't know. I am scared of African people, Arab people, I don't know any, but I am terrified. Wah, wah, wah.Jesus Christ, use your fucking heads. Sometimes you gotta shake the dust off your boots, grab your nuts and do the right thing no matter how scary it is. Opps, too late. I am sick of physically kicking the shit out of people who don't agree with me. I am tired of grabbing tubby frat boys, who call me a liberal, by the balls and saying, "How liberal will I be when I fuck your girlfriend, sweetheart." Kicking ass is easy. Thinking is hard. From the St. Petersburg Times because it serves my purpose:
He's Keith Deitz We met Keith Deitz while we were staying in Venice Beach with Eli's brother Kahlil. They are roommates, actors, teachers and friends. I immediately liked Keith Deitz. He was positive, friendly, good looking and in California shape (tan, thin.) "Hey, the rock stars are here," he smiled and enthusiastically shook our hands. Keith Deitz looks like a hybrid of Brad Pitt and Dean Cain. I believe Keith Deitz is from Ohio and you feel the Midwest in the boy. He is not cocky or aloof. He looks famous. He is confident, happy and in my world he is famous. However, much like all the famous artists I know, he has a day job that pays the bills for his passion. It was St. Patricks Day and Keith Deitz was glad that there were a couple of drinkers in the house. "Finally, someone I can go have a beer with." Kahlil does not drink. The Zuckler, Paul and myself decided to join Keith for St. Patricks Day in Venice Beach. I didn't know they celebrated St. Pat's outside of Chicago. I underestimated the American need to get drunk for any reason on any day. We walked to an Irish bar that was nearby. I don't know why, but I found this odd. There are tons of fake Irish people in Venice Beach; just like Chicago and the bar was packed with Irish bands, Irish food, Irish beer and good old American drunks. It felt like home. 3000 miles away in California St. Pats is celebrated Chicago style minus the giant, drunken parade. Green beer, green clothes, vomit covered sidewalks and people making out inappropriately in a drunken stupor, just like at home. I have not been one of those people in a while and part of me misses it. Actually, I miss the clueless state of mind it takes to be that guy. Who thought thinking would be so hard? We walked around and we started to talk about girls, life and art. Lots of cute girls in Venice beach and Keith Deitz seemed to know all of them. However, he was more interested in talking about acting and our music. He wanted to know how RSC got to where we are in our music career. I'm not sure where that is, or what career, but today it was Venice beach. It sounds cool when I read it. I said, "We passed our stuff out, cd's, to anyone, hope fully they will listen. Can't you do that with acting? Pass out a DVD of your work, to anyone, anywhere, maybe they will watch it." Keith liked the idea and I was struck with what a cheap and genius way it is to promote yourself. It's the new/old direct marketing baby- very direct. "Here I am and this is what I do, take me, I'm yours." Like us, Keith is constantly struggling, the next job, the next pay-off, and the next fix. Like Paul says, "Being in a band is like being a junkie crack whore." It's hard to quit once you start. Maybe they need a failed musician and actor rehab. I thought about a simple existential question as we talked and I wondered how it applied to me. "Am I willing to do whatever it takes, today, to get what I want?" I asked Keith this and he said, "I don't know." I had to answer the same way. "I don't know." Most of the people I know that have made music a career never self-promoted like junkie crack whores. They hired a lawyer to shop the music to record labels. Or a newspaper writer or radio station decided they were great. Other people, lawyers, journalists, djs, told the general public, "This is good." People don't have time to figure it out for themselves. They must be told. Someone else decided they were good. It had little to do with their promotional efforts. For example, I don't remember Chevelle handing out thousands of fliers and promo cds for the ir Metro and Double Door shows. How could they, those boys lived in the burbs with their parents and had jobs. However, I do remember their record label hiring a street team to promote their shows. I am not sure how you get someone to "decide" you are happening and hip. Maybe they like your haircut, your style, see a show you play and a dollar to be made. Maybe they are actual music fans. That's nice, but I don't need anyone to decide for me because I know we are great. That's why I self promote. I want the control and I have no other choice. I will tell you how great I am and you will believe it. But I can't be everywhere and I have to admit that it would be sweet to have "them" tell everyone how amazing RSC is. Then we could stop worrying about passing out fliers, the numbers at the show and just concentrate on music. The point, not many people have the luxury, or in reality, the money, to drop everything and go after what they want 24/7. Life piles on obligations, rent, car payments and soon you're juggling it all and forgetting what the hell you wanted in first place. But that's ok, because anyone with a brain will have multiple interests and find other things that make them happy. One-dimensional living is not for the bright. Keith Deitz is a teacher. Kahlil, Eli's brother, is a teacher. They seem to like teaching. They love acting, but they like teaching. Kahlil, like his older brother Elias, just flows with life. These boys are masters at the art of living and things come easy for them. Honestly, I'd like to hate them, but I love Elias like a brother and I have a genuine affection for Kahlil. Perhaps the hippies and their karmatic ways are correct; good things happen to good people. Hell, I don't know, but the ancillary bullshit of life never gets the Sabbagh brothers down. I think I was attracted to Keith Deitz because he is conflicted about his life. He is a good-looking, bright g uy, but he struggles with the why's and how's of living. Why isn't he famous? How do I get famous? My whole life is why and how. I don't know why or how and it doesn't matter. I do know that whether he is a teacher or an actor Keith Deitz will make some sort of impact on this world. That makes Keith Deitz famous enough for me.
RSC vs. George Clooney When RSC went to L.A. one of the clubs we were scheduled to play at was the Cat Club. I was excited because as a hick from the Midwest I had seen the Cat Club on M-TV. "Wow fellers, these people are fancy and pretty and fabulous." The Crue played at the Cat Club and it is legendary. I never liked hair metal, but the Crue was always cool and the metal sluts, well, I liked the metal sluts. When you arrive at a place you have only seen on TV you realize one thing very quickly; TV can make anyone and anything seem incredible. The Cat Club is located on the Sunset strip, which is a glorified strip mall. It is next to the Whiskey and across the street from Larry Flynt's Hustler store. It is a small, but long, narrow room (maybe 25x70?) with a small stage near the front door that is 25ft from the back wall. It's loud. No one there is exceptionally beautiful, talented, amazing, or slutty. It's a small rock club frequented by has-beens and never will bes. At least that was the crowd on Monday night. On this night, Tuesday 3/15/04, it was inhabited by RSC, Eli's brother Kahlil, his hot wife Ginger and the amazingly beautiful and talented actor, Keith Dietz. Ill get to Keith in a later thought. Kahlil booked this show, but when we entered the club it was apparent it was not just our show. It was a musical showcase where people from all over the place had a chance to take the stage in L.A. and display their talents. A woman named Sheena Metal hosted the night. Much like hair metal, Sheena had become old, fat and sloppy, despite the hot pornstar name. She was nice in phony, promoter way, but promoters are bloodsuckers, so you take the fake niceties for what they are. We talked to her and RSC was supposed to take the stage around 11. That meant I had to sit there and listen to a lot crap. It's funny; people think the Chicago music scene sucks. It doesnt. It sucks in other towns, which becomes obvious every time we play with a mediocre band in another town. L.A. is not a great music city. The musicians are good, but when you live in a plastic town, hellbent on giving the people what they want, you get plastic music. It's canned and ready to be served up hot. But not too hot, wouldn't want to offend anyone. I never knew Radiohead was this influential. Lots of Radiohead clones in L.A. So, I sat through a couple of bland acoustic acts and I started to drink. I hung out at the bar, by myself, waiting for anything interesting to happen. The club was filling up quickly. About an hour into the show it was near full capacity. I started to think that this was not going to be a waste of our time. I noticed cameras filming two girls dressed like cute, Target brand, punk rock girls. Little Raggedy Ann dresses, pig tails, you know the look. Eli and Justin noticed the "guy from True Lies," in the crowd. Paul walked over and said, "Isn't that the fat guy from "Yes, Dear." These are people you recognize, but not famous enough to know by name. Not as famous as Tanya Harding, Paris Hilton or Chip Carey. I was wondering what was going on. It appeared that the cameras were filming a show. I didn't see a script, but certain scenes were shot over and over. The "Yes, Dear" guy was acting, pacing, looking at the girls, throwing up his hands in mock desperation. This guy is terrible actor. It was very amateur, like something I would do with my friends and a video camera. And then it happened-Clooney. Now this is a motherfucking star. He shines, he glows and he looks like a star. George Clooney walked in with his 30-something girlfriend (one of the girls on ER) and a posse of 20 followers. No bodyguards. Word spread quickly that George was there to film a reality show about two girls in a band. Apparently, the only real in reality is in the title. This "reality" show was shot over and over, from various "reality" angles and with varied "reality" dialogue. Oh, it was so real. Real dumb, but that's how "reality" TV is filmed. Piece by piece, over and over, but without a written script. George took over the direction once he hit the door. He was pointing, smiling, grimacing, laughing and directing? Who cares, he is beautiful. The show is about two girls and their dreams of stardom. "Yes, Dear" guy plays the distraught boyfriend. "True Lies" guy just hangs out and looks ominous. Anyway, Clooney walks up to the bar and stands right next to me. The bartender is retarded happy to see him, "Hey George," he spits, "whatcha drinkin?" In case you wondered, and God knows I did, Clooney drinks raspberry Stoli on the rocks. No charge of course. All of his friends and girlfriend drink Stoli on the rocks as well. They all seemed exceedingly happy and excited to be there. George makes you feel special and exciting. He is a superstar. For a megastar Clooney is very tall, around 510" and thin, weighing around 160 pounds. He is incredibly good looking for a 45/50 year old man. He says, "All right, theyre gonna start," and walks away to direct. At this point the place is packed with extras and there are about 100 people in this tiny club. The punky twosome takes the stage with acoustic guitars. They are kind of cute in a 25 year old looking like 12 year old girl way. They start to play, shakily and sing, "How can I say I love you when your cock is down my throat. I try to say the words, but I can't." The crowd is laughing so hard I think many will die or have an aneurysm. It's funny, but I have seen this act before. This act doesn't pack a club unless George Clooney is filming a reality show there. After 45 minutes of posing for the camera, lots of shooting and re-shooting, poor acting from "Yes Dear" and general overacting from the extras, it hits me. George Clooney is fucking us. Are we scheduled to go on after Punky Brewster? No, we go on after some guy who looks like Howard Jones. It's already 10:30. I am at the bar pounding shots of Makers, which the bartender is giving me for free. I don't know why, but he was. Clooney walks up to the bar to order his second Stoli and he turns and looks me right in the eye. He is gorgeous, call me fag, but this man is gorgeous. His brown eyes actually twinkle and smile at you, damn; this guy must get laid a lot. He says, "Aren't these girls amazing?" Why is everything always amazing? I look him straight in the eye, shrug my shoulders and say, "You think so?" His ER girlfriend comes up to him, laughing, grabs his arm and whispers in his ear. He smiles a smile that would melt ice and they walk away. Punky Brewster is done and half the crowd walks out. Clooney thanks everyone and buys the entire bar a round of drinks. Seems like a decent guy. The Zuckler is trying to get Paul to film him talking to Clooney. It failed as Psycho couldn't figure out how to use the digital camera. At this point I am thinking we should leave. The fake Howard Jones guy is playing. It's bad new wave. I was told we gave up our spot because he had "a lot of people coming to see him." By my count there are three people watching him. They must be very important, and bored, because he sucks ass. I tell Paul we should leave and Paul says, "Fuck that, I didn't come to L.A. to leave." Good point and neither did I, thanks Paul. I yell, "Hey Howard Jones, hurry it up." Kahlil looks like he is gonna shit his pants. He is in the business and you never offend anyone else in the business. Word gets around they tell me. I am not in the business and I am not bound by these pathetic rules. Fake Howard says, "I like Howard Jones." I say, "Great, I don't." People don't know if they should laugh or not, but I see Paul, Eli, the Zuckler, Kahlil and the bartender cracking up. It feels good to throw my weight around in L.A. It's easy. RSC takes the stage around 12:15. We are on fire and I am drunk. There are still 30 people at the club. We are so loud the entire club has their hands over their ears but they sit rapt while we play. We are the best band in L.A. After we finish people ask who we are, where we are from, where we are playing next. The bartender pours me another shot and says, "Thanks for playing. We don't have rock bands like you here." I laugh and say, "I know." So it was a tie. Clooney 14, RSC 14. We both got what we came for. Perhaps we will meet again.
