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Mr.Tipton vs. the Micropenis I can remember the first dick I ever saw other than my own. My dad was showing me how to pee standing up. I suppose all dad's show their boys how to go like a man. And god damn did I need help. Jesus. I couldn't aim my little pecker anywhere. I was peeing on the floor, my dog, shelves, the cat. My penis was a weapon and I needed training. My dad is showing me how to pee and he pulls out his wang. Damn, the thing was as big as my arm and I had no idea how he aimed that thing straight, but he did. After about 17 years and a lot of bitching from my sister I finally learned how to aim my weapon. Eventually little Chuck grew to a normal size and life went on. In college I had a sex education course and we read about micropenis. The micropenis is about one inch long. Now in my day of locker rooms and high school wrestling I am not embarrassed to say I have seen as much flaccid penis as the high school whore, but never the elusive micropenis. Well, until now. I am in the locker room at Bally's, changing out of my work clothes so I can work out. Everyday, without fail, a large, naked man, will pull his junk up next to me right as I am reaching down to tie my shoe. Naked, proud, totally exposed and his gnarly sack is about six inches from my face. "Hello!" Bending over, reaching down, twisting, sweating and a towel is never in sight. All I see is fat, enormous amounts of never groomed body hair, a sack and a penis. Jesus. I think my favorite fat, naked, guy move is the man who brushes his teeth or shaves naked at the health club. No towel on, his hairy cock is laying on the countertop of the sink. Classy. A real treat. Anyway, today is different, the gym isn't packed and there is no sight of "Free Willy." I start to change clothes. I turn around and see a man who looks like Santa Claus.......naked. There he is, easily pushing 350, full white beard, more pubic hair on his ass and pubic re gion than covers my entire body. BUT, he is 15 feet away and I am in the clear. I proceed to put my clothes on and I reach down to tie my shoes and get to lifting some weights. To my right I hear a loud clang, metal on metal and naturally my head jerks towards the sounds. Holy God! Three inches from my nose I am looking at a belly covered in stretch marks and the smallest dick on the planet. Less than 1/2 inch long, it looks like an angry inchworm. The scale is next to my locker and Santa has decided to weigh in. Part of me wants to reach over and pinch his little fella and say "hi" to see if it's real. I can't stop looking at this freak of nature and I am trying not to laugh. My God, Santa has the smallest cock on earth. I don't know if he is oblivious, obese and doesn't care, or proud, but here I was, face to face with the dreaded micropenis. I found myself grabbing my own cock just to make sure I did not have a micropenis. This guy doesn 't care and I think he knows I am looking at his micropenis. I look up and he looks down at me and I say, "How's it going?" What else was I going to say? I felt uncomfortable. He says, "Not bad, you?" And I say, "Looking forward to big things in 2003." I don't ever want to see a fat man with a micropenis again.
Christmas Eve 2003
It always been weird for me. Anyway, he calls me one night and says were going to a party in Gary, Indiana. that his friend James is having. James was this short order cook who seemed to be a nice guy, so I agreed to go, though I had little choice in the matter. We get to the party and see we are the only white guys there. I grew up in one of the most racially segregated areas of the country. My hometown was created over night by white flight. Gary, at one time, was a nice town. I lived there until I was four. But the Caucasians in the community could not deal with a few black families moving in trying to make a better life for themselves. So they moved six miles south to a corn field and named it Merrillville. Since the people of Gary didn't have the balls to stay and fight for their neighborhood the white flight became a feeding frenzy. Soon property values fell, poor families moved in because it was cheap, and the pioneering black families were back living in the ghetto they had tried to escape from. The steel and textile indistry started to fall apart and the unemployment rates skyrocketed. The people of Merrillville blamed their loss of jobs on the niggers, which is what ignorant people usually do instead of looking at themselves. I guess they overlooked the economic recession. In the middle 70's I found myself growing up in a town that has more fast food restaurants per capita than any other place in the country. The lines were drawn. I didn't understand all the hate and this party (James party) looked like a good time. I suppose I should have been scared but I wasn't. Everyone is dressed up and Garry and I are in our best punk rock outfits trying to get in the groove. We see James and are introduced as friends of the party and taken to the drug table. It was made clear that we better take what was offered or get out. Next thing I know I'm flying on coke and pot like I've never known I could fly.. Garry is smiling at me and laughing and I tell James it's the best party I've ever been to, and it was. We're taking massive amounts of whatever my new brothers put in my face and I had serious jungle fever. Garry and I dancing with the sisters to Prince's Erotic City, and damn the girls were sexy and I was so young and high nothing could go wrong. I could here the brothers laughing at my white guy dance moves but I didn't care, just give me more beer and a sister to get with, where the hell was Garry? I struck a one night friendship with a 34 year old junky. An ex-basketball star named Albert. I could see that his best days were far behind him, but he still looked like an athlete and I hung on his every word. He told me how he used to play on the streets and would school the pros that returned to the neighborhood. He said he never was one for school and screwed up his chances for a college career because he started doing heroin in high school. "Colleges don't take many junkies, no matter how good you are." What I liked most about him was that he wasn't bitter or jealou s or angry. He made a good living as a dealer and he seemed happy with his lot in life. Albert didn't judge me at all. I was as far removed from his lifestyle as anyone he ever met. How many suburban, white, punk rockers are hanging with heroin dealers in Gary? Anyway I interested him as much as he interested me and I liked him very much. I'm all for the legalization of drugs, look at Albert, he was doing fine. We heard a loud crash and James grabbed Albert and Albert grabbed me. We rushed outside and I saw a brand new Trans Am with it's side crushed and smoldering, ugly twisted metal. Albert screamed, "that's my fucking car", and I went tumbling from the force of his displeasure. His junky girlfriend appeared,"Fuck you motherfucker, fuck around on me and I'll kill you", and I believed her. They fought, she went with him blow for blow. Albert connected with her face six or seven times and she slumped in a bloody heap, cursing him. I was really out on my feet, the drugs, spinning, scared and excited by the violent display in front of me, "this is real life", I thought. Albert approached me and spit out "Bitch". He walked away as the police sirens got louder, and he left my life. In my stupor I forgot where I was and didn't comprehend that I was the only person left standing by a totaled car and a severely beat women. The Gary police would want answers and a drugged out, defenseless, white boy would be a welcome target for the hard billy clubs reserved for situations like this. I was spinning and in trouble. The cops were almost upon me. Out of nowhere a speeding car spun around on the icey street from God knows where and the door flew open. Garry was smiling with a look of absolute glee on his face. I hadn't seen him in hours but he was there to save my ass once again. We tore off as the cops came and I stared at Garry, that crazy smile on his face. He was in his element. His appetite for substances was enormous in those days. Whereas I was destroyed by the drugs they had barely primed his pump. He looked at me, smiled and said, "fuck it, it's early lets go blow shit up". We drove 80 mph to Laporte, In. and Garry jumped out of the car and handed me a shotgun. I was so messed up I could have killed him, but he insisted we go duck hunting. So at four a.m., heavily drugged and drunk, we went duck hunting. I unloaded my gun several times while Garry laughed and cackled. I killed a couple of oak trees, missed a lot of geese and Garry had fun watching me trip over logs, fall through ice and freeze my ass off. We returned home about 6 a.m. and quickly passed out only to get up and start another adventure. A year later Garry went to the Army and when he returned he wasn't the same. The military had broken his spirit and the care free maniac I loved had been replaced by a well intentioned young adult. He now favored pot over alcohol and was much more laid back than I remembered. I've hated the military for killing him ever since. I miss him and I rarely see him, but I still believe that if I was in trouble I'd turn around and there he would stand ready to save my ass one more time.
It's easy to forget and lose your way You know, Grand Funk Railroad was right back in the 70s, "Booze and ladies keep me right, as long as we can make it to the show tonight." That sounds simplistic and dumb, and maybe it was, but those were looser times than we have in 2003. But I think I know what they were saying, other things can keep you right, but the show is the ultimate payoff. In other words, without the show all the ancillary things quickly mean nothing because its all an illusion to get you to the show. It's all passing time. The show can mean anything, whatever gets you off is your show and we all get our kicks one way or another. Mine happens to be performing and I always wonder whom I will be performing for when I am 50. Someone, somewhere, I'll find a market. And someone will buy, I think. So you move through life and find out what your show is and if you're lucky you get to live it more often than not. And if going out 5 nights a week until midnight or later and trying to hold onto the day job while living the show is what you need to get off, well then boy, you do it. Because at the end of the day it's rather silly to leave anything behind isn't it? Burn it down, make mistakes, and stop living your life like you will regret every choice you will ever make. Well, that's the choice for me and if people get hurt along the way that's their own damage and wreckage. They always get over it. As for me I am learning there really is no other way. That's ok, it's my story and I get to tell it anyway I'd like.
If it feels good I just don't care Anyway, the band is doing great. The new record is a motherfucker. Brilliant, amazing shit and if you think otherwise fuck you. But you won't, trust me. We are tight and the bands we play with look like local bands playing with a touring act, good, compared to great. And that's what I want, but something is nagging at me lately. Something is missing and my lack of commitment to anything is really starting to bring me down. But blaming the dumb is almost as stupid as blaming others for your own laziness. But change is hard, especially when you can be great without even trying. And God damn, after a few shots of mescal I won't care about any of this shit and if a hot girl crawls on top of me and rides me hard even that day job won't be able to bring me down. That was last week, this week I want more. Maybe I want to be more than I could have been. Then again, maybe this all I can do and this all I will ever amount to. I had a story, some wild shit happened, but I can't remember it, they are all blending together and these weekends never fucking end. Indianapolis, drinking with friends until 6am, going to clubs, playing shows, was that last weekend? Did the Zuckler almost get in a fight with a 99 pound Kurt Cohbain look a like? And why the fuck was I talking to those scraggy ass Stoli girls? The kind who expect you to buy them a shot of stoli instead of giving you a free shot to try the liquor. What kind of backwards ass system is that? Are guys that fucking desperate to talk to a white-trash, third rate, stripper that keeps her clothes on? Was that me? Yeah, that was me. Well, not really, because I am the kind of guy who scares liquor girls and strippers. If I pay you I am going to fuck you. I don't need to buy a friend, but yeah, I guess if I had the money I would pay to fuck. Why not, a clean break and everyone's happy. An yone for a Christmas hooker? Merry Christmas, jesus, that's pathetic.