Got Bush I have watched the debates very closely. The point of watching a debate is not to cheer wildly for the candidate you think is best. The idea is to watch with an open mind as each candidate does his or her best to solidify their bullshit stance. We all know they are ultimately full of shit, but there are certain, basic ideas, that separate these candidates. I had to see which man's ideals, if any, matched up with my own. Let's be honest, GW seems to be a likable buffoon. I am sure he makes mindless, but, pleasant conversation. At one time, before he sold out, he was one hell of a party machine. I have been trying to sell out for years. The problem, no one is buying. I like to party. Unlike GW, I have never had a dui. I never had my dad leading the CIA when I wasn't getting a dui. My guess is GW was pulled over nine to twenty times, drunk out his mind, that we never heard about. Think about it, w hat cop is going to arrest the son of the man who heads the CI fucking A. Not many. Me thinks that dad finally had enough and he had to use the law to pull his kids head out of his ass. This is speculation, but if I was standing before God and my choice between heaven and hell was based on this question: God: "If you are correct heaven, incorrect, to hell with you. Yes or no Charles, did GW, drunk out of his mind, get pulled over by the police more than once while in this drunken state? And was he let go without charges being pressed?" Charles: "God, you know I didn't think you would really look like George Burns, and hey, did John Denver get extra heaven points for "Oh God!", he was really good." Apparently, God doesn't have much of a sense of humor for these matters. He looked at me disapprovingly. Believe me, a harsh look from a tiny man who looks like George Burns will piss you off. Charles: "God dammit God, can you reword that fucking wordy ass question?" Whoa, wrong choice of words, but it's a lot of pressure and God does forgive. I never thought George Burns would make me shit my pants. God's eyes look like the worst storm mine eyes have ever see and his eyebrows are lightening bolts. In a booming voice so low that it feels like I have been kicked in the nuts God says, "Was our current president let off the hook several times when pulled over, drunk, in a motor vehicle Charles?" I hope the all mighty doesn't have a good sense of smell because I have just shit my pants. "Yes." And instantly all the pain and fear is gone. My legs don't hurt. There isn't any poop in my pants. Hey, there's my Grandpa! "Hi, Grandpa, God I miss you." Grandpa holds my face with his hands and looks at me with his kind eyes and says, "Chucky, I'm proud of you. You saw right through that drunken son of a bitch." And right there in heaven I hug my grandpa and we laugh. Thank you George Bush. As you can see I have several reasons to like GW on an ancillary level. John Kerry is much like Bush. He is rich. He is also a Yale educated blue blood. Unlike GW, and myself, he is a war hero. He doesn't seem like a lot of fun. So going into this debate, believe it or not, I was convinced that GW would kick the shit out of Kerry. However, likeability does not make a leader or a president. Looks like I had to watch this debate so I could make an opinion that was not based on the senseless crap the right wing media feeds me on a daily basis. The left, they really don't get a say. The papers, NY Times editorial section, the Wall Street Journal, all the big boys have a right wing slant. Radio has Junkie Rush and that stupid fucker Hannity. This guy is a retard. Look up anything he says, literally anything, and you will find that he misquotes and takes 99% of what he says out of its original context. And people believe this shit? Read his book. For example, he praises school vouchers as the only hope for our schools. The stupid fuck, the school he uses as an example, from the book "The Miracle in East Harlem: The Fight for Choice in Public Education," is a public school, not a private school. It was a school (reorganized District 4,) with smaller classrooms, which are proven to be more successful classrooms. (Bush cut this program.) Vouchers are not about school choice dickface. Vouchers are about diverting money from public to private schools. My sister is a teacher you toe-headed, cocksucker. I am smart and I caught this. Hannity tried to slip it by, but I realized his example of a voucher program was actually an example of a good public school funded with public money. Dummy. On top of this crap, there is an entire right wing TV channel, Fox news. Rupert Murdoch owns this mess and he does have an agenda. I like some of these shows. Rush is a great radio talent for a mindless, weak ass, junkie. Some of the Fox shows are entertaining, but I would like to hear both sides before I make a decision. So I had to sit down and make a list of where I stood as a human on some basic issues. I will go through a few of these with the Kerry and Bush stance, as they declared in the debates. Then I will endorse my candidate. Taxes: I think the tax cut was a massive mistake in the context of our current war. Obviously, GW had no idea that we would be in this war, so I won't hold him to that. However, much like my dad taught me, smart people save. GW has blown our surplus. Based on what my dear old dad taught me, this was a stupid move. When you are ahead in money, save it, you never know what will happen. On the other side, Kerry rambles about tax cuts for the rich. True, they did get the biggest breaks, but then again they pay the most. Do the math; they would get the biggest breaks. I have one guy blowing all of our money and another guy stating he will make tax cuts that cannot happen with a war going on. There is no way we can cut taxes with a war going on. Also, as you know, ou t of all industrialized countries, only the Japanese pay fewer taxes than us. Maybe we don't need a cut, just better money management. Maybe we should move to Japan. Since, I favor a flat tax for everyone, neither man is doing much for me. Winner: No one Abortion: As you know, or do now, I support abortion in all cases. Period. Partial birth, nasty for sure, but there are cases when it is medically necessary. 17 year olds, crazy with hormones, fucking for the first time, hey, they make mistakes and Lord knows these are not people ready for the responsibility of parenthood. If you are against abortion then start adopting all those unwanted babies and shut the fuck up about what I am doing with my body and my money. I don't want the government telling me, or my family, what to do with their bodies. I know if one of George's daughters was raped and became pregnant with the baby of the rapist he would drop that bible beating drivel pretty God damned quick. There is no way in hell a Bush girl would ever bear the child of some deranged, psychotic rapi st. Nope. And she shouldnt. His daughter would get the best medical attention available and it would be kept hush, hush. GW would never make his daughter go through that hell. But then again, he would make your daughter go through it and have that bundle of joy. Your daughter would have to look at this child day after day and do her best to try and raise this child in a functional manner. What happens when Daddy gets out of jail and wants to see his baby? Gimme a fucking break- hypocrite. Winner: Kerry War on terror: Back to the surplus. Bush has spent all of this money in the wrong place. We needed this money to fight this war. But, it is the wrong war, in the wrong place and at the wrong time. The right time was 1991. We need to secure our borders and get Bin Laden. Brief point. If a man murdered someone in my family I would do anything I could to make that man pay. I would not go after the guy who said he might, someday, if he got a gun, murder my brother, sister, mom or dad. I would kill the guy who did it. Then I go after the others. Iraq is less stable now than it was before. I don't care about those people. I care about our people. Bin Laden killed 3000 of our people. I live in the here and now and you can bet your ass I would go after the right guy. Only a sissy would do otherwise. Winner: Kerry Stem Cell Research: Bush short armed this one. He pussed out and laid down for the Christian right, again. He says we have enough stem cells to continue research, but these stems are damaged and useless. Researchers say it is not enough. Scientists say their hands are tied and they need more money and healthy stem cells. He cut off all funding. No tax money supports this research. It is all privately funded. We have frozen embryos that will never be used. If we can use these embryos to make life better for the living, why not use them. Why waste life? The possibilities are endless, but the way we are going we will never know what is possible. Shortsighted. Kerry supports stem cell research and using all the resources we have available, far sighted. Winner: Kerry I am voting on these four topics and that's it. These are the issues that will have a direct influence on my life and on all of our futures. Most of the rhetoric is nonsense and you have to listen to pull out the key issues. No president is going to cut taxes to a point where middle class families receive a discernible benefit. No president is going to create a million high paying jobs just by saying he will do it. These are economic issues that follow economic trends. Based on the four issues listed above, I have to vote for Kerry -- whether I like it or not. These are my issues and my feelings. I hope you have a list and can determine who is the right choice for you.