A letter to Garry and Bill Garry, Bill and I used to religiously listen to an album called "Declaration" by a band called The Alarm. Every song is an anthem that makes you want to get off your ass and change the world. It's a powerful record and it makes my skin tingle. The track that changed our worlds is called "68 Guns." We vowed we would never let our friendship die. A hundred times, stereo blasting "68 Guns", drunk on Old Style, cruising the streets in Garry's 1973, green, Ford Maverick, with "Welcome to my Revolution" painted on the hood. Anyway, at the end of the summer Garry joined the Army. Bill moved to Chicago and joined a band called WickerMan and I went to Purdue and joined my own Army. Things changed. I changed. I moved. I found my calling, new best friends, bonds and I found a band. Still, sometimes when I can't sleep I still think of those days and I smile. When I am in the gloaming, near the edge of horrible sleep, submission and darkness, I t hink of my friends and those warm, Indiana nights, fueled by liquor and a hope that shitty little town could not kill. Fast forward 2003- "Chuck, it's the MDL, The Alarm is playing three Thursdays in a row at the Elbo Room. I have tickets and we are going. Well I am going all three nights, but I bought you a ticket for next Thursday and we are fucking going." In the background I heard the song "The Stand". The MDL was at the first show of The Alarm's three week stand in Chicago. Later that night, much drunker, the MDL left me another message. "Ok, I am having dinner with Mike Peters next Thursday. He is coming to my house." Mike Peters is the singer and songwriter of The Alarm. The fucking MDL, I don't know how this guy does it. He has absolutely no fear of meeting his idols. I have seen him do it, "Hey, how you doing. I'm the MDL, how's your night." Holy fuck, he's gotta be someone because no one talks to a star like they should be licking the cum off his cock. The point, the MDL is smoother than these cats and they know it. One night this summ er the MDL and I were hanging out with John Haggerty from Naked Raygun. Raygun is THE Chicago punk rock band from the 80's and 90's. I worship John Haggerty. I was drunk, 3am and I couldn't even look the motherfucker in the eye. I think I said, "Your music, your band, is one of the reasons I got in a band." Lame. Like he has not heard that 10,000 times. Real cool Mr. Tipton. I could give a fuck about meeting stars. Put me in a room with Tom Cruise and I don't give a fuck. Great, a thespian midget, wow. But put me in a room with my indie rock hero's and I freak. It's these people, the real artists, the trend setters, the unknowns that make a difference in my life. Thursday the MDL and I saw The Alarm. At one point I had my hands over my mouth like a 12 year old at a Justin Timberlake show. I thought I was going to cry. I thought about Garry and Bill. It was like seeing fucking God 10ft away, but better. Halfway through the show The Alarm takes a break and Mike Peters invites each and every audience member to the stage to meet him. He shook every hand. He looked people in the eye, thanked them for coming to the show. He thanked them for calling WXRT and requesting his music on the radio. He meant it. It was sincere and inspiring. The MDL grabs me and says, "Let's meet Mike." Fuck you, Mike? You can't call him Mike. "No. I can't, not now." So the puss boy didn't approach Mike Peters and the show went on. As I watched Mike and the band which featured the guitar player from Generation X and the drummer from Stiff Little Fingers, who are both amazing players, like a bitch, I couldn't help think of Garry and how I wanted to call him. I don't have his number so I stood watching, hands over mouth, like the muscle bound music fag that I am. The show ends, I am near tears. I am so fucking happy and again, music is the reason. This is joy, ecstasy and I don't need your fucking liquor to feel good whores. "Come on we are gonna talk to Mike", the MDL says and he grabs me by the arm. The MDL has a presence, a swagger and the boy is always remembered. "Hey Mike, how you doing?" Of course Mike Peters remembers the MDL. "Hey, good, thanks for coming again mate." The MDL does his move. He puts his arm around Mike Peters shoulder, pulls him close and points at me and says, "Remember last week when I was telling you about that band I started with that guy?" "Yeah mate," Mike Peters confirms remembering the story. "This is that guy." Mike Peters looks at me and I am immediately drowning in his dreamy brown eyes. He reaches out to shake my hand. The MDL says, "Mike, his band is on XRT all the time, he knows everyone there." And Mike Peters says to me, "Glad to meet you mate, maybe you can get me on XRT?" Holy shit, Mike Peters just asked me to get him radio play. Me, the guy driving through Gary Indiana, Merrillville, country roads in Crown Point, drunk, 16, singing at the top of my lungs with Garry and Bill in the crappy Ford Maverick. I am the fucking man. I am God. I own this fucking, shitty, little club and this town. I have arrived. It's gone full circle. And I freeze. Do I say, "Thanks Mike, hey give me your e-mail, your phone number, I'll make some calls and we can take a meeting. You know babe, fuck the people, you and me, a team, together baby, we will get you on WXRT." Nope. Mr. Tipton, the wild ma n, intimidated by nothing, no one, opens up the mouth that roars and says..................."I feel like I'm 12." Mike Peters grabs me by the arm and pats me on the chest and says, "Sometimes we all feel like we're 12 in here, don't we mate," and he walks away. The MDL looks at me and says, "You idiot, you always choke." The MDL is right, I do choke in situations like that. But the Famous Mr. Tipton doesn't do real well meeting the other stars. Mr. Tipton likes to look up in the sky on a fall night. Mr.Tipton prefers to worship the stars from here on the planet earth, watch them twinkle in their celestial beauty, beckon and call out all my dreams and crush me with the massiveness of their greatness. But fuck it. I met Mike Peters god dammit!
Die pretty Sometimes I just want to walk into the Target and blow them all away. But it won't last long because some tubby cop will take me out with his sniper gun and I will lay dead in aisle 4, near the new Todd Oldman collection. Gonna die thin and pretty and it's going to be ok. Gotta die pretty kid. God fucking dammit I am hungry and I want it all.
I am one hot motherfucker. The Gooch is on his way over and we are going to a house party over on West Augusta, three bands. I know the chick who sings for one of the bands. She invited me. I said, "I'm sorry that I became what I am," I was lying. "But the people, they need me, they are attracted to me and I am a junkie and I can't go back. I don't even know what normal is anymore." I looked at her and I smiled, leaving her lifeless, trembling and beautiful. The door bell rang. It was the Gooch. "But I might be full of shit." Time to leave, it's time to go again.
The Hard Charger It's early in the big city. Outside on the street I can hear the semis rolling down Grand Ave trying to get a jump on the rush hour traffic. It's 36 degrees outside and it's cold inside my apartment. My nipples are so hard they are sore and I can see my breath, but I am not going to turn on the heat. It's October, come on, suck it up punk. My flesh eating cats are curled up together, but they have fat and fur to keep them warm. It is deathly quiet and all I can hear are the keys on the keyboard, the trucks and the hum of my E-machine. And I can hear my heart beating, loudly. That silly chick at the bar made me think. I am a fucking hard charger and I have done a good job of getting what I want, taking what I need and leaving the lifeless carcasses behind me. When you're a selfish asshole you really can't take the time to care about the wreckage in your rearview window. You gotta keep moving or that shit will catch up to you. Never look back, because although things do look smaller in the rearview window the wreckage is always large and ugly. Tomorrow is my birthday. A birthday is a good day to make a change and see what happens in your life. I don't want to quit drinking. I love drinking. I like the taste. I like the feel, the speed, the sex, the fun. But, for the first time in my life I don't feel like I can stop. I feel like I am drinking too much and cutting back is never an option when you live in the black and white. I am that guy. But I am also a motherfucker and when someone tells me I can't stop I will stop just to spite them. I am a control freak and I don't feel like I am in control and that scares me. So I am done. In a month I will feel different and these sleepless nights might even subside because alcohol does fuck with your sleep. How long am I done for, who knows, but for now I am going to confront this pathetic, sad, out control fear, head on. I quit. Everyone loves a quitter.
Not doing shit about seeing the sunrise LOTR played at Joe's Weed St. on Friday night. I had never been to Joe's before, but that's a hopping little corner. Lot's of late night bars, girls, boys, drinks, no fucking parking, but plenty of action on the corner for late night revelers. But I had a reason to leave right after the show and I didn't see the sunrise as I normally do on a good fall night. For once, I was ok with it and the motivation I had certainly helped me make my hasty retreat to the compound on Grand Ave. In my bedroom, with the blinds closed, it's hard to see much of anything and I am quite sure I missed the sunrise. Girls and several shots of tequila will do that every time. It will also destroy your Saturday night if you haven't slept in a week. So after being up all night on Friday and doing nothing but watching fat motherfuckers justify the "big girls in the house" on Saturday, I am wide awake and looking for any excuse to get the hell out of my house. One thing I do know, if I am 65 and my on ly memory of my wild, hot, younger days, is watching that cellulite covered, loud-mouthed, raspy, smoky, nicotine stinky, White Castle eating, colon packed with shit, no talent, laughing at every joke she makes way too hard, representing the big girls who can't put the fork down and need to be told they are fat, lazy and pathetic, annoying beast, Monique I will surely blow my brains out. My God, staying home is always a mistake.
Mix it up you sissy punk
Cracker, niggers and spics, nobody wins
When you're rolling you're never alone. I know when this streak started. About two months ago my other band, Love on the Rocks, yes, the Neil Diamond tribute band, was playing a ton of shows while RSC was taking time off to write and record new music. Around this time I became Mr. Positive. If you read these rants you will know I became Mr. Positive after our singer, Paul, called me out and said shape up or get out. Well Mr. Paul I am shaping up, yes sir! LOTR had a show at a club named Hoghead McDunna's near Lincoln Park in Chicago. We had played there about 5 months earlier and it was a fucking nightmare. Shitty opening bands, shitty money, fucking punk-ass bartender, an all around fucking. My fine ass hurt. I was not going to get fucked this time and I made it clear to the band. Our singer, Niel, ie. Matt, is an interesting character. He is the hyper rooster of rock. Intense, angry, edgy, straight edge, ballbuster, but convinced he has a pro attitude.... Until things go wrong and th en our man can snap. It makes for a fine, fine, ride and I am much like him in the way I fake it pro... until it goes bad, then I freak. Before the show I was saying that if I got any attitude from the bartender, door staff, I was going to beat the shit out of them. I was so pissed after the last show that I actually went back to the club, by myself, looking for any reason to crush this fucking dickfaced bartender. Trust me, in 20-Oh-3 violence is sexy business. In 2004 peace will be back, so beat someone while you can. Ok, that's a little unstable, so we shall move along. Matt said, "Pro attitude Chuck, come on, we have to be pro." And he is right. We do get paid to do a job. Enter Race. Race is our guitar player and Race likes to stir things up. Whether its culturally, sexually, Race is intrigued by the human condition. We don't agree on everything, but we respect each other and I like him a lot. Anyway Race says, "You won't do a thing, those guys will beat your ass." I said, "Race don't ever call me out, because I will bring it." We laughed and went to the show. Love on the Rocks has hit the lows of show business. We have played with jugglers, (a fat juggler in giant, baggy, striped pants) clowns, puppeteers, and now, the lowest of night club entertainers, the bad comedian. If your comedy career consists of performing at horrible frat/cover band bars and you are not CarrotTop, you aren't funny. Is CarrotTop funny and why the fuck do I know who CarrotTop is? Your mom and your friends are assholes, idiots and they are wrong. You are wrong and it's likely every choice you have made since the age of 7, when you shit your pa nts in Ms.Miller's class in 2nd grade, has been wrong. Sure, it takes a sense of humor to be the kid who shit his pants in the second grade. Unfortunately, when the funniest thing you have ever done is shit your pants in class you have problems. We have problems. So there we were with not one, but three comedians opening our show. These dicks went on at 11, when the club was packed. We were going on at 12. Pants shitter number one, the silly cunt, made Rosie O'Donnell seem like a genius, knocked about 20 peeps out of the crowd. Number two was worse. Oh, lesbian humor, edgy, witty.......bad. Crowd thinning. So number three, a cute guy named Pete, took the stage. As we stood by the stage in our manly sparkly shirts and fake mustaches Peter played his acoustic guitar and made introspective observations about college life and smoking pot. Pot? Bitch, that's so 1993, meth is what's hot. But I guess no one wants skinny, toothless, twitchy, college kids do they? Anyway, t he crowd is thinning, Pete is singing and I am fuming. We gotta pay for this crap? Out of our money? Pete makes a wacky joke about Neil Diamond during one of his "songs." Race looks at me and says, "You won't do anything." I was done. I walked up to the stage and looked at Pete who was smiling at me with this goofy "ain't I funny smile." I walked onto the stage and unplugged Pete's guitar midsong. I thought he was gonna replay his 2nd grade poopy pants antics. I grabbed the mic and said, "I am in a Neil Diamond Tribute band Pete. You're done Pete." I placed my hand on Pete's chest and shoved him off the stage. I was wearing a sparkly shirt and a fake mustache and Petey didn't say a god damned thing. So ,the streak began. Don't call me out Race. Streaks begin when you take control of your life, take some responsibility, do some living. I am hot right now. Old people, young people, women love me. I have had more sex during this streak than most people have in their entire lives. Dirty, ass slapping, who is your daddy I am fucking you in a god damned barn and you are my bitch, Penthouse forum sex. Different girls from different worlds that I have met a hundred different ways. When you're rolling they have no choice and somehow, someway, everyone gets fucked. I recently signed a contract and I am now endorsed by Lifestyles condoms. The ad is catchy. It says "Roll like Chuck Tipton" and it shows me standing up, with a massive hard-on, while a 22 year old, large chested blonde is putting(unrolling) a condom on my cock. It's very arty. In the right hand corner of the picture you see the crumpled condom wrapper and the wrapper says "Lifestyles: Roll like Chuck Tipton." My parents are very proud. It will appear in Cosmo next month So that's how it started and it's not close to ending. I shoved a comedian off a stage. God dammit, when I have anal sex with that mime the party is really going to start. Anyway, when you're rolling you're never alone, but that fucking lonely, self-doubt, never quite goes away despite the chemical damage you inflict upon your body. Did you call? I was at The Mars Volta show last night and it was loud, and my head hurts, but thats not from the show. Sometimes I wish the party would end and I could be satisfied with the slow and easy, but God didn't make me that way. When the night falls, and it will, it always does, my god damned engine will start up and I will be out there looking for the fuel that feeds the speed. Live and let die, nah, live and let live I think. Some of us are racers, some of us are dumb and some of us just don't know any better. Holy Fuck! I think if you ever saw the Japanese cartoon Speed Racer you might find some insight. In the immortal words of Racer X, "Come on Pops, I need a little more speed." Hell yeah Racer X, I hear you.
i wanna.... I don't want to be responsible and i don't want to go to work. I want to live on 11,000 a year like I used to when i was happy and played guitar. i wanna bring a hippy chick home to my garage apartment, circa 1990, fuck her hard and puke all over jeff lee's drum kit after i cover it with used condoms. i don't want these fucking rules. i don't want you to look at me funny, call me freak, or i will beat the fuck out of your friends, oh the release, the blood...i wanna be god and i sure as hell don't wanna give a fuck about yours and your friends. i wanna eat food, get fat, shit, pee, poop with out guilt. i wanna wear a big diaper and live in my own filth where i belong. i wanna meet girls that think i'm hot and think i am smart and love me just for being chuck. don't wanna pass through your fucking hoops. I wanna run like a fucking retard at the special olympics and i don't wanna ever miss that short fucking bus. i wanna be in the best band ever. but i am and when it feels good I just don't care. and you, fucking you, you clueless motherfucker -- i wanna love you so hard you think your are gonna suffocate, you panic, can't breath, death... and then you realize it's me, look up and see my smiling face, i'm never gonna let you down baby... and in my strength i will save us, because it's all i know how to do. i survive.. do you wanna live? with me? i didn't think so, but I had to ask so i can get rejected again... it's hard to love something you can't touch and it's all i ever had. damaged, fucked, drunk, but it's all gonna work out for me, i am so fucking dumb, but us short bussers, sometimes we win.. yup. i saw it on tv.
Mr. Positive Last night I was scolded by RSC band leader and resident songwriter PK. In a nutshell he said he was sick of my negative band attitude and he was not happy with my performance. At one time I was a positive promoter, an instigator of band change and attitude, now I sound like a baby. He said, "If I read what you write about the band I would never come and see that band. I would think, just quit and stop whining." He then said, "Look, you don't even play on our records, you're eye candy, like that D'Arcy chick in the Smashing Pumpkins, you are in this band for the live show. So stress the positive tubby, oh and that gut better be gone by October, or you will be gone! If TWA has a jet go down the CEO doesn't go on tv and say, 'Our jets suck', you idiot, he stresses the positive and finds something good to say no matter how difficult it is. So look fat boy, say something positive or don't say anything at all." Wow! My mind was reeling and just as I was abo ut to mount a weak defense PK opened fire again. "I didn't want to tell you this, but I believe in honesty at all times. Sexy Alan Camp is coming to Chicago to play two shows with us. This is true, but he is sexy, talented, and he reminds me of you before you got old and bitter and started to suck the life out of my band. Sexy Alan Camp is a positive force in my life and if he plays well he will be a positive force in Rock Star Club. In other words Chubby Chuck, Camp is in and you are out if you don't shape up." Jesus, Sexy Alan Camp hits Chicago today........ PK is right. I am negative. I used to talk the talk and walk the walk. Time for change. Time to get off my widening butt and be a man. Bring it Sexy Alan Camp, sexy, positive Chuck Tipton is in the house. And this jet is not going down.
Sinking then your sunk. Well I can cross one thing off the list, a relationship. Holy fuck Robin, I don't even think I can date casually. A recent summer romance that came to a crashing halt enthusiastically pointed this out. I don't know when it happens or why, but the casual becomes emotional and then I am fucked. I start to run, push, gotta get away. The girl wants a little of my time and I feel crowded, trapped and I freak out. My god, I have no time to give up because I have 100 other crystal meth fantasies to work out. No time. No now, may be later. I am such a fucking joke. I have traveled this road before and I have various theories that tell me what is wrong, but they are theories. The current theory tells me that I am not wrong. I am not ready for a realistic walk down that road and I gotta wait until the freak out is gone. However, I need to do a better job of telling women who cross the path of this rambling wreck to listen to their instincts and believe them. Run baby, run. I may sound like the "one", or look like him, but I am no one. What the fuck is the "one." Who is the asswipe that came up with that phrase? Why do I know at times the "one" is the last one you would ever want to see. Is the one ever annoying? Is the one perfect. Fuck you and your one, the only one I need is me, well for now. But sometimes it's gets lonely and I have a lot of work to do before I can bring anyone else on board. But the "one", jesus, that's funny and so am I. Off the topic, yesterday RSC started serious recording on another cd with engineer Joey D and his able assistant engineer Greg. I suck. I cannot play bass and all the crystal meth in the world isn't going to make anyone think that I can play. It was the single most humiliating moment in my life as a guy in a band. After yesterday I will never call myself a musician again. I am a guy in a band. After yesterday, if the guys in RSC don't kick me out, fuck, after yesterday I should quit. Note by note Joey fixed my mistakes, literally, note..... by...... note. It got so bad I had to give Paul my bass and have Paul play a part that I was not able to play. I didn't want to kill myself, but it occurred to me that if I could somehow get in a farming accident and lose my right hand, I could still play bass as well as I do now. But at least at that point I would be a novelty act. Chuck, the wondrous, one handed, bass player. That would get some people ou t to the RSC show at the Pontiac this weekend. The point, I am not a bass player. I am not a boyfriend and this morning I am wondering what the hell I am. I don't know, but I sure as fuck am not all the things I am suppose to be. Today I don't feel like much of anything. So, my life is ok, but it gets you pretty fucking down when a giant horse named "What" kicks you in the balls as hard as she can. If you have a set you now that sinking feeling in your gut that tells you that you're a sunk motherfucker. Well, I am sunk, today I got nothing.