Vegas will kill me. After playing a brunch last Sunday, no kidding, a brunch, for a ton of money; the Zuckler, myself, and a couple of lucky ladies, jumped a plane and for Vegas. Upon arrival, I went to the Las Vegas Hilton. I walked in, grabbed my sack and put $100 down on black. $100 is a lot of cake for Mr.Tipton, but it had to be done.... and it's black 13. God damn, it looks like a good sign for our hero. Ok, back to the Hilton- once you get over the Star Trek/New Genereation/Deep Space 9 section of the building, it is quite an excellent hotel. (Admittedly, I went through the entire Star Trek section of the Hilton, complete with a replica of the bridge. I stood on the bridge and did my impersonation of James T. Kirk gone wrong. "Dammit, Spock, I'm a man. I need those hookers." "Hey baby, I've got my gun set to stun." "Honey.. beam me up." I couldn't resist.) Holy Christ, what a hotel. Gorgeous, big, it's olde r, 70's maybe, but our room was amazing. The room had a separate sitting area, a bar, a massive bathroom, a view of the mountains. It was bigger than my apartment. I don't think I will ever stay at another Vegas hotel. It was nice, not very crowded, not creepy or the tourist nightmare I assumed a Star Trek exhibit would attract. I never thought much about Paris Hilton, but the girl has so much money it's sick. I now love her. I love her horrific porno movie. Hell, I even love her annoying dog and her mildly retarded, chunky friend, Nicole Ritchie. I am a fan. I have been bought and sold be a dim whore with a big checkbook. Why not, what do I have to lose, my dignity? Nope, about $900. Night one was ok, nothing spectacular, made some money, had a lot of drinks. At 6am my lady suggests we go to a strip club. Sounded like a good idea, chicks at strip clubs love other chicks and it's a win for me. We walk up and when they ask for a $40 cover I know we are in trouble. It was daylight outside, but this place was packed and that surprised me. The girls were hot, but it wasn't worth the trouble or the money. We spent some money, played grab ass and went back to the Hilton. On night number two, I make a fine showing in the poker room. Honestly, poker can suck my ass. It's boring, no one talks, no one laughs, they just stare at their cards and chips. At home a night of poker is fun, but in Vegas it's boring. It's humorless. No one smiles and they all look constipated. The woman beside me at the table was a rip-roaring cunt. I wanted to bury that bitch in a body bag. She was a serious player. In fact, she was so serious she sat her fat ass down at the high rolling $3-6 table. Listen darling, when you are at the $100 table I will listen to your ESPN Texas Hold'em bullshit. When you are at the $3 table all you deserve is a hard, dick slapping. Anyway, after 5 hours of staring, drinking and pretending to have fun, I left the Zuckler at the table and headed off to O'Shea's, the cheapest casino on the strip, to play the non-thinking man's game, roulette. My lady friend and I were feeling lucky and dumb so we walked up to the dangerous $2 minimum table. So it's us, and a couple of other not so high rollers, playing a game that consists of watching a ball roll around a wheel. Actually, this game is infinitely more fascinating than Texas Hold'em. I think the major difference is that poker players kid themselves into thinking that poker is a game of strategy. Most roulette players know there is no strategy. I will prove this later. So we are playing $2 dollar roulette and drinking like tards. I am God of the loser table. I think at one point I won 15 times in a row. Hell, I was bank rolling my lady (in Vegas she has to be a "lady") and she was winning as well. After one hour I was up $700. After 1.5 hours I was up $900. After 2 hours I was up$700. It was 4am and we decided to go and find the Zuckler while I was a winner. I was fucking Mr.Vegas on Labor day. We walked back to Harrah's (which is an over-crowded hellhole) and find the Zuckler down on his luck and down on his chips. When I left he was up about $200. Now he has about $78. The table was full of lifeless people staring and drooling, a real party. "Zuckler," I said as we walked into the room of no fun, "What's up." After hours of staring and not talking he struggled to speak, "Nothing, I've almost lost everything, fuck it, I'm going all in." This is where the "no-strategy" clause takes effect. All-in means you throw all your chips in, bet it all. The Zuckler did not look at his cards. He had no idea what he had. However, the seven other serious strategists were intently staring at their cards. Four, in keen card strategy, folded. These jackasses were scared off by a delirious man who had no idea what cards he was playing. That left two other players and the Zuckler. Unfortunately for the Zuckler, these champs had spent 1000's of hours studying ESPN poker games and reading the zen like words of Doyle Brunson (Brunson wrote the classic book on hold'em in the 70's.) He had no chance against these pros and they were licking their chops, salivating at the thought of spending an extra $78 at buffet. So the chips were in and the dealer threw the cards down. The winner- the Zuckler. The pro's were very upset. I guess I would be upset to if I had spent $29 on a poker book and watched 1000 of hours of ESPN poker and it paid off ie wasted time and money. He grabbed his money and we walked back to O'Shea's to gamble some more. I was fucked because the gambler told me so. "You gotta know when to fold'em..) Kenny, God dammit, I should have listened. We hit the table and I won seven of the first eight spins. Fuck you Kenny Rogers I thought to myself. I then bet $100 on black. I lost. I bet $200 on black. I lost. It' s 7am. I reached into my pocket and I grabbed $300. My lady said, "Baby, please don't do this." I give her credit for the attempt, but historically I am a crazy jackass who makes horrific decisions. After 37 beers I was all of the former and drunk. A better attempt would have been a vicious kick to the nuts, that might have stopped me. I put the $300 on black...and I lost. Ok, that's 3 spins and $600 bucks. Well fuck it, why stop now. I take $200 and put it on black. And Captain Jackass loses again. What is this fucking loyalty to black. strategy? I bet red I am up $2000, but no. I am now down to $178. $100 more on black and I win. Time to leave a winner, but I will be back and next time, God dammit, I am going to win. And that hooker is going to talk to me.
Quitting you is like quitting heroin
Sick of being sick
Christian and Leslie: A love story 1. Great musicians often equal a great band. This is what I call the Steely-Zappa theory of musical relevance. Nah, super groups usually super suck, a good band needs role players, not egos. 2. A band is signed to a major record label contract. If this is your criterion you are an asshole. Most label bands fade away as quickly as they are signed. Hip today, gone tomorrow. 3. A top radio hit? Maybe, but I don't think anyone is calling Clay Atkins a genius. Catchy, sure after you hear it a thousand times even Linkin park becomes bearable, but great, no way. 4. The band gets laid, a lot. Close, but not quite. Band guys get women because they are attractive or incredibly famous. If Brad Pitt were in a local band that sucked he would get laid. He is Brad Pitt. You're not. Hell, I'm not. Women will always hit on gorgeous men. If you didn't get laid before you joined the band you will not get laid once you are in a band. It doesn't work like that. I have never slept with a woman after a show because I am in the band. I don't think I have ever met a woman I did not know after a show. I am ugly. I am surly and unapproachable. I know this. I do ok, but that is on my own time, not band time. As a matter of fact, I don't think anyone in any band I have been in has had sex directly because of band affiliation. Simply, good-looking guys get girls regardless of the band. Ok, these are all good theories on the surface. But I was missing something; there must be an ultimate measure of band greatness. Then it hit me. 5. If your band is so good it gets your friends laid, then you are great. And boys and girls, my band is great. Last week RSC played another incredible show at the Double Door. Psycho was on fire, like a crazed, manic preacher, he took us to the promised land. Our boys in Team Hoss opened the show and did not let us down. A relatively sober Hilljacker led the band through a punishing set and then RSC took the stage. If you missed this show I am sure there will be another. Psycho is going on his annual 6 week European vacation to rest his mind and we will not play Chicago again until October. After the show, a young girl named Leslie asked my girl Rebecca if she could be introduced to the Hilljacker. It looked like all was going well, but the Hilljacker is the Hilljacker and eventually he asked, "Are we gonna fuck or what?" That might work in the hills, but in the big city a girl has to pretend she has a moral compass. Chicago- 7 Hilljacker- 0. The show was over and in a stroke of brilliance I invited several people to my house for an after show party to celebrate another excellent RSC show. Several people came to my porch to hang out. It was a warm night. There was magic in the air. The Hilljacker came, Gooch was there, the MDL came home, Psycho and the Zuckler were there; it was a good crowd. Also making a rare appearance was Christian Danger, the drummer from The Rosedales. The Rosedales are polished garage band. They are slick, excellent vocals; kind of a rockabilly band meets the Misfits. They wear spooky make-up. And I am fan. Leslie is a huge Rosedales fan, by way of Rebecca, who is a huge Rosedales fan, by way of me. It has to come back to me or there is no point. After the Hilljacker fiasco, Leslie set her sights on Christian. In the meantime, the party was hopping, cars full of people I did not know were stopping in the street. It was awesome. "Hey, can we come over? Sure, come on up." Leslie is man-eater and poor Christian was in way over his head. He was avoiding Leslie until the Zuckler said, "Hey fag, why don't you talk to that girl who is chasing you instead of talking to the guys." That seemed to do the trick. Have you ever wondered what would happen if a Puerto Rican woman, who is a preacher's daughter and sings in a Christian gospel group met a surburban, garage band drummer, that wears spooky make-up. I have:
- They would hate each other. What would they have in common? Answer: D That's what happened and I really had to pee. They were doing it on my toilet. Classy, sexy and hot. What the hell happened to the moral compass and what was happening to my poor toilet. Obviously, their lust was one that no boundaries could contain. In a way I am jealous of this true love. I really had to pee. I kept pounding on the door and asking, "Are you done?" "Not yet" Leslie would reply. Jesus Christian, man up and bust a nut already. I had to use the bathroom and I was getting mad. It was 4am. Eventually the door opened and I witnessed the aftermath of a great love. My toilet seat was a twisted and broken mess. Obviously, the force of their passion was too strong for the plastic toilet manacles to resist. There was a pile of used condoms sitting on my sink countertop, a classy move. I didn't know that Rebecca had given Lesli e my box of prized, magnum condoms. Wouldn't you want to throw them out or hide them? Leslie later told Rebecca that Christian was too big for the condoms. Those were my condoms and I know what size they are. I am not Mr. Big, but I am far above average, ask the ladies. Unless he is 18x6, drawfing Peter North, they fit. My guess is he had soggy dick. I asked Christian about my toilet and he said, "It was like that." Thanks boy genius, my band gets you laid and you come back with an asswipe remark like that. I said, "I live here douche, don't fuck with me, that's something you really don't want to do." They were like five year olds. I said, "Jesus, what's with the condoms?" Leslie replied, "We didn't leave condoms in there." She was right; I often masturbate in my bathroom while wearing a magnum lifestyles condom. Leslie tried to talk to me as Christian scurried down my stairs. You think he would have given me $20 for the toilet seat. I told Leslie, "It's time to leave," and I shut the door. During the melee Rebecca had quietly snuck into my bedroom, but I was not done. I grabbed the broken toilet cover and marched into my room. I said, "Stand up and turn around." She was drunk and sleepy and had no idea what was going on. I bent her over and smacked her ass hard with the toilet seat. "Owwww, what are you doing?" she cried. I replied, "I am spanking you with the toilet seat that is covered with the cum and love juice of your friends." She tried to squirm away, but someone had to pay for the sins carried out on my beloved toilet seat. Well, it was a good party. But I didn't ask people to come over and **** in my bathroom. Leslie is still a preacher's daughter who sings in the choir and Christian has not paid for my toilet seat. Ah, love is magical isn't it? To find out, come to the next RSC show, we got plenty of toilets available. Postscript: I have been contacted by several women since that weekend. Apparently, Christian Danger is the best looking man in rock n roll. I have been told he is the Brad Pitt of rock, a god. As my own girl said to me, "You look like a retard on the short bus compared to him." Maybe I do, maybe I am.
The King of all Blogs or "What happened, Harry?" A few weeks ago I wrote about my one time meeting with "Happenin' Harry" while the band was in Los Angeles. I described him as a bar star and concert promoter who plays in a band featuring members of washed up hair metal bands like W.A.S.P or some other candy coated crap like that. I hate most hair metal bands. I find it ludicrous that anyone would care that the guitar player from Brittany Fox, or the keyboard player who played on the lame Guns n' Roses album, is playing in a band with Happenin. If it's Nikki Sixx, ok, but these other clowns, come on. I also called Happenin a genius because he has convinced people he is Happenin by calling himself "Happenin' Harry." Jesus, if I ever type "Happenin" after today I am gonna blow my own brains out and why the hell am I capitalizing Happenin? Back to the point, my spooky friends the Rosedales were going to open up for Happenin' and his ga ng of metal phenoms (This show was going to feature the drummer from Type O Negative, damn, I can't miss that drumming clinic. Why do I know his credentials are like ex- Type o Negative, ex- Babyslayer, ex- Fist Full of Metal and ex-Treason) at a club called Nite Caps on the Northwest side. Apparently, Happenin' or one of his minions, were goggling "Happenin' Harry" and low and behold they came across "The King of all Blogs." According to inside sources, after reading my thoughts they promptly cancelled the show at Nite Caps and stated, 'Happenin feels threatened by that guy.' Threatened? Come on, there is nothing mildly threatening in that entire rant about Harry. As a matter of fact, I call him a genius and I thank him for the inspiration to become "The King of all Blogs." I compare him to the other well-known, self-procliamed kings, Howard Stern and Michael Jackson. I have a feeling Harry wanted out of this show and this was a convenient and comical excuse. Otherwise he would be called, "Happenin' Pussy" and I don't think that is the case. I now live in fear. Happenin' is obviously a well-connected music powerhouse. I will never play a show outside of Chicago. Actually, I may never play in Chicago. His hair metal agents are everywhere and these boys don't mess around. Just last night I was roughed up by a couple of 40-year-old men wearing make-up and spandex. I was slammed against a wall as I turned the corner on Belmont and Clark, close to The Alley. They glared at me with teased hair and flashed metal signs. They said, "Happenin' will kill you man. Metal rules!" and they ran off into the night. Well I am pretty sure Happenin' or his minions will kill me and I may never play a rock show again. However, I won't stop writing, I can't. I am the King of all Blogs. However, this entire incident, if it's even true, made me think. It's funny, but I admire guys like Harry. Guys who are able to do what they love on their own terms and make it work. I have been trying to do that for years with only limited success. So hell yeah, I am a Happenin' Harry fan. I don't have to like it, but I gotta respect what he does. Jesus, he makes things happen. Next up: Christian and Leslie: A love story.
Thanks Happenin' "Googlin" Harry We were at the Cat Club to hang out and promote our show at the following night. The Cat Club is tiny. A long, narrow room that is completely oblivious to its complete lack of acoustics. It looks nothing like the Cat Club in those 80's Motley Crue and Poison videos. It was Monday in LA. Not a lot of people out, mainly scensters, except for the Viper Room, which was hosting a hairbanger's ball night. That was packed. Hair metal is back, great. We were watching this talented, but lousy band. Good musicians with songs that sounded like every mediocre rock band in the 90's. Basically, bad hair metal rejects with a new look desperately holding onto their chance for fame. Don't they know hair metal is back? In walked in a guy who looked about 40/45 years old. He strutted through the bar, long hair, piercings, chunky, about 5'11" with a "hip" Von Dutch trucke rs hat atop his head. He had the feel and look of a long time bar star/coke dealer. I know the type. I heard someone say, "Harry, you're out tonight." And Harry came back with the proper bar star reply, "Brother, I'm out every night." He saluted the band on stage and they saluted back. He was surrounded by a group of guys who looked like a Flock of Seagulls gone horribly wrong. Older, paunchy, but still sporting the new wave haircuts that made them starts 20 years ago. One of them creepily came up to me and handed me a flyer for an upcoming show. Loser. So Harry was making his rounds, probably selling whatever he had and generally being the prince of a bad, bad scene. Well, whatever scene it was it was better than any scene we had going on, so I introduced myself. I told him who I knew and that my buddy said he might be able to help us out with a show or two. I explained we were from Chicago and that I was on tour with the band. "Where you playing?" I told him and he seemed unimpressed. "If I give you a show how many people can you draw, 50-100?" What an asshole, all-business. I said, "Dude, were from Chicago, we don't know anybody here, maybe 20." "That's it," he replied. He looked twitchy, moving from side to side, no eye contact, looking for a better person to talk with. I started to get mad. I said, "You know these guys," and I pointed to the band on stage. "Yeah," he said. "Well were not even from LA and we can sure as hell draw better than them." He looked confused, pondered what I said in his happening way and said, "Here's my number, I might have a show for you, call me." I never called. It turns out Harry and his band will be playing a show with one of my favorite bands, The Rosedales, in the next few months. Perhaps Harry and I will cross paths again. Anyway, until that meeting with Harry I had forgotten one of the basic commandments of my life. If you tell them it's true, they will believe it. I spend a lot of time reading other web blogs and for the most part they all suck. Drivel, boring people with tepid lives. I am amazing. I am beautiful, exciting, smart and sexy. I am one of four interesting people writing on the World Wide W eb. The other three are fat shut-ins who happen to write beautifully. I am all you have. Soon I will whore out "Random Thoughts" with cheap ads for anything that sells. It doesn't matter what it is. Whoever will pay me with their filthy ad money: viagra, condoms, weight loss supplements, I endorse them all. I am The King of all Blogs and I have spoken.
It makes you wonder Years later I am in a great band. I am happy, although I do have a day job that supports me while I play the music I love, that makes me feel alive. The girl hasn't been as easy. I have done all of the above. I have met girls, that for a moment, I believed was the one I describe above. Obviously, they couldn't have all been that girl, but when your tired and your mind wanders it can make you wonder what just might be. I always leave. Everyone. At a certain level of intimacy I freak out and I run like a sissy. I convince myself I can do better. What a narcissistic motherfucker I am. I convince myself it's not right. I convince myself that running away is ok because I am terrified of what might happen next. Will I be that lame married guy? Will she break my fucking heart in two and leave me for dead? And when I leave they have professed their love for me and told me how fucked up I am. They have convinced me that bsp;I don't know how to love. They have loved me, more than anything, me. Maybe they are right. But usually within one day, no more than ten, they are loving and fucking someone else. "What am I supposed to do, wait for you Chuck? You left me." Point made, but I thought a broken heart took more than 16 to 240 hours to mend. But what the fuck does this asshole know. I always leave. But today I realized something. They never loved me. They loved the idea of me, the idealized vision that will never exist. Perhaps they never loved me because I don't know how to love myself. But then again, grieving is for sucker and losers and when a man leaves you the last thing a pretty girl should do is cry in her beer. There are fifty guys waiting in line to replace you Mr.Tipton. Soon you'll be nothing but a passing memory on a wedding day.
Twist and fucked
Better at living.
Three years at day jobs.
These bugs under my skin - 6/7/04 6:30am So I walked through the ditch on a sunny Sunday afternoon. Past the winos and hookers, through the garbage, beer cans, whiskey bottles, used syringes and condoms covered in cum and blood. In the distance I saw something that caught my eye. It glistened in the waning afternoon sunlight and I walked slowly towards it, under the bridge where it got much darker. Maybe it was a rat. I hate rats, those little motherfuckers scare the hell out of me. No, rats run and while this moved, it didn't run and it looked like it was beating. I came upon it. It was bleeding and I still didn't know what it was. It called to me and without any regard for my own safety I picked it up and held it against the final ray of sunlight that was glimmering through the rust of the bridge. It was pulsing and I could feel it. It was strong. I started to scream in horror. No one could hear. It was hers. It was the heart that I had ripped out of her body and left for dead. The heart I tried to kill. I started to shake and I muttered to myself, "Dear God, what have I done." I heard a sound, scared I spun around and there she stood, the woman I tried to kill, inches away from me. "Honey," she said, "Why are you talking to God. You don't believe in God. Save yourself, because you can't kill me." As she walked away there were tears falling down her face. I started to cry as well. I already missed her. But she was right, I can't kill her and she cannot save me.