The end is near music fans I enjoyed the Madonna/Britney kiss. Sure, Britney is the dumb, cleaned up gutter trash, but she has a slamming body. I think of her and I think about that saying about how she could...., and the trailer hitch. yeah she could! Anyway, I loved how Madonna, like a vampire, swooped down to suck the "never had an original thought, but sells records" energy from Britney. It was sick. Wasn't she an innovator at one time? Sure was and now she shills for the Gap. Missy "misdemeanor" Elliott? Is she a talent? She got the misdemeanor speeding to the Taco Bell. Fatty. Nice gut tubby. Marshall Mathers. Yes he is edgy. You give trailer trash 50 million and soon he is talking tough to puppets. What an idiot. How dare Triumph the Comic Dog, a puppet, offend the great Marshall Mathers.( last year's VMA's) And there he is making nice with another puppet. Sell out. Kind of like when he sang with Elton John after offending anyone with a different sexual orientation. That's right, gotta sell those records Marshall. You will do as your told boy, now march. It is really is depressing if you like music. It's all about the sale and dumb America was buying and they will continue to buy. There was only one real star at the VMA's. One, and thank god we have one talent that can set right this sinking ship. Say it with me people: TIMBERLAKE. That's all we need.
A Chicago legend dies Wesley Willis died the evening of August 21 in a Hospice in Illinois; the exact cause of death is still to be determined. In late 2002 Willis was diagnosed with Chronic Myelogenous Leukemia and on June 2nd he had undergone emergency surgery to suppress and find the source of internal bleeding from which he was suffering. Wesley released more than 50 albums, some of which were self-released. Willis made a name for himself on the streets of Chicago in the early-'90s, singing odd, simple, and sometimes downright disturbing songs about everything from odes to bands he loved to the friends he enjoyed. He developed a cult following, and soon many Chicago "it" people began to take note. Right before he signed to major label American, MTV profiled Wesley. Despite the publicity, both of the label's releases, Fabian Roadwarrior and Feel The Power, failed to produce a hit. No matter, Wesley continued to produce his three-chord jaunts through the '90s righ t into the new millennium. His final record, Wesley Willis Greatest Hits Vol. 3 (Alternative Tentacles) will be released in October. "Wesley will go down as one of the most unique songwriters and entertainment personalities in history. His music, lyrics, drawings, insight and the way he put them together are like no one else. Ever. There will never be another," wrote Alternative Tentacles owner and ex-Dead Kennedy Jello Biafra in a press release. "As I got to know Wes, what really struck me was his sheer will power, his unrelenting drive to succeed and overcome his horrifically poor background, child abuse, racism, chronic schizophrenia, and obesity among other things. He was the most courageous person I have ever known. Yet through it all he had such a deep, all-encompassing love of life. Little things, big things. He loved bus rides. he loved watching trains. He loved writing songs about how much he loved his friends," added Biafra. Wesley could be found outside many a show asking, "Would you like to buy one of my drawings?" He was definitely one of a kind. As anyone could attest after seeing him perform, he had his up days and his down. Suffering from schizophrenia does that to a person. One of the first times I saw him perform was at the Metro where he recited a song of sorts, poetry-style in which he spouted profanities, listing off horrific things onstage, and I was mortified; many other times after that his sheepish innocence made me immediately smile. Certainly many have Wesley stories of their own. Feel free to pass them along. Wesley Willis, rest in peace. -- Althea Legaspi
The master cleanse diet Damn, we fat Americans love our food don't we? Well I cannot speak for the rest of you tubby losers, but I know I love my food. And I hate my food. This food, this fast food, Taco Bell, oh sweet Taco Bell, makes me fat, slow, lethargic and happy. Well happy rhymes with crappy brother and it makes me do a lot of that. Sitting on the toilet, for hours, days, weeks, the time we waste. Keep eating, more, more, more. Isn't gluttony a sin? I feel crappy, live crappy, and soon I am another fibromyalgic fatty sitting at home and watching Springer. Oh, I feel so badly for you and me. We are done. But maybe not. I got hope. If I can stay on this diet until the end of the month, until Labor day and clean the toxins out of my festering system, I can live again. That's right, I can live to pack my colon full of Labor day burgers, steaks, brats and beers, like a true American. Because, to be honest, this cleanse has nothing to do with cleaning and everythi ng to do with leaning down. I feel fat. If not eating for two weeks can take that feeling away then it is well worth it. If I can kill some cancerous cells along the way so be it. I must like this sickness because I don't do anything to change it. Die thin and pretty, really, what else is there? When you're starving, not a lot.
The parties over potheads.
New police unit aims to discourage crimes before they happen As Marcus D. Jackson smoked dope in a blue Chevy Caprice, he had no idea anyone was watching, police say. But about a block away, officers were monitoring his every move on a surveillance camera set up at Augusta and Pulaski to target crimes both serious and minor that bring down the neighborhood's quality of life. When they swooped in and arrested Jackson, the officers allegedly found $20 worth of pot and Ecstasy, a so-called "club drug," valued at $60. The 1:30 a.m. Saturday bust was the first one for Operation Disruption, which saw its first cameras installed two weeks ago. "What you are seeing is people are getting used to the cameras and going back to their old behavior," said Pat Camden, a Chicago police spokesman. "And we are there watching them." The officers who collared Jackson are part of a new 100-member team, the Targeted Response Unit, which is patrolling the West Side's Harrison police district, typically the city's most murderous place. The unit swarmed into the area at the beginning of August and in a week recovered 11 guns, impounded 87 vehicles and made 284 arrests on charges ranging from gun possession to car theft. The goal is to discourage "off-duty criminals" like Jackson from committing more serious offenses than smoking pot, police said. Jackson, 22, was on parole for drug dealing and possession of a stolen vehicle. The 5-foot-tall man, known as "Shorty," admitted he was a Four Corner Hustlers gang member, police said. The car Jackson was riding in has been impounded, and a judge has ordered him held on $40,000 bail. He was charged with a felony for the Ecstasy and a misdemeanor for the pot. "We are looking at potential criminals who affect the quality of life," Camden said. "Sitting in a car smoking reefer sounds innocent enough, but you don't know what he plans to do from there." Jackson's mother, Susie Jackson, said her son posted bail and is free pending his next court hearing on Sept. 3. "He is nervous because he is on parole," she said. "He does not know what will happen when he goes back to court. This isn't fair. It's not like he was dealing drugs. I don't see how they could arrest him for just sitting there smoking weed. Most young people do that." Jackson's mother has seen the cameras and does not like them. "To me, that is an invasion," she said. Generally, though, the cameras don't violate the constitutional right to privacy if they're trained on public spaces, the American Civil Liberties Union says.
A horrible day No Mars Volta show for me. No guest list. It's sold out. My friend Monica tried to get me a ticket. Thank you for trying. My cell phone is broke. I can't hear people when they call-$200, out the window, but I need a phone. It gets worse. I thought Paul took my bass after our Young Lords show on Saturday. He did not. I am an idiot for being lazy and drunk. That bass is irreplacable and a new one cost $1400. It is gone. I will not play a show until I find it or get a new one. I cannot afford a new one. I won't have that kind of money unless I start turning tricks in Boy's Town. My new fat, stinky body should be a hit in the back alley's of the Manhole. Looks like there are gonna be a lot of cancelled shows this year.
Don't Die - 6/25-27/03 - 7/18/03 7:21am So I am driving and thinking about what I am doing this weekend. Three shows in two days. Two with my tribute band and the other with a band I used to be in that almost got paid to make music. That old band is much like Rock Star Club, almost got paid. Except we never worked hard enough, or sacrificed or got it together. We played a million shows, but we missed something. Maybe it was the drinking, eh? It doesn't matter, but it is frustrating to see another band repeat the same mistakes and take the easy way out again. Anyway, this old band was based on having a set of balls and a big cock. Testosterone, you were gonna get a fucking whether you wanted it of not. I suppose I was the leader of this charge to dominate other bands and kick ass. We played with a lot of bands that were better than we were, but we played with a passion that could not be denied and the people responded. On record, not so great, live, a fearsome motherfucker. The only band that took our sacks and handed them back to us was "Hum." They killed us one night. Anyway, my failure is that the band that is getting paid the most money and playing the best shows is my tribute band, Love on the Rocks. I never thought I would be in a cover band and like it. Growing up in Indiana, I hated all those big haired, Poison wanna be, cover playing motherfuckers with a passion. I was a punk rocker and I lived it. The only solace I have is that I am playing in a tribute band that plays music I love. Damn. It's funny how life changes quickly and it's amazing at the same time. I rolled the window down on my powerful 1996 Honda Civic. I put the seat way back, relaxed and let the cool summer air wash over my face and I am drifting, dreaming and forgetting. Forgetting that I have a day job and pretending that my life is about entertainment and art. I always loved speed, fast bikes, cars and when I look down I see I am going 92mph. I didn't know my little car could roll this fast, but it does. Maybe it is inspired by this magnificent song pumping out of my stereo. And as the groove takes my soul I start to wonder what would happen if I drove my car, 95mph, straight into one of these metal light posts here on the Kennedy Expressway. I don't want this song to end. I don't want to stop driving fast. I don't want the cool breeze to stop blowing over my body as I lie back in my seat and relax for the first time in months. This is perfect, the tension is gone and driving straight ahead, listening to this song is th e only thing that I give a shit about right now. And if I can't keep this moment I think I'd rather drive straight into that fucking pole and die. Let the moment live forever in my head and never go to work. Out of the corner of my eye I see Arlington Heights Road and I ease off the accelerator and start to get into the turning lane. For a second I start to move out of the lane, jack the accelerator and keep going, but I don't. I have a day job. I have responsibilities and I play in a tribute band. But you know what, when I take that stage all of this shit just goes away.