A holy war a coming We will have to agree to disagree. A lot of what I say is tongue in cheek. My own mother, believe it or not, has become a minister in her own church. You know me well enough to know that I say many things to evoke a reaction, positive or negative, but I like the action either provides. If the church, a God, a possible heaven fulfills you; that is an incredible, self-actualizing achievement. I will do well to reach such a plateau. At this time in my life I have not, but I continue to try. I don't know if I believe in a God. I have had things happen to me that make me seriously consider why anyone would. However, I believe in people, my friends, my family and when shirts get tight they, not a God, have saved my ass time and time again. So I choose to believe in people. I believe in you. I know you are a good person and I sincerely know, in my heart, th at your concern for me is genuine and meant in the best possible light. If I offended you I apologize because brother, you and I carry a history that a lot of people only wish they had. I am glad you are happy. However, I despise George Bush. I believe he is a liar, a fraud and he mocks everything that Jesus and God are supposed to represent. He has been bought and sold. If the Christian right wants to follow a false God then I am willing to draw that line and become the enemy of the lies and the money they worship. I won't sell out to them. They say they love me, but in their eyes there is only hate. I am different. They hate different. Back in the day these very people would have persecuted Jesus because he was poor, white trash. I will not become a hypocrite and shield my beliefs with a bible. I am what I am. I believe these people are phonies, scared, ignorant and small. Not people who believe in God. Nope, those blinded by a hate, hidden behind a bible, that that has more power than any pain I have felt in my life. They know who they are. Their master is fear, money and for now, GW. So we agree to disagree. Life will go on and perhaps even I will be forced to read the poorly written, and laughable, "Left Behind" series. If so, it will be on my own terms. It will be my choice. Not a religious choice, a political party, a false cause or in God's name. I will take responsibility for my actions and my life. If one day God makes it a better life than so be it, but I am in control. I am responsible for what I do. Not God. I am not the enemy, but I have to say the lines have been drawn. I am in the minority. I am afraid. Free thinking and choice is dead. If you choose to take responsibility for your own actions, sexually, drinking, drugs, whatever, you are an idiot. It is easier to find another drug called Jesus. A new addiction, a new excuse and a new filler for all the things you are scared to confront and accept in your own life. Those demons are still there and no amount of preaching can erase those dirty thoughts and sins from your head. Take responsibility; confront your demons and your pain. I am trying and until I have succeeded I will not use God as an excuse to avoid the things that make me human. Chuck Tipton 5/21/04
We are one. We decided to take refuge at the Days Inn off of highway 5. 1.5 miles from Tijuana in case we had to make a run for it. The official hotel of RSC, the Ramada Inn, was booked to capacity. After being up for 20 hours, flying, drinking, drugging, getting yelled at by psycho and crushing another club, it was time to sleep. I slept with the Lion. Psycho said, "I am the star. I sleep alone." After we spooned for 7 hours we awoke to conquer another balmy California day. Most of the USA, save New Orleans, looks the same structurally. San Diego has a slight Spanish motif, but the houses are essentially the same as the post-war homes in Chicago. The 50's must have been a helluva time to be alive because America was built during those post WWII days. Back in the day, when everyone could agree who the bad guys were. Today we have a Jesus freak in office. He is owned balls deep by the Saudi oil companies he and his daddy have been in cahoots with for years. Now we gotta go over to Iraq and blow it up to steal their oil and make GW and his buddies richer. Now the enemy is our own government. I just hope America wakes up and sees this. This has nothing to do with party interests; this is about what is right. Our freedom. Rich Jesus freaks don't make for good government, but that's another story. My war is still raging. I will address this later. We wake at 9am and go to the airport to pick up the Zuckler. After a $540, thirty-eight hour trip, the Zuckler arrives in San Diego. He will never allow his mom to be his travel agent again. The band is complete. It was not the same without him. In a way the Zuckler will always be the new guy in the band. He didn't grow up with Paul and I. He did not go to college at Purdue with Paul, Eli and myself and he did not play on our first cd. However, he is one of us and like it our not we are a cancer that will never leave his body. We are one. Walking around San Diego I was disappointed. The ocean is gorgeous and the weather is better, but I wanted to see those California girls the Beach Boys have always promised me. They never came. I did see a lot of girls wearing belly shirts with their guts hanging out over their jeans. This can be sexy I suppose, but I don't think those girls made it into a Beach Boys song. I concluded that the women of Chicago are much hotter. The Midwest gets a bad rap. The road can be a bore. It's about hurry up and wait. Wait for the show, wait for the club to open, wait for the other band, wait for the hangover to leave your head etc. However, you have to use those moments to see new things, meet new people, because you and the band may never get this chance again. We decided to go to Imperial Beach (IB) to see the SAC(Sexy Allen Camp.) The SAC lives in IB. I love the SAC. The SAC intrigues me and I wish I had 1/10th of his enthusiasm for life. The SAC doesn't really work. When we got to his house he was out in the garage playing drums. It was 2pm. He seemed relaxed and happy. No worries, positive attitude. When you have a lady, a house, a band and rarely work, life is grand. Sounds like someone else I know. I was told IB was like Gary, In. I suppose it is like Gary if the houses in Gary cost 500,000 and there were no steel mills. IB is beautiful. Even the run down houses look like those beat up beach shanties you see in the movies. It is a beach community and it is laid back. I think Psycho would like to live there, mellow out and enjoy the weather. We hung out at Casa de la SAC, went to the beach , some record stores and then went to the show at the Honey Beehive in downtown San Diego. We played with Fuzz Huzzi (SAC's band) and a death metal band that played an amazing version of "The Wall" by Pink Floyd. It may be the best cover I have heard in ten years. Fuzz Huzzi was great as always. Toby, Fuzz Huzzi's bass player, is awesome. Toby grew up in Indiana, so maybe that's why I have so much affection for him, that Midwest bond. Toby is very relaxed. Talking to him relaxes me if that makes any sort of sense. He has that effect on people. Thank God, because the SAC is ADD amped 24/7. It's a lot to handle. Toby let me use his bass gear. He said I could take his entire bass rig to LA for that leg of the tour. That's crazy. Bass gear cost a lot of money. He looked at me and said, "Take it man, I trust you, it's yours." Toby is cool. With the Zuckler on board, we kill at the Honey Beehive. We are the best band in San Diego. We ar e rolling and it is time to go to LA. I am excited. I have waited a long time to slaughter that sissy town. It's time. In the next 24 hours I will learn voluminous amounts of information about my psyche and how I work. I will learn how my cognitive processes function and ultimately what fuels the fire the burns within me. Face to face with the struggle that defines me as a man. Tomorrow morning we leave for Los Angeles. On the way we will stop in Del Mar and tour the mansion owned by the Lebanese Lions future in laws. Like the SAC, the lion has a lady, doesn't really work and is in a band. He is always relaxed, no pressure. Unlike the SAC, the lion also has a mansion. Unlike the SAC, the lion is better at living than I am and it drives me insane.
Lead us Psycho. San Diego, Day 1 Enterprise Car Rental: Paul is renting an Astro van for our West coast tour. The Zuckler is stranded in El Paso. We are a three piece, we have no equipment and we don't know where the first show is at because we have not talked with the SAC (Sexy Allen Camp.) We get in the van and Psycho asks the Lion for directions. The Lion guesses wrong, Psycho yells at him, blames me for not correcting him and turns around and off we go to the SAC's house in Imperial Beach. The Lion and I are learning that the Psycho must always have someone else to blame. Unfortunately, those two people are we. We arrive at Casa de la Sac and are met by the Sac's lovely wife, a pizza and our equipment team. The team consists of the Sac's minion, Little Tom and Adam. Little Tom is 19 going on 50. Smart, witty, the kid do esn't miss a beat. He looks old, talk's old, acts old, but he is not old. He has an internal map of San Diego in his head. A geographical genius I suppose. Adam is a high school kid. Adam is good looking, writes songs and has a big heart. It is the psycho way. Psycho doesn't do well with control. He loves control, but it hates him. He doesn't trust anyone but himself at times and unfortunately any group requires some trust to function. With the SAC gone, (Sac is in the desert playing a show with his band) Little Tom and Adam were in charge of getting us to the show. These are kids, bright as hell, but kids. We borrowed the SAC's amp. I borrowed Little Tom's bass rig and Eli borrowed the Sac's drum kit. Decent gear, good times are straight ahead. We jump into the van and head to the show. Little Tom got us there in no time. We start to unload the gear. Around this time Psycho is getting very ill. Stomach cramps, nausea, headache, vision loss, hives and diarrhea. Justin was still in El Paso, so we were already playing without one guitar player and psycho was going down for the count. We enter Scol ari's Lounge with our gear. Scolari's is a tiny bar filled with after work drunks and jobless hip kids and musicians. The meth addict running the show informs us the other bands have cancelled and we are the only band on the bill. Perfect, we know three people in SD, one is out of town and no one in SD knows who RSC is. I was starting to think this was going to be a bad, bad night. We would be lucky to play in front of three people and two drunks. I was quickly coming to the conclusion that Psycho's illness was psychosomatic. Psycho denied this vehemently, but I knew I was right. The pressure was mounting. We had been up since 8 am, flew 6 hours, rented a van, borrowed gear, arrived at a smaller version of the Big Horse in Chicago, found out there was no stage, a broken down p.a. and all the local bands had cancelled. Also, our other guitar player was not making the show. This was a nightmare for psycho. The entire night, the entire tour, the entire weight of this trip was o n his small, supple shoulders. He tried to vomit. No luck. He said he would play no matter what. At this point the Lion and I were leaning towards canceling this show and going to Tijuana. I started to drink and had a few shots, what the hell, the tour had become a vacation. We set up our borrowed gear on the floor of the club. Psycho plugged his amp in and hit a chord. Psycho's amp blew up. We were doomed. Miraculously, the club had an old Randall amp that worked and sounded ok. Psycho looked bad. Around 10:30 the club started to fill up. Local band members, college students, drunks and indie rockers came to the bar. We were told it's the place to go. I am an indie rock fan. However, I abhor the indie rock crowd and it's tired aesthetics. Tasteless art phags who will jump on the flavor of the day (remember the Strokes.) RSC is a rock band and we don't pretend to be anything else. WE spit, we bled, we drink, we think, we rock. It's physical music and the pale faces are intimidated by anything that requires brute force and sweat. The bartenders were the epitome of this crowd. They were psuedo intellectuals with bad tattoos. The chick behind the bar was slightly chunky and 10 beer cute. Of course she doesn't know this because boys are stupid. I assume they are Rocket from the Crypt fans. Well, rock never left kids, but these chumps will jump on board full force the minute Rolling Stone states it is back. There are about 50 people in the bar and it's time to take the stage. Psycho introduces us explaining that he has always dreamed of playing in California. It was comical because no one has dreamed of playing Scolari's Lounge, but he sold it, as sick as he was, and I found myself believing him. We slam into "Shut Up and Work It." I see heads snap as a 75% RSC shifted smoothly into gear. We reach down between our muscular legs and push the machine into second, slide into third, rip past fourth and make them beg by fifth. We are on fire. By the time we play "Black Betty" the crowd is on its feet, singing along and we have won. It was rough playing with out the Zuckler but Psycho sold it. The minute he hit that first chord all the pressure lifted and he was at peace. We were asked to play another set and the original RSC (before Zuckler, we were a three-piece) found it's sure, sexy footing. On borrowed gear, in the warm California air, 3,000 miles from home, we are God. We own this town. Suddenly all of the other things don't matter. All of my failed relationships, eating disorders and partying screw-ups are 3000 miles behind me. I am in California playing music with my band. I never want to go home. It was a long drive for $75 and free beer. It took us even longer to get there, but it made sense that the first show of our tour took place in a bar that resembled every bar that Paul and I have struggled to avoid since we left home yea rs ago. What comes around goes around, one more San Diego show, then onward to kill LA.
Saturday morning, day one, West Coast Tour:
To live and fly to LA. On March 13th 3/4ths of Rock star Club landed in California to see how the music compared to the brilliant bands performing in the entertainment capital of the world. In a land where everyone is trying to make it mediocre is the rule. Not that the musicians aren't talented and able. No, the problem lies in what a band needs to do to make it. The music industry is an industry. It is easier to find 12 Radiohead clones and sell it to the masses than to find one original band and figure out how the fuck to market that band. It's a ton of work and the clone bands already have the groundwork and market in place. Every label does it, from Atlantic to a small Chicago label like Thrill Jockey. People don't like cha nge. People don't like new. People like a variation of what they know. It's like fucking. You are doing it missionary style and all of a sudden you flip old girl over, stick your tongue in her pussy, lube her up and then ride her like a god damned horse, pulling her hair like the reins on a bucking bronco. It seems wild, but really, all the groundwork was laid and present the minute you took your clothes off. Unless you can't fuck, or in music, play your guitar, nothing ever needs change. And that's all great and fine, but if you chose to fly standby you aren't even gonna make the show. Ask the Zuckler, advised by his Mom to fly stand-by, albeit for free, forgetting that every college kid in America was going West for spring break, free and cheap won't get you much. As a band we have always been cheap. The Zuckler, or as I call him Paul Jr., is almost a carbon copy of a younger Paul. Paul at on time was the king of cheap. When we were in college he would have a melt down if he spent more than five dollars during a night of carousing. He owned cheap, shitty guitars, and only his enormous talent made the cheap fucking things sound ok. He always took the cheap, cautious route. It always fucks you. Everytime. Ask Paul. Paul is now incredibly generous, not cheap, and although the call of the cheap, easy, deal echoes in his head, he has learned that the cheap way is a STD, pus filled, mistress. Avoid her, she will fuck you, break and crush your thirfty soul. Total savings, $28, great. And that bought you a couple super-sized extra value meals and a cheap jack-off tape. Holy fuck bat man, that is some good stuff. I suppose that is until the cheapfuck backlash crushes you. I hope we can upload the phone messages from the Zuckler during his 36 hour flight to LA, they really tell the entire story, but until that time I will do my best. This part of the story would be ebst served by a commentary form the Zuckler, but I will tell me version until then. Briefly, before we go into the Zuckler's 31-hour journey to California, let me say this. San Diego is a nice town. Relatively clean, the ocean is gorgeous and it is just small enough to avoid that big city feeling that turns a lot of people off. It is comfortable and easy to find your way. LA is different. Paul said it best. LA is like a giant strip mall with cool stores on the strip. It's like a dirty Schaumburg with some rock clubs. LA is the sprawl. LA is soulless and I am not sure if it even qualifies as a big city. It has no feel. It has no pulse and it is dead. I find it hard to believe that anyone can live there. It lacks character and the character it has is played by thespians who act out scripts written by writers who s ell fantasy. What's real? It has no personality. LA is told what it is by scripts and 1000's of whores selling out to make it. It is generic and I fear that most of the people who flock there soon become generic themselves. I don't know how anyone could love or like Los Angeles. Those who love LA must be as generic as that town. No free will or thought. I could be wrong, but I think not. It's not horrible. it is ok. Kind of like a McDonalds burger, just what you expect. It's not a city. Chicago, NYC, hell, even Dallas are cities. LA is a soulless strip mall LA is dirty, press on nails cheap. Anyway, several people have e-mailed me awaiting LA stories and there is a lot to say. Unfortunately, right now I am supposed to be studying for my clinical examinations and my father is in the hospital. For now the stories will have to wait because life doesn't.
Going to California I am looking forward to the seedy clubs, a plastic veneer covering the filth of Hollywood. The music, the bands, the hype, a world full of pretty boys, hookers, and failed, sad, actors. I want to go see all the stars on the boardwalk, hit some clubs and make my presence felt. I will see my friend Bird who is a star in his own right. I used to play in a band called Hummer with Bird. Bird left Chicago for LA. I am not sure why Bird is not famous. He looks like a model and it's hard not to like him. Put the kid on TV, he will sell records, this I know. Washed up metal bands here I come. For some reason I love talking to those guys, hearing stories about the Britany Fox/Raven show at the Roxy in 1987. "Man, before grunge we were cool." Well, not really long hair, but I like the stories nonetheless. Away we go, to California Side note: I want to thank "Steve" (he uses a pseudonym and false e-mail address) for giving our message board a jolt. In the old days, before the Zuckler required user registration, the board was full of hate and nonsense. My God, 1/4th of the board was dedicated to bashing me. It was hateful, spiteful, untruthful and brilliant. The Zuckler did not like the nonsense. He is a man of the web and he lives by some kind of "Web" code of ethics. As a pornographer, he takes his Internet very seriously and he expects the same in return. After registration was required the message board became a wasteland. All the attack ing and hate was eradicated and new well-intentioned messages were uploaded. However, the Zuckler did leave an opening on our board. The RSC music section is still a random free for all without rules or restrictions. Free will lives and my boy "Steve" is leading the way. I hate that Steve is anonymous, but hey, that's part of the fun of the Internet. You can be something you are not. A sex god in the chat rooms, a comedian, a dominatrix, a young girl who is really a 50-year-old man, a porn star or a tough guy named "Steve." The beauty is that no one knows who you are. It's a completely passive/aggressive outlet for the meek, the weak, the cowardly and the wanna-bes. However, if you have a web commander on your team, like the Zuckler, you know that there is no anonymity on the Internet. If someone attacks me I don't care. If someone attacks my art, my band, I care. I need to confront "Steve" and soon I will. I figured Steve works on the 400 block of North Michigan Ave., probably for a large cable distributor. Very soon I will know his name and address and I will go to his house and wait for him to come home so I can confront him. I enjoy the uncomfortable feeling that comes with a confrontation and unfortunately for you "Steve" I really don't have anything else to do.
Bienvenidos a Grand y Western But enough of my hyperbole. I want to thank all of the music fans that came out to support us, our boys in Woolworthy, Sour Deluxe and the Bon Mots. Chicago has a wonderful music scene. I have realized this as our band plays more shows out of town. It's simple, you drive in and kick the dust off of that small town and leave it burning behind you. It's not that we are special, but the Chicago local music scene is competitive, musicians have talent, and by osmosis it's makes your band that much better. You gotta bring it every night. Chicago music fans are knowledgable and somewhat spolied. Smaller cities don't have packed clubs all over town headlined by local rock bands. Nah, they have cover bands. Chicago fans have high expectations and they should. You come to the big city for the opportunities it affords you. And in the third largest city in America local music fans cannot afford shit. People have open minds in Chicago. The city, it's culture, it's diversity, emerses you and soon all those silly thoughts about that race, whose gay, that "weird" music that shouldn't be on the radio, that "pornographic" art, they disappear. You might not like it all, but the majority of us live and let live. It's overwhelming and you don't have time for those bullshit worries and you shouldn't. Live free motherfucker. Anyway, the small towns we play in don't have this level of competition and appreciation for music. We drive into town and level people. I suspect most good Chicago bands do the same thing. It feels good. Next week we leave for a ten day tour of the West coast. I think all of us are excited to kick the shit out of LA. The West doesn't really understand the Midwest. That's ok, we're just a little tougher out here. I am excited and nervous. The rest of the guys in the band are well traveled. I am not. I have never been out of this country. I have never been away from any home I have lived in for more than five days. I won't have my control, my comfort. I will be slightly out of my element. It's about fucking time, jesus, what the hell have I been doing? I never sleep and I am sure it will be worse on whatever floor I wake up on, but I am going to be one smiling motherfucker as I walk the streets of LA with my band and my best friends. I have always been scared to leave. In my stomach I have always known that if I left I might not ever come back. There's too much to see, some much to do, people to meet, music to hear. I am not scared any longer. I have wasted too much of my precious time, it's time to go. So after ten days of non-stop music and parties, I will jump on a plane in San Diego to come back to my life and my day job, living the day to day. But it's ok, because this is my home. This is my life and I am playing shows with my God damned band. When I come home I will be depressed. It will be exciting to get away and when I get in my Honda Civic and drive out to Schaumburg to work on Monday it's going to be deary fucking drive. It will be the end of March. The dead trees are starting to come alive and spring is in the air. We win, another winter is gone. I will get out of my car at 1809 W. Grand Ave and walk three blocks down the street to the liquor store to get a six pack of Tecate and ponder my life. And when I turn the corner and see the sign on the liquor store that says, "Bienvenidos a Grand y Western", I will smile. I am home. Well, that naked girl is still in my bed and the only thing getting any love in this house is my evil, black cat, Dave. After a big rock show I deserve some loving. I can hear the train whistle blowing at the metra station. It's cold, windy and grey outside, people walk by and I can see their breath. It's ok, warmth is just six feet away
Gay like me. For all you tough guys, the homophobes out there, take note: hot chicks go to gay bars. Don't worry fellas; no one is going to rape your gorgeous ass. The leather bars are never as intense as I would like them to be. No whipping, no one tied to a stake, no bleeding. I would like to feel uncomfortable, out of my element, confused, maybe scared, but it never goes that way. Nah, it's always well-intentioned men, who are polite and like a little kink in their lives. I felt at home. At this point I don't think America is going to throw much my way that offends or makes me uneasy. I really need to go to Japan. Anyway, a couple of my friends show up and I am laughing, she is laughing, having a great time. I was tired and it took me a while to find the Cellblock, which is on Halsted St. The MDL and I used to live on that very block, but I was wrecked. I could not find my old street. But you k now the story, 5 beers and a shot can make anyone feel pretty good and if you like the company you are with it is even better. I looked over at my date and she was smiling. She looked so pretty and happy. It made me smile. She has big, brown eyes that look at the world with an innocence and wonder that left me years ago. Sometimes when I look at her I feel like a parasite, trying suck the innocence away. Then again, she dates me so she can't be that innocent. I am a lucky guy and I have dated some incredible women. I am a little crazy and dating me is a hard, hard job. I am up and down, passionate one moment, depressed the next, then manic, then I do it all over again. I live how I live, on my terms. I am horrible at compromise and have little interest in negotiation. Several women have tried to change me or had hoped I would change. I haven't and I won't. I am ok with all of this neurosis and angst. It's me, so what. And for some reason this girl takes what I give her and she doesn't ask for more. She believ es that I am damaged goods. But she likes the goods I have and if this is what I can offer she will take it. I don't know her friends and I don't have much in common with the friends she has. I met her sister and she hated me. That doesn't matter, because we do have things in common and we like each other. We have fun. My friends like her. She likes my band. It amazes me that she thinks I am talented and that I have accomplished a lot in my life. She is supportive and every instinct in my body says run. I have run and she doesn't flinch. She lives for the moment. But last night, drinking in a gay bar on Halsted St. these things didn't matter. She smiled at me and I smiled back and it felt pretty good. I was reading a book by Chuck Bukowski the other day. He is simple, good. I used to think you read Bukowski so you could tell your pretentious art friends, "yeah I was reading Bukowski," but I was wrong. Chucky has something to say. Anyway, he wrote something that hit me hard. He was talking about relationships and he said, "Human relationships were strange. I mean you were with one person a while, eating and sleeping and living with them, loving them, talking to them, going places to gether, and then it stopped. Then there was a short period when you weren't with anybody, then another woman arrived, and you ate with her and fucked her, and it all seemed so normal, as if you had been waiting just for her and she had been waiting for you. I never felt right being alone; sometimes it felt good, but it never felt right." Damn, that hit home. I am strange. That is my life. I don't do well being alone. I want my independence, but I don't want to be alone. I am not an art phag, so I really don't know anything about Chuck's life. I wonder how it turned out. Was he happy? Did it work out? Is it working for me? Well she is working for me because when I freak out, which is often, she doesn't freak. She goes with it. She can handle this. I respect her and she expects nothing else in return but complete honesty. If it works she is happy and if it doesn't she is disappointed, but she understands that this is the cost of living with me.