Live fast and love hard because it's all we really have- 6/25-27/03- 7:48 pm This woman I have chased, have a major crush on, talk to, tell her my secrets, cheated on her longtime boyfriend over the weekend. I let my armor down. I never pressed her and it was her choice. The next day she called me and said, "It's over. I can't see him again." I was excited, "The summer of Chuck has begun," I exclaimed to my friends. I helped her the following day. We drove around, looked at apartments. I helped her get a cell phone. I helped because she is, or was, my friend. I was leery, this was tough and I didn't want to press her into a relationship. Jesus, four years. How could I be such a stupid motherfucker? I am sick to my stomach. And what if it didn't work? I am, or was, seeing another girl who I like very much. A totally awesome woman, destroyed that for nothing didn't I. She now hates me because I told her about all of this. I'm sorry. I am so sorry I ever walked into your life and turned it upside down. You were too strong and brave. Ah honesty, such a wondrous thing. This was never supposed to happen, not again. But this girl who left, it's different. I felt like she understood me, a female Chuck. The last girl I said that about is dead. She reminded me of that girlfriend. I miss that girl everyday and I lost her again. She brings back all of those amazing feelings and she is bringing back the rancid sickness, the smell of death I lived with for a long time when I knew she was gone. Forever. Two for two, batting one thousand, aren't you slugger. When we talk, our fears, desires, challenges are so God damn similar it's like talking to myself. When I look into her eyes I see much of the wonder, the questions I have and I can see how hard it is for her, these questions and answers. I knew she struggled with drinking and working at a fucking bar doesn't help. How could I know? She and I talked about it. We talked about us. I was excited, but in my gut I knew I never had her and I wasn't sure why. Now I know. When she's drinking, partying, I was her guy. She was oblivious to all the death and havoc I bring to any relationship. You gotta be drunk to love me and if you're not you will soon see the light and get the fuck away from me. I am diseased, cancerous, but I don't die. I cannot die and I wish I could, but I can't. We bloodsuckers are cursed and godless. I was too weak and scared to do a fucking thing about it. Hanging out, drinking, getting fucked up and laughing at my free wheeling ways. I am a fucking joke. I am pathetic and small and this one hurts. "The Summer of Chuck", what kind of clueless asswipe would say such a thing. I feel like I have killed several women, Diana, etc, etc, take a fucking number baby if you wanna get slaughtered. I can't stop. It's all I know. I am sick of the drama and pain. I am sick of myself and I can never get out of my crawling skin. I feel fleshy, fat and obese. All the people that love her, her co-workers, must hate my guts because I am the reason she is gone. She needs rehab, maybe her boyfriend is the right guy for her and I want it to work out for her because she is special and I care about her. But god dammit, I am sick of hoping it works out for her. How many times in these pages have I said, "I want it to work out for her." "Fuck you", I want it to work out for me. Just once, please let me stop hurting, please. No, that's not for me and I have to shut this thing down. Forever. So she left me a voice mail saying she was coming back from an A.A. meeting and she wanted to say goodbye...... .. Bye, bye. Goodbye honey, I won't see you around and I may never talk to you again. I never get to say goodbye. I knew it. I fucking knew it. Open up, just a little and wham, smashed, crushed. Ha, it's like they were waiting for me, all of these feelings, to jump my ass. If it got her to where she needs to be I guess I needed to be used for that purpose. I'm a pussy in love and this pussy gets his fucking ass handed to him every time. I am hard and clean. Nothing can touch me. Right. No one. I don't care. I can't care. Two of the last four women I have cared about went to rehab after being with me. Maybe I need to go to some sort of rehab. Yeah, as soon as I finish this beer. Fucking loser. Boo hoo for me. I wrote that last night and I was pretty upset, quite dramatic don't you think. Part of my job is putting people in rehab and periodically I take a substance abuse assessment to make sure I don't need rehab myself. I have come close, but I have never qualified. Work was a fucking nightmare and the whole day felt like that ugly, hollow, pain you get when your molar is being eaten away by a cavity. Whenever food touches it, ache, just a shitty feeling. Over the weekend when she told me she left her boyfriend I did the opposite of what I normally do. I did what all my friends tell me to do. After a year of talking to her I didn't run away. I let my guard down, told her how I felt and I went after her. I dropped everything to help her because I care about her. I said, "Fuck it, we are a great match. Anyone can see the intense attraction." I'm not insane. It was there. I saw how she looked at me. I heard what she said to me. It was real. It was crazy real and I had to try. I did. I failed. Anyway, she called me tonight and said she wanted to speak with me instead of leaving a message on my phone. I am a counselor and I immediately went into counseling mode. "Are you ok." "Yes, I'm ok," she replied. "I guess you got the message and you know what happened." I did and I said I had. I told her I was proud of her for being so brave and getting the help she needs. It looks like she will be attending an intensive outpatient program, 3 hours a day, three days a week. She said her boyfriend took her back and was willing to try to work things out if she would get alcohol treatment. He sounds like a good guy. Any successful substance abuse treatment model requires, among many, two ingredients, acceptance and support. One, admit you have a problem. "Chuck, all the bad choices I make, this weekend", ouch that fucking hurt, "are because of drinking." "I can't stop and I can't say no." Sounds like a problem. Two, have a strong support group. Getting back together with a four-year partner seems like a reasonable start. Liquor and depression go hand in hand and to recover you need support. However, any counselor knows that a bad relationship can lead to self-medication (drinking) and depression. Whichever it is, I want her to be happy. I hope that what she has described as an unfulfilling relationship somehow changes. Otherwise, six months from now she will be sober, miserable and married. Ultimately these choices are you own. Well, this wasn't the time or place to bring up the latter and I kept my fucking trap shut. I wished her luck and I told her how crazy I was about her and how special she is. I told her she deserved to be happy. She thanked me. She thanked me for all the help over the weekend. I wouldn't trade that weekend for the world. I felt so alive and electric and fuck it, in love. I did, so what, I let my guard down. Make fun of me, get mad at me, I don't care. I felt things I haven't felt in years. Somewhere, deep, down inside, her smile made my tiny Grinch heart grow by leaps and bounds. She had stayed with me a couple of days. She had nowhere to go and on Tuesday she hinted she might need a place to stay. I told her "anytime", but I didn't ask her to stay with me. I believe that if you are going to leave a relationship and break clean you have to do that on your own. If she stayed with me another night she would have never left. I wouldn't have let her and I knew that. A girlfriend of mine said, "You don't know shit about women Chuck. You should have grabbed her and supported her. That's what women want." She might be right, but if you're going to be mine it can't be because you are afraid to be alone. That never works, starting a relationship out of fear. Little did I know that Tuesday night would be the last time I would see that smile. I didn't know that kiss was my last goodbye. So we talked and I wished her well and told her to call me if she needed anything. She said, "I gotta try Chuck, but you never know what will happen." She's right. She does have to try. And I gotta move on and try not to let my heart recede in this maelstrom of self-loathing and pity. I think I can. Guess what, my heart is not Teflon coated and contrary to popular belief this one is going to stick for quite a while. Hell, I finished second to a four-year relationship and a shot at sobriety. I can't compete with that kind of time and that commitment. As the call started to wind down I felt like I might not talk to her again. I wanted to ask her if I was a mistake, a drunken fling. Damn, the way she looks at me, the things she said, I had to mean something to her. If I finished second, but she cared about me, damn, I am ok with that, as long as she cared. She and her man have history and sobriety takes that kind of support. If she cared and didn't use me I am ok. Fuck it, for once I am gonna stress the positive. She cares about me. She didn't lie to me this weekend. She really cares. Then again, that might have been the liquor talking. I guess I will never know. But that's really not the point is it? I learned a lot about myself. I learned that I do have the capacity to act selflessly. I saw that I can open my heart. I am able to believe in love and take a chance that love does exist for me. Now is not my time, but my time will come soon enough. Sure I miss her and I truly hope she is happy and safe. Maybe one day she and I will get together, if not, it's ok, we had our time. The Gooch helped me see all of this. Thanks Gooch, you're a good man. He explained that I did help her. I made my choices with pure intentions and without malice. Hell, maybe I saved her life. Maybe I did and I never faked it with her. For a small moment she helped me open my heart. I guess there's not much more to say except: "Thanks honey, for an amazing weekend I will never forget. Goodbye." Postscript: My e-mail has been down for weeks and I have been unable to send in any thoughts. This was a motherfucker to write and it hurt me. Anyway, one week after this happened the bar that she bartended at closed down forever. Kind of ironic huh?
awake again This weekend, old friends, new weddings, soon it all becomes a blur and then you're old and dead, or some thing like that. But what the hell a new week is upon us and I have a feeling in my gut that something crazy, or good will happen this abnormally cool June. But what do I know, not much I suppose, but things change quickly and although I do much to keep my sheltered little life the same, change will happen. It must. Well I gotta change because I need to shake things up. Do something different, normal. Ha that's funny when normal is different, but that's not the case, it's all about your little perception and my perception has been warped by years and years of going after the speed, the thrill, the chase, crushing defeats and the orgasmic highs. It gets addictive my sister and soon your head and body need it just to feel. To feel anything at all. Remember that feeling? When you can run as fast as the speed of sound the world is exciting and walking like one of the normals seems.................very................very...................slow and horrible. Like any drug, love, food, whatever, them kicks don't last forever and soon the dopamine receptors in your brain are burned out and you are left with yourself and nothing at all. Nothing. Here's to burning them down. It makes you think don't it?