We do need abortion. Yes, I blame men for this. We suck, us boys, we are weak. If it has a vagina we will say anything to get us some of that sweet poontang. It's sad. Holy fuck, if you locked me in a room with this stuck up, fake-ass, socialite princess, I would chop my own cock off. Ah, but I live in America where sex sells, the dummies rule and cheap whores rule the land. I don't like it and it makes me nauseous. Simply put, our gal Randi is a bad, evil, selfish person. The cheapest trash you can find, not white trash, nope, but soulless trash. And people think I am a bad guy. I am sure that someone, somewhere, is reading this and thinking, "My God, the language, this man is a filthy animal." If I am filthy then this bitch is Satan. She screwed the kids. She sold out a bunch of second grade kids. She left her job teaching school children, in a Catholic school no less, to go on a sleazy television show where she lied to her friends and cheapene d her family for 8 minutes of fame and $500,000. Are these the kids she loves so much? Well, hide the God damned babies from this psycho cunt. What wouldn't she sell? If I had a time machine I would travel backwards and convince mom and dad to do the right thing and abort Randi. They are failures as parents and she is a failure as a human being. Fucking A, I am pissed I know the name Randi Coy. I don't need this bullshit. Please Randi, you blonde, bland pig. Please, marry a rich guy and get the fuck out of our lives forever you soulless whore.
Giant Steps But the giants, they don't care about any of this. Maybe I will meet a giant girl and we will buy a giant house, get a giant cat and have a giant kid. Maybe she will have a giant complex about her weight and body and go with me to my giant gym for giant workouts in our giant world without sleep. She will be giantly crazy, just like me, and have giant appetites and giant dreams. And together we will accomplish giant things because we don't need giant rest in our giant universe. We will have a giant love. If we break up it will be a giant break-up and it might be the end of our giant macro system and on that day the giant will finally become tired and get some rest. Then again, maybe I will move my tv and computer out of my bedroom and release myself fr om these chains that bind me.
We are the normal Creativity and free thoughts are dead. I am dead. I am tired and I am not sure what I stand for any longer. Is everyone like this? Is this why tv, music video stars and sports define our culture, because our lives are absolutely boring and dreary? There is no time for anything else save convenience and sleep. It's hard to become what you hate. Well that's not true. It's hard to see that you have become the enemy that you rail against. I am the mainstream. They broke me. They win and I can't decide if I have the strength to fight back. Just go under brother, it's easy. Damn, even the partying can't stop the terrible feeling of this tide crashing down upon me and drowning my old self in it's massive wake. Can you see my body out there in the gloaming? Tell stories about me friend, exaggerate if you can, please, remember me for something other than what I became-normal. We all have the opportunity to change don't we. Creativity and thought will free me. Now I just need to find the time. I am sick of being tired and I am tired of two hours of each day spent driving to get paid. It drains me and kills me. I stare, blank, try to sleep just to do it again and again. That's not really living at all is it? I always thought I would die penniless and poor. However, I have a good job now and maybe every now and then I will be able to take a vacation, see the world and do something exciting and new. I want to go to Japan. Japan seems nice. Maybe I can convince the entire band to pack up and move to Japan with me and we can become fabulous Asian stars and eat sushi, marry geisha girls and star in films, like the new Godzilla movie- And get in car, work is over, get up and do it again.
The hard, fast rules of Internet dating Anyway, the most unique offshoot of the net is the dating and relationship websites it has spawned. People find a way to hook up and this "relationship," segment of the net is a fast growing monster. There are straight sites, gay sites, swinging sites, bondage sites, Christian sites and some that combine it into one massive orgy. And as an adventurer and reporter, I have tried them. Why not, I have no dignity or pride left, what's the difference. I cannot speak for the women, but I can speak for the men and I will try to describe how and why net dating appeals to men. There are four kinds of men in the dating world. 20% of men, the complacent, are scared to talk to any girl. Period. About 10% of these men marry by accident. For example, a nosy neighbor sets up his cousin with your cousin, you get the idea. This guy will marry the first girl he kisses. The other 10% die alone with chafed and calloused pricks from years of masturbating. Some get pets, but it's a sad, lonely life. The next 60% make up the majority of men. They are called openers. Opener will hit on any girl. Since they are not closers they have nothing to lose. There is no pressure to close, ie, sex, so they hit on every woman they see. They have nothing to lose. Sometimes they score, do the math. The numbers say that by accident the opener will find a desperate girl, a fat girl, a hot girl, maybe a normal girl, or a girl with low self-esteem who needs the mindless flattery (what the majority of Americans settle for) that the open er brings. Some openers are just fuckin-a-hot. These boys don't need any help, the pretty always win. The next 17% are the cocky, narcissistic men, we will refer to as closers. Closers are afraid to hit on women because they have incredibly fragile egos. Any rejection results in mindless self-loathing. Closers close, so they have a lot to lose if they do not succeed. Most closers are not good looking, but they are personable, charming and funny. I should know. I am a closer. I am not good looking and I know this. At the age of 5 my mom put me in front of a mirror and said, "Son, no one but your mommy could love this face so you better figure something out." I did. I can be humorous and interesting and it has worked. I close, always. If I get the introduction I am closing on the girl. Closers are sexual animals and most closers have had sex with over 1000 women. Women can smell the closer and sometimes they want a closer, need a closer. Closers care about looks, but looks aren't the main objective. They care about closing the deal. Admittedly, we closers are sick, lust driven, animals who want to fuck them all. We are cheaters and sex addicted beings who struggle with our curse. Some of us meet women who understand our never-ending thirst to close the deal. The rest of us buy cats. I have cats. The final 3% are the rare opener/closers. Other wise known as the OC. 1.5% of OC's are sociopaths, think Ted Bundy, who cannot be stopped. They are irresistible. Most are rich, successful and can fuck anything that moves. Man, woman, rabbit, it don't matter. I have known one OC in my life. What a man. You may know an OC yourself and if you are a woman you have no doubt slept with an OC. It's ok, you really never had a choice in the matter. Internet dating is only for some people. OC'ers have little use for this. Too much work. Openers, possibly, but they have no shame, no remorse and they hit on every girl they see. The internet was made for the complacent and for closers. The complacent need all the help they can get and the anonymity of the net is perfect for their still living their with mom asses. And closers, fragile egos and all, just need an opening and it's over. Therefore the net caters to a large percentage of the male population, good clean fun. Bluntly, if you can't get laid on the internet you will never get laid. It's easier than buying a hooker. There are a lot of lonely people out there and this is a new way to connect. Try it. I have conservatively gone out with 200 women I met through the internet in the last 6 months. I won't give figures, but let's say that in the last year I have been very busy taking care of business. Lots of business. I think the high point may have been at the Rock Star Club cd release show for "Shut up and Work It." I invited 12 girls I had met on the internet to the show. 11 came and it was a lot of work running my ass off and talking to women I really did not know. I was one juggling motherfucker. The MDL walked up to me and said, "Whose that girl you are talking to? You're not dating her are you? She doesn't look like your type." As usual the MDL was right. She wasn't my type. I told him my plan to invite all of my internet dates to the show, "Asse s in seats MDL, this is rock n roll." He grabbed me and said, "You do realize that you are an evil genius, don't you?" Genius, debatable. Evil, know doubt.
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Last Friday - Car accident. I am asleep. Neighbor comes upstairs and says, "Chuck, you better come outside." I think someone is dead and I put on a thong and sandals and run out into the cold winter air. Cars are all over Grand Ave- drama. My motorcycle parked legally at my house. Car goes off road, runs over fence, runs over bike and hits my house. Status: sober
Runner-up: Next of Kin - The worst movie on this list. Patrick Swayze plays a "southern" Chicago cop. Liam Neeson plays his redneck brother. The mob, led by Adam Baldwin (I think it's Ben Affleck using a pseudonym) kills their brother and they are out to avenge their "kin." It makes the list because it's fucking horrible, but was filmed in Chicago. It's kind of strange to see Chicago in the 80's. It was a shithole. Swayze sports an amazing mullet, which is quite excellent. I saw this movie on TNT at 5am this morning (I am lame and I never sleep. This is why sleep is not over-rated.)
10. Walking Tall - both versions. The original (1973), three words, Joe Don Baker, who is motherfucking amazing. The new version (2004) makes the list because it stars The Rock. In both versions the main character Buford Pusser beats the shit out of enemies with a 2x4. The Rock is our only hope for a modern action hero. Some argue that Vin Diesel will be the action hero of the future. Not true, while Vin is very short, I also get the feeling he is very, very gay. Being short and almost gay is an action hero credential (see Swayze and Stallone for clarification.) Sure, I admit I want my action heroes to be buff and muscular, but I don't want them to actually suck cock. Vin is out. The Rock is in.
9. Rocky IV (1985) - Critics discount Rocky III and they are wrong. It is a brilliant piece of cinema. However, Rocky IV is where Stallone jumped the shark. Here Stallone battles the evil commies, led by boxer Ivan Drago ( Dolph Lundgren, who has a black belt and a reported IQ of 160.) The first fight is Creed vs. Drago. Creed gets killed. Rocky decides to fight him in Russia. The training scenes filmed in Wyoming are amazing. Stallone reportedly damaged his heat while training for this film. What was he 44? Drago has the films best line. He eyes the midgety Stallone and says "I must break you."
8. They Live (1988) - another fabulous John Carpenter film. This movie was panned by the critics and never did well at the box office and I still don't know why. Unemployed Nada (Roddy Piper, what happened to him) comes to L.A. in search of work. What he finds is aliens in disguise, keeping humans in a state of mindless consumerism. His discovery comes when he dons a pair of special sunglasses made by a resistance group. He sees reality as it truly is. Billboards, store signs, magazine covers all contain subliminal messages to OBEY, to CONSUME, to have NO INDEPENDENT THOUGHT. Money says THIS IS YOUR GOD. This is all great, but it makes the list for a bank scene where Roddy puts on his glasses, sees the evil, aliens surrounding him and says, "I came here to chew bubble gum and kick ass, and I just ran out of bubble-gum." Open fire brother, hell yeah!
7. Point Break (1991) - This could rank higher on the list for the gay factor alone. It is gets the second highest homoerotic rating, 9/10. My god, Pat Swayze was on a roll wasn't he. Pat plays Bodhi, a 40 year old (he looks it), zen-master surfer, skydiver and bank robber who hangs out with 18 and 19 year old kids who make up his very tough surfer gang. It stars the nearly retarded Keanu Reeves 
6. First Blood (1982) - Stallone, the King of action. After the Vietnam War, Rambo returns to the United States to find one of his old war buddies. His friend has died of cancer (exposure from Agent Orange.) Rambo meets the local sherriff named Teasle (Brian Dennehy), who arrests him being a drifter. They torture him. Rambo flashes back to the torture he received in Nam as a prisoner. That's where the party starts. He goes crazy and escapes, killing a cop in the process. The police begin to look for Rambo after this. Best line, "They drew first blood, not me." It warms my heart to see Rambo pick off these small town rednecks one by one.
5. Cobra - (1986)- This movie was written by Stallone. Stallone is police officer Marion Cobretti, or Cobra. He is a member of a special unit that deals with psychopaths. Cobra and his partner investigate murders connected to the Night Slasher. The Night Slasher breaks into homes and kills people in their sleep. Their killings are random, or it seems. It also features Brigette Neilson when she was pretty god damned hot. Cobra tracks this gang who enjoy to making barrel fires and banging knives together. This is a TNT three pack staple usually shown along side "Over the Top"(honorable mention) and "Rocky 3 or IV." This movie is documented proof that the fastest car ever made was the 1978 Ford LTD. No matter what the cops are driving, the LTD is faster. Top ten guy line, "You're the disease and I'm the cure." Yup.
4. Conan the Barbarian (1982)- Watching this is as close to cock sucking as a hetero male can come. Arnold is huge. My god. I think we all know the story behind Conan. The homoerotic rating is 10/10. If you have latent, unfulfilled gayness hiding in your body you will be on your knees at a local glory hole sucking cock by the end of this film. Be careful fellas! Here is why it makes the list. Conan's response to a Mongol General is an abbreviation of a real quote attributed to Khan: "The greatest pleasure is to vanquish your enemies and chase them before you, to rob them of their wealth and see those dear to them bathed in tears, to ride their horses and clasp to your bosom their wives and daughters." Sick.
3. Rocky 3 (1982)- two words, Mr. T. T deserved the academy award for his role as Clubber Lang. The man was scary. This film is number 3 because of Mr. T. He killed Mickey by yelling at him. Americans love the underdog. Sylvester Stallone knew that in 1976 when Rocky was a hit. Rocky II (1979) carries on the story line, playing on the rivalry between Rocky Balboa and nemesis Apollo Creed, while Balboa's wife fights for her life. The sequel is a link between the first film and Rocky III, where an aging Rocky takes on big, bad Clubber Lang (Mr. T). While playing on the same emotions as the first movie, Rocky III is the high-water mark of all sequels. I pity the fool who has not seen this masterpiece.
2. Big Trouble in Little China (1986, the year of action)- a John Carpenter joint and Kurt Russell's finest moment, ever. This may be the best movie on this list. It's funny as hell. Russell plays Jack Burton, a long distance truck driver and an American hero. After a card game in Chinatown with old friend Wang Chi (Dennis Dun, who is excellent), Wang asks Jack to drive him to the airport to pick up his sweetheart. This is where the adventure begins with tons of supernatural ass kicking. When the mulletted Kurt drawls "it's all in the reflexes" you know he's right. Jack Burton was born ready god dammit.
1. Roadhouse (1989)- For 45 minutes this is actually a great movie. The relationship between Dalton (Patrick Swayze) and Wade Garrett(Sam Elliott), who plays Dalton's mentor, is fascinating. Are the lovers? Are the friends? All right, not that interesting, but as a guy I do anything to justify my love for this piece of shit. If you can put aside the fact that Dalton has a Ph.d in philosophy from NYU, drives a Mercedes, but still works as a bouncer (cooler) in a shitkicking town in Mo., it's fantastic cinema. This movie contains two of the greatest lines in movie history. The bouncer credo, "Be nice until it's time not to be nice." And the greatest line of all, which put 'Roadhouse' at the top of the list, "I fucked tougher guys than you in prison." Key bouncer move, ripping a man's throat out of his neck with your bare hand. Also, Kelly Lynch is nude and I love her.
I walked into Double Door around 12 with the thought of the Triple Fast Action show pounding in my head. I knew I had to avoid all the musicians and bartenders working the show. I had to see this show clean and make a break for the door before the late night party began. I walked in and the band was playing their asses off. The club was packed with cute girls, indie rockers, Wicker Park yuppies and every fake hipster this city has seen. Immediately I ran into a girl I had a drunken fling with about 5 years ago. She told me I looked great, (duh) and said, "I love Woolworthy. It's so sad they are quitting." Once I stopped thinking about the vast scientific power of beer goggles I pondered what she said. "It's sad." After 30 seconds I replied, "It is sad, but sometimes it's time, you know." I quickly excused myself from a past mistake and headed to the balcony to hide from the crowd. I ordered a manly near-beer and watched the show alone. It's obvious these guys like playing together and that they are still friends, going out with a smile. However, like any long-term relationship it's hard to maintain once the sparks fade. Music is power and nothing in this world compares to that feeling a band gets when they first write a great song. No drug, no sex, no food, nothing, it's truly orgasmic. I was talking to Rudy, the lead singer, at a bar one night. I have always liked Rudy and I think he is a good songwriter. I think we have a lot in common- music, chasing girls, living hard for moments we may never see. He told me the end was near. "We don't write songs anymore." A band is like a marriage. I think one way a band can keep the energy is by having all the members play in other bands. It stops the boredom. It's like fucking the same person for ten years. You talk to them, eat with them, vacation with them and fuck them day after day. Eventually, most couples start looking for a little strange. They cheat. Playing in another band is like cheating. What if he or she likes that band more? What if that band is better than our band? What if that other band is more popular? Holy fuck, a band is another relationship with all the built in insecurities and jealousies present. So, to keep it fresh you find yourself cheating. It happened to me. Back in the day I played in another band with Paul. He played his best songs on his solo records. I'm not saying he did not write great songs for "our" band, but his heart was in the songs he kept for himself. Jealousy, insecurity, anger, it all entered and distorted my fragile, little head. Eventually we just stopped fucki., I mean writing songs. We got a divorce in a bathroom. It was sad. The beer goggling woman was right. However, I know there is life after a divorce and the bright one's learn that cheating is correlated with lying. You have to be open in a relationship and lay it on the line. Now Paul and I function on a higher level. I cheat in other bands. He stays home and the writes the hits while I am out whoring around and it works. As I listened to the band play their final chords and say their good-byes I got upset. I thought about my life in the last ten years and what has happened to me in that time. I've changed, but my life is still the same. I live in the same house. I play in a band with Paul. I am still single. Several other bands and relationships have come and gone, but I still have Paul and he still has me. At times it's a love and hate relationship, but it keeps going because we both need it. So boys, thanks for the all the good times and memories. I'll see you around this small town.
This is some overblown bullshit. I am not a huge Moss fan, but then again I don't know him. However, flashing the fake moon to the Packers fans is funny. Those fat-fuck Packer fans show hairy ass crack to the opposing team as they leave their stadium and they rain shit on the opposing sideline the entire game. This was a player giving it back to the Packers fans. It was the fans, the 12th man, getting into the game and a player giving it back. This was harmless and anyone who thinks otherwise is insane. Come on, he "faked" pulling his pants down. They get on him, he gives it back, that's the way it goes and why would anyone be offended by this. Joe Buck, the announcer for the game is a clueless asshole. During the broadcast he said, "It's disgusting that we had that on the air live,(Fox Sports, Jan 2005.)" He called this disgusting. Holy fuck, I wish my life was like his, easy. Randy Moss,"faking" the moon, this is disgusting in his life? He has got to be retarded or live in a plastic bubble. This is disgusting? On the way to work I saw a four car accident and someone died. Over the weekend a bouncer got shot outside a Chicago club. Hey Joe, you fucking tard, when your daughter gets raped, that's disgusting. The tsunami, that's disgusting, you fucking toe-headed idiot. Showing real human death on the nightly news, that disgusts me. Make sense now Joey? A professional football player pretending to pull his pants down, disgusting? Nope, not over here in the real world you asshole.