Become what you hate and shake hands with yourself. I cannot describe how tired I am right now. For the last two weeks I have slept little. I never sleep well. I wake up 3 to 4 times a night on a regular nights sleep. This is much worse. I feel like I have been on a two week drinking binge while still holding a full-time job. No time to sleep it off, get up, back to work and by the time the sickness wears off the only thing that makes sense is going to that fucking bar again. Makes sense, us Americans don't deal with our problems, we avoid them. And it works motherfucker. So what if we are drunk, sick and fat, "nobody does it better" as the song says. My head hurts, my body, deprived of food from my latest nazi diet, aches. My muscles are sore and my head hurts, jesus, here's to healthy living. The heavy shit I was going through is over and I can get back to my little world of working out, eating disorders and general drunkenness. Sounds nice doesn't it, but this lack of sleep, yawning, tired, dragging ass, fuck. I think the reason I have been tired for the last six months is simple, lack of a schedule. I need organized chaos and I HAVE to get up at a certain time each day. I can be out until 2am and if I have to get up at 5:30am, drunk, to go to work, I can do it. That is briefly what I did during my construction years and I never met another person who could answer that fucking bell better than I. Many were equal, but not many surpassed me. Recently I have worked a job with no schedule. Get up at 11am, 6am, 10am and it has fucked me up and made me a tired old fuck. I hate it and now I have figured it out. I need the commute. I used to drive 60 to 90 minutes, every morning to work, everyday, 5:30 am, no sleep, strung out on enough ephedrine to kill a football team. I functioned well. The lack of sleep and massive amounts of speed worked for me. I ran and ran and ran. I hate commuters, but I have looked myself in the mirror and said hello to the one I hate, me. "Hi!" Yup, I drive to the burbs everyday for my new job, for more money, for a better life. My schedule is locked in and like a fucking ox. I will be on time no matter how late I stay out. That is, once I get used to waking up at 5:45 again. Give me a week. Paul, our singer recently said, "you don't go out anymore," and for someone my age it shouldn't have hurt, but it put salt in my gaping wound of maturity. Well fuck that, immaturity, welcome home. I got me a new job and a schedule that will keep me sleepy, tired, strung out and happy. I'm back. Welcome home, it's time to get back in the saddle and live. It was so easy, how did I miss it? I'm not sure, but the band has a song that will be on our new record. It's amazing, we will close the show at Bottom lounge this Friday with this song.. It's called "The High Life." The chorus has a line that says, "And it's hard to break out of Chicago, with this high security. A place for family jobs and condos... and I gotta have it all." It's about being in a band, wanting the high life, wanting it all and possibly getting it. I have never meet anyone who has come closer than Paul to "having it all." Good marriage, successful career, successful artist, good friends, god damn that about covers the bases doesn't it? Maybe I want the high life also? But I'm a big pussy and I might lose cool guy points if I admit it.
Hard times are coming for you All of the time I spend thinking about getting older, slowing down, blah blah, is shit. This limited thinking has trapped me in a box and like a fucking mime these invisible, self-made walls have locked me in a box that I cannot escape. Doing the same old thing, finding same solutions, spewing hyperbole, it's all a joke. Which means I am a joke and that's not a wonderful feeling at 7:24am on a sunny Tuesday morning. I gotta do something different, soon. I have had some big, big changes in my little bubble life recently. Huge choices, decisions, that haven't been easy. I believe in myself and ultimately I will make the right choice, but that doesn't make it any easier. The feelings an emotionally charged life can bring is overwhelming, depressing and a solid kick in the nuts. You see yourself going to the same bars, seeing the same bands, people, eating the same food and trapped in a disease ridden plastic bubble that is your own making. Holy fuck, may as well leave the city because I sure as hell am not taking advantage of all the amazing sites and sounds a town this large has. Something new would be nice wouldn't it? Crisp, clean, that smell your nose doesn't quite recognize. I miss that smell. Anyway, one day I may explain what is causing all this thinking, but for now I think I will put myself back in the bubble. The bubble is easy, safe and it's mine. The bubble is sad and lonely, but I made the God damned thing so I may as well use it. Yup yup yup, welcome home you mime motherfucker... Yes, even saying that is safe and easy. Leaving for work. I walked down the hall way and quit my safe job, quit my safe, boring life. I'm not sure when I became part of the problem. I'm not sure when I started to get tired and life came to a screeching halt. It's time for something new. It's time to break free of these motherfucking self made restraints. When's the last time I felt joy and my steps were light? Good question and I cannot answer, can you? Fuck, I have even bound my band by these chains. I wonder who and what else I have chained down in the last 10 years. I am sick of myself and what I have become, this self-obsessed machine, with enough feeling to fool others into thinking I am human. I don't feel human. I feel cold, hard, like rusty steel that will cut you and give you lockjaw. Maybe I have always been this fake-ass terminator. God dammit, nothing worse than being trapped by yourself, your actions, with no one else to blame. Getting fucked up ain't gon na help out this time. I'm not sure it ever did. Maybe it feels different now? Maybe I am different now?
Like Kenny Loggins said, "This is it." I am sick of being tired. I am tired and I need some rest. I have trouble getting out of bed. I don't want to think any more. I can't. It's hard and maybe all this railing against comfort has been a large mistake. I need some comfort. I need to relax, watch a movie, sit on a couch, something. I need to settle down and shut the fuck up, or at least recharge my facetiously strong battery. This intense facade I have is garbage and it keeps me down. Way down. That might not be correct, but climbing up just to get down isn't much fun. That's the cycle I am caught in. Hyping up my manic side just to stay even. I don't care about the things I used to love and they don't give me the pleasure they once did. I am getting depressed and although some of my best (in my opinion) material has been derived from my horribly depressive down swings, I am starting to see the weakness in letting others see these terribly intimate portraits of myself. It's a m istake and it either leaves me wide open to attack, makes me more vulnerable, or infuriates the very people I am trying to communicate with. It infuriates me. I can't communicate and the rage I feel at times is nearly indescribable. Everyone says they feel rage or anger and they might feel just like me. I don't know, so I will try to describe it. What this anger, depression, sadness and fear, the fucking fear, is like for me. I have a recurring hallucination about walking into a Target. It always Target. I can smell the popcorn and that strange new clothes smell. It's very real. I am walking through the store and all I can see is smiling faces. Smiling, laughing, happy faces, full of life and joy. And instead of finding happiness in these faces it only compounds the misery and fruitlessness of my existence and I feel very alone. In some kind of Matrix like move I pull out a hand gun and I start shooting all the smiling people in the face. If you are happy I shoot you in the face. There is blood, screaming, horror and in the eye of this storm I feel tot al calm. It's how I feel everyday I think. After about a half hour there aren't any happy people left and for the first time in my life I feel like one of the normals. I feel ok. There is no one left to remind me of what I am missing. I am like the rest and eventually this misery becomes the norm and it all makes sense. Well, I can't kill them all, but the vision is real and in that moment it makes sense to me. I often feel as if I understand these maniacs who run into K-marts and kill half the store. Maybe they are killing the people who remind them of what they don't have in their lives. What separates me from these people? Not much. I would never do that, but I do understand the logic. Or the sickness. I don't want to hurt anyone, usually, but at times I believe it is the only way out this raging depression and fear. I know it's not and I can get out another way. A better way to find happiness. It's just a vision and it passes, quickly. Of course I don't feel like this all the time. I have my moments. Today is one of them. On the bus ride to work a guy was sitting near the front of the bus eating a burrito. One arm was broken and he was eating with one hand, making a mess. You're not supposed to eat on the bus and while it annoys me who the hell am I to say anything. What am I, the man. Sure, we gotta sit in someone's sloppy mess, but it's the bus and it's for the trash of society, including me. The guy looks around, slowly and starts wiping his hand all over the seat in front of him. The seat someone else has to sit in, ruin their pants, because dumb fuck forget a napkin. I got up and sat right beside him and asked, "What are you doing?" He said, "Nothing." I said, "Don't wipe your greasy fucking hands all over the seat." "Fuck you", he replied. At this point people are looking at me and I am enraged by this motherfucker. I grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him close, " Maybe I should break your other arm because you obviously don't know how to use it properly." I went back to my seat. Why do I know this scurvy fucker has kids. What's wrong with people, but I think the bus wanted to know what's wrong with me.
These pages and pages of thoughts have amounted to reading material for someone, I don't where, who sits in a fucking cube and thinks, "What a god damned, pompous asshole. Fucking boo hoo. Oh, no one understands me." Sometimes I feel this way and who the fuck doesn't, but only a narcissist assfucker would put it out on the web so people can see he is human. I wanted someone to empathize with me and understand. Not judge, just listen, but it didn't work out that way. Look at me, the zoo monkey can write, wow, fascinating. It's sad and I think many people have missed the point behind random thoughts. That's ok and it's my fault for assuming that anyone would take the time to give a shit and read between the lines. It's my fault. It's also my fault if I continue to write and erroneously think I am making an impact or doing some good or that anyone cares about me or what I think. Every now and then I get an e-mail from someone about what I write. Thank you, it means a lot to me and it makes me believe that I am getting good at this. It's like a being in a band when you cannot understand why all the lousy bands get signed, get press, play nice clubs, when you band is so much better. Apparently I am not better, or good. Ah mediocre, the middle, becoming what you despise. Welcome home motherfucker. There are talented writers with interesting things to say.(Check out Jim Kopeny at www.donewaiting.com/chicago/ So here it is. I want to get my book published by next year. It doesn't matter if anyone reads it, I just want to get it out there and create something new. For now random thoughts has ran it's course and I don't really have anything new to say. Someone else has got to write about my three main topics, girls, bands and fat. I fall in love once a week and my heart gets broken every other. After a while it all feels the same and all you know are the highs and lows. It's like having piles of cocaine and then your dealer gets arrested, highs and lows. This shit is psychologically addictive. Anyway, thanks to the people who have e-mailed me. As far as I know about a 100 people read this thing, so thanks to you all, I appreciate it. I won't disappear forever, every now and then I will pop in with a thought I cannot contain. For example, if I get caught in a war protest, I will start typing. It's a habit. I just cannot let people see the things that rip me apart any longer. Well, not for free, it's too naked and I feel too exposed. It doesn't make me human and it has not made me happy. I guess the best way too explain it is to quote something I wrote long ago, so I leave you with this: "Maybe I'll see you one day and we can laugh about this entire mess. As for this new girl, well, I hope the last year taught me something and I can use it for my own evil purposes. But that's another letter and I've taken enough of your time as it is. I just think, in the end, all anyone really wants is to be happy. It doesn't matter if you find it in your family, your job, a girl, drugs, sex, religion, or in killing people. Everyone wants the same thing. As for me? You know I've spent my entire life trying to be somebody, but for the first time ever I think I'll be ok being nobody. And it's funny, it doesn't feel that strange to me."
She don't know, but I do. I often go and see her when she is working and it gives me a chance to talk with her and flirt. It also gives me an excuse to have a few drinks. Recently I was hanging out with her and I was getting a little tipsy. I was staring at her like a fucking retarded, love-stricken teenager and I was wishing I could be with her. I was watching her sing and dance and good damn is she cute. I was thinking that crazy, "She's the one" hooey and when that happens I know I am drunk, but for the moment it sure felt pure and right. In the moment it always makes sense doesn't it? I thought "Why can't I be happy? Why can't I be happy with her? God dammit, we belong together and that is how it's going to be." Well, maybe not. You see, she is my girlfriend, but she just doesn't know it yet. She doesn't know it and her boyfriend whom she lives with sure as hell doesn't know it. No one but me knows it. I wonder if he's go nna be mad? I wonder if it's going to fuck up their living arrangement? I wonder if she is thinking about me on a Sunday night. Probably not and as smart and beautiful as she says I am she lives with another guy and I cannot compete with that. She's not thinking about me, but here I am writing about her. I am a fucking loser.What's the point in trying? Or should I try? Should I go after her balls out like other men do in these situations and have an utter lack of respect for her boyfriend or her relationship. Shock and awe, bring it, conquer and divide and then she's mine. I don't give a fuck about her boyfriend. I care about me and that's the problem. I could be wrong. Maybe we don't belong together. Hell, she's a Republican and I am far from that team. I wonder what politically heated sex is like? Anyway, if I go after her, destroy her relationship, because I want her and I am wrong, well then everybody loses. That's not fair or righ t and for all my evil I am not that kind of person. people think I am, but I am not. So for now I guess I will admire her from afar and let nature take its natural course. Most relationships don't last and when hers ends I will be waiting. How long? I don't know, but at times the clock moves slow and I start to get desperate. Sometimes I'm not sure what I am desperate for. Maybe it's better that I don't know.
A letter to unknown sweetheart But, sometimes it gets pretty fucking lonely sticking to these guns and I wonder what the hell I have been thinking all my life. What am I fighting it for? Holy fuck Batman, maybe they are right? It seems people get swept up in this dramatic bullshit and they forget that love can tear you apart. It can be wonderful, but so is independence and answering to no one. The real world doesn't work on conjecture, fantasy or hope. It works with honesty and finding that person who loves you after the honeymoon is over and will stay around for the harder moments. A momentary lapse in judgment, or a lie, just gets in the way of finding real intimacy. Unfortunately, most people settle and then they, the kids, the dogs and cats, well, they're all fucked. Maybe I am silly and writing letters to unknown sweethearts. I don't know, but what the hell, mistakes and all, I keep trying.
My war. 3/21/03 I have always wondered about those people that seem to spontaneously end up in crazy situations. Who are they and how do these things always happen to them? I don't have to wonder any longer. I am that guy. I was lamenting my life as I worked yesterday and I was upset that it had been some time since I had participated in some freakish, drunken adventure. 98% of the time the topic I write about is me and if me isn't doing much I have no material. It seems that many of my stories revolve around debauchery and poor choices. I was wondering if that was what I needed to do to get some fresh material. Please, weirdness finds me and it always will. We are looking out the windows of NBC Tower watching the war protest ramble down Lakeshore drive. I can see traffic is a mess, but it is moving downtown and I am deciding if I should take the Chicago Ave. bus home or grab a cab. "What are you going to do Chuck", one of my co-workers asked. "Fuck it, I'm not paying $12 to get home. I am taking the bus." Time to punch the clock and catch the bus home, so I left. As I walk to the corner of Columbus and Grand I am not seeing much in the way of protest or traffic. I run to catch the bus, thank the driver for slowing down and I am on my way home, finally, long day. The bus ambles along, picking up the other bus riding losers and as always every seat is taken, filled, filled with the low paid workers of modern society. We turn the corner onto Chicago Ave. and we go about 50ft before we are stopped by traffic. It is backed up to Michigan Ave and we are not moving. I thought nothing of it until I saw the protestors. By the hundred they walked by the bus, flashing peace signs, handmade signs or writing, "no war" on the bus window. They kept coming. After about 15 minutes the driver told everyone to get off the bus and find another way home, because this bus was going nowhere. All forty of us got off the bus and starting walking with the protestors towards Michigan Ave. I walked about a hundred and I noticed police paddy wagons lined up across the street. I saw horse mounted cops and about 300 cops on the ground. It was obvious that this protest was going to stop at Michigan Ave. I asked a cop what was going on and he barked, "Go the other way, no one is getting through here." I turned around and walked back towards the bus. At this point about 3,000 people had gathered between Michigan Ave and the water tower. I walked the 100 yards back towards the bus and another three hundred cops had blocked off the other exit. "Hey can I leave? I was riding the bus home and it was overtaken by this protest." "No, you can't get through here," the overweight, Chicago cop with the prerequisite mustache said, "No one can leave." So there I was, trapped with a bunch of fucking hippies in a war protest I was not actually in. Karma? Fuck karma and fuck the hippies. Again, just trying to get home from work after a long day of helping people and somehow, some way, the weirdness finds me every fucking time. Before I go into this weird motherfucker, let me briefly review my war stance(skip this section if you don't care): "I still don't know what this war will accomplish. If we go what will change? If we don't go what will change? The name of this made for TV war has changed weekly and I am not sure anyone has noticed. Week one it was about weapons of mass destruction, week two, "Operation Iraqi Freedom." Only a complete assfuck would fall for that. I hate and despise George Bush and he is destroying all the good will our country has built with his bible thumping bullshit. Briefly, the US spends $322 billion on defense a year. This is larger than the rest of the world spends COMBINED on defense. We are the strongest nation ever. Historically, other nations naturally distrust the big boy on the block and seek to topple number 1 (Hapsburg Empire-17th century, the French/Great Britain-18th/19th century, Germany 20th century, Soviet Union, etc). FDR and Truman knew this and they created the Marshall Plan and the United Nations to let other countries have a s ay in what we do and to help lesser countries financially. This has built good will and stopped the formation of anti-US coalitions. Essentially, we built in our own checks and balances for diplomacy and this has let us do whatever we want if we follow the rules. GW has destroyed this. In my lifetime it won't mean shit, but if you have children you gotta wonder what this bible fuck is thinking. Back to my drama." 30 minutes- I assumed the police had a plan to disperse this crowd and in due time they would let me go home. In the back ground I could see more cops gathering, helicopters overhead, general chaos. I decided since I was stuck I may as well get a feel for the modern protestor. What hippy, pompous, rich kid bullshit this was. First, apparently, all protestors smoke, a lot. Although I am trapped outdoors I am encompassed by smoky, smelly, hippies. Pretentious, rich, stupid, pseudo-intellectual, hippy fucks. God dammit my blood pressure is rising. They are talking and I can hear them. I hate them. A man's voice, think the male equivalent of Madonna's voice, post-fake accent, is talking excitedly into his cell phone. "Father, I may never make it home. The police are here by the thousands amd they have arrested 40 of us." US!! You asshole. "They will probably take my cell phone and we will have no way to communicate father." What a dick. (50 minutes)The anger is rising and I wanted to kick him in his rich kid nuts. "Hey everybody," a cherubic, white, college girl with an unfortunate hair cut yells, "ABC News just announced we are the biggest protest in the country. We did it." God, I gotta take a shit. "Hey pigs, this is a peaceful protest. We don't wanna bang heads with you." And although that was very Vietnam era hippy crap, I could see that this person wasn't that far gone. Things were changing and my anger was out of control. I was a caged animal and if I wasn't one of the cops I was one of the protestors. The lines were clearly drawn. I saw the plastic cuffs coming out, the riot gear was on and the gas masks were out. At the two hour mark Chuck the counselor was finally dead. Mr. Tipton is going to war. Not against the "God damned, godless, Iraqi horde," nope, it's the law motherfucker. "Hey, excuse me", I said loudly as I push my way past these sof t, weak hippies, "You guys got a plan? When am I going home? Can anyone here tell me?" I am eye to eye with this short, Joe Pesci looking cop. This smarmy fucker looks at me like I am a vile, disease ridden, pedophile. He picks up his billy club and pokes the end in my chest. I swear to God if I had been drinking I would have ripped his esophagus from his throat and beat him over the head with it. I took my hand and slowly pushed the club to the side and said, "That's not necessary," while never breaking eye contact with this midget punk. "I just wanna go home." "You wanna go to jail", the big haired, female nightmare of a cop said to me. I put my hands to my face and I said, "My God, are you serious, is that an option? Can I do that every night? Instead of leaving my job as a counselor at night I can go to jail? Instead of eating and using the bathroom I can go to jail? Is this a new thing?" Every cop there wanted to kill me and I am sure they would have chopped up my body and put me in a plastic bag to be dropped in rural Grundy county if there hadn't been 1,000 witnesses and tons of press in the area. At that moment I realized I am far different from them. I don't want to sound anti-police, because I am not. I know good cops who were former punk rockers and they get it. Unfortunately, the other 95% of the force is compromised of former jocks who weren't quite talented enough to play college sports. They have what I refer to as the "cop/jock mentality." This isn't high school, but it sure as fuck feels that way. They hate me. They do not serve me. They do not protect me and I don't owe them shit. I don't want to hear how hard the job is. I don't want to hear how they are underpaid. Chicago Cops make about 50K a year on average. I don't. Fuck you. It must have looked insane as I stood in the middle of the crowd screaming, "God fucking dammit" and shaking my fists. A girl looks my way and says, "There are uncover cops in the crowd" and walks away from me because she thinks I am a cop. Stupid cunt. I am intimidating these cops. I am bigger, stronger and far angrier than any protestor here. The cops think I am an angry skin head. Jesus Christ what a paradoxical situation I am in. (Three hours) The protestors are getting scared and they gotta pee and shit and they are hungry. I say to a guy, "You assholes. Isn't the goal of civil disobedience to get arrested? Way to believe in your convictions." The "we are number one" girl starts to cry. She wants to go home and three hours of protesting is hard work. Hasn't she done enough? "Honey, you come here," the undercover, windbreaker wearing, Hispanic leader, of the dark forces says. "Who are you with? You can go home honey." "HEY! I'm not even a part of this protest," I yell. Joe Pesci gives me a smirk, laughs and says, "What you got in your bag a gas mask?" If there is a God he will allow me to meet that little fucker alone in an alley so I can repeatedly smash his head into a wall and ask him, "Does that hurt sweetie? Do you wanna go home honey?" But there is no God and I am own my own. Hour 4- Apparently, being a cop is much like working at a hip club with a velvet rope. The leader of security is picking people out of the crowd to get into this "club." "You two, who are you with? You can go, sorry for the trouble." "Excuse me," I say, "Again, riding the bus home. Not a part of this protest." That's not gonna get the big boy with the big mouth into this shithole club. Madonna voiced cell phone boy gets picked. Fuck me. More smoking/convictionless hippies get picked and I want to kill. I can smell blood you cocks. I am the angriest person at this protest times ten. God damn ironic isn't it? Finally my Hispanic friend looks me up and down and says, "Who you here with?" "No one, I was riding the bus home and I got trapped in this thing. I was going home." Joe Pesci runs over, "You gotta a gas mask in this bag." "No", I said, "Just a book to read on the bus." They are ripping my bag apart and the cop picks up my book, Hunter S. Thompson's Kingdom of Fear, looks at it and shoves it in my bag. "You can go." As I walk I start to laugh because the irony of this shit can't be reproduced. The chapter I am reading in Kingdom of Fear is about the 1968 Democratic convention when the Chicago cops beat the shit out of anyone who wasn't a cop. Either you were one of them or you weren't, that simple. I wasn't really grasping what Hunter was saying. Now I understand. I get on my cell phone and call my Arab friend Eli who drops everything and drives down Chicago Ave. to pick me up. I see him and we are smiling and laughing about my fantastic luck. "God damn", I think to myself, I am really lucky to have rock fucking solid friends. But to the cops we are just a sand nigger and a big, stupid, skinhead driving down Chicago Ave. I know, I see it in their eyes and I am angry and scared.
Bombs over Baghdad I am a liberal, very liberal. I am for the legalization of everything. I hate government intervention, which is what separates a liberal from a conservative. Conservatives like big government and I don't need old men telling me what to do. This is not what they preach, these conservatives, but they love getting in your business. They have convinced themselves that liberals enjoy an interfering government. Not true. Most of our budget is spent on the military. Apparently, to conservatives, big government means any money spent helping the poor and disenfranchised, but does not include a massive defense department? However, our bomb budget dwarfs what we spend on schools and feeding starving Americans. Who is for big spending? I don't have a problem with helping those who are less fortunate. Why would I? Conservatives support massive military spending and conservative fiscal spending. Does this make sense? Isn't this an oxymoron? I need the government to build roads, an infrastructure and have a functioning army within reason. Conservatives are pro-life and support censorship in music, movies and on TV. You can't think. They will think for you. 1/4 of our military budget could feed thousands of kids and improve the quality of our schools a hundredfold. We need a strong military and I enjoy living in the most powerful country in the world, but how much is enough? We are the most powerful country in history, bar none. The Romans, please. The Greeks were a sham. We are number 1 and number 2 is way behind. I guess this makes me a bleeding heart pussy. I am for abortion,(love it), smut on tv(big fan), legal prostitution(sometimes you need an outlet) and legal drug use(why not junkies). Bring it. I can handle my own shit. I don't need the government monitoring my every move. I don't need th e government to protect my kids. You stupid fuckers, I can protect my kids by paying attention to them and getting involved with their lives, listening to their music and monitoring their tv consumption. I am a liberal and I am responsible for my actions and my families actions. If you cannot monitor your own actions or take responsibility for your choices I guess you need a government to tell you what is right or wrong. I don't. By the way, if you need the government to explain right and wrong please don't have a child. That kid is going to be a fuck up just like you, assfuck. The other day I had a guy telling me, "We gotta blow those towelheads up." I disagreed and he said, "What do you support Bin Laden?" I said, "Asshole, there is no proven link between Bin Laden and Iraq. I don't support terrorism and I wish we would get back to concentrating on Al-Qaida which scares the hell out of me." He said, "You would let Saddam fuck our children in the ass and then apologize for their assholes being too tight you pussy." Let's stop here. I'm no pussy. I have won more fights than I have lost, but I have had my ass bloodied. I have been hospitalized from beatings I have taken. I am a pretty strong man. I figure 6/7 out of 10 men walking down the street would think twice before fucking with me. The 8th would be too dumb to back down. No problem. However, it's those last two you gotta worry about. Those last two would kill me. Size and strength don't matter at all. It's the brawlers you better be worried abo ut. The only way to recognize a true brawler is by fighting a couple and getting your head kicked in. It's in their eyes.The first time I went to the hospital from losing a fight I was 19. I was delivering a pizza and I saw a guy stealing a pizza from the back of my delivery truck. I didn't care about the pizza, but driving back to the restaurant at 11pm to get another was a pain in the ass. Usually when this happened I would cut a deal with the thief. "Hey, give me five bucks and take the pizza." I would pocket the money and the drunk would get a cheap pizza. I wasn't in a giving mood on this night. "Hey, put the fucking pizza back. I caught you." The guy tried to run, tripped, fell and I stood over him. "Come on man, give it back. I caught you." The guy stood up. He was taller than me, but I wasn't scared, yet. He wasn't a brawler. It wasn't in his eyes. A brawlers eyes stay absolutely dull during a confrontation or battle. A brawlers heart rate will remain stable during the fight. He could be watching "Full House" and get more excited. Brawling is what a brawler does, it's like going to work. My friend the Hilljacker is a brawler and I would never fuck with him. However, this guys eyes were like mine, flickering, bright, heart pumping fast. He was scared. I was scared also, but I was 19 and willing to take my chances when confronted by another fighter. He threw his first punch and I moved to the right, which was a mistake because it took me out of position. As I moved left I saw something flying at me out of the corner of my eye. Two of his buddies had jumped out of the car. The punch his buddy threw caught me hard on the forehead. I was out on my feet and my head was scrambled. When you get hit that hard your world goes on auto-pilot. I was still fighting, giving and taking punches, but I was getting pummeled. I knew I was going to get hurt. It's strange, the feeling of calm that washes over you as you take a severe beating. You don't feel the punches, kicks, the pain or your own hot blood running down your face. The snot and mucous coming out of your broken nose and running into your mouth, it doesn't register and everything slows down. I smashed one guys face into the hood of the truck and one of the others was shirtless, it was 20 outside, and he was bleeding. They were beating me down, "Give me your money faggot. Were gonna kill you." I don't know about that, but I was outnumbered and for every punch I landed I received ten. Slowly I started to buckle and I hit the pavement. I was calm, at peace. All I could hear was their breathing and the horrible thud of the kicks to my stomach and back. I thought to myself, "I can't believe this is how I am going to die." Miraculously, the manager of my restaurant was visiting his girlfriend who lived in the apa rtment building I was delivering to. He ran outside and the cowards scurried. At the hospital I received an intermediate rating on my beating. I don't think I want to go pro. Anyway, when you are a fighter you're bound to lose some battles. When you are fighting three other fighters you will lose. I am a fighter, not a brawler. Back to my friend who said, "You would let Saddam fuck our children in the ass and then apologize for their assholes being too tight you pussy." This guy was not a brawler, a fighter or a winner. This is the guy who will send our soldiers, our boys, girls, sons and daughters, off to fight an unnecessary war. This is the type of guy who supported the "police action" in Nam. Another fat boy who cannot fathom that people will die. White people, brown people, dead for no reason. Another guy who doesn't care. Another guy who needs to bleed to see how it feels. Another guy who is out of touch. Another delusional freak, just like our rich, never worked in his life, kids will never get harmed or killed President. I poked him in his jelly belly. "I'm a pussy huh? I'm the problem huh? Well here's your chance tough guy. Kick my pussy ass. Hurt me, make my pussy, liberal ass pay. And you'll fail like you always fail you piece of shit. I will beat you into the ground and fuck your wife, fuck your mom and fuck everything you ever loved or cared about in this world. And then you will suck my liberal, weak, pussy cock and beg your God for forgiveness you stupid dick. Don't ever say that to me again you fucking punk, you idiot." He declined. He apologized and walked away. Such conviction for his beliefs. Asswipe. I hate him. I hate his family and his kind. Die fucker and stay the hell out of my way. This upcoming war is pointless for several reasons. One, Iraq is about the size of Rhode Island. Jesus, going to war with Michigan would be more difficult that killing Iraq. Right now Saddam, who is evil, no doubt, a dictator we once supported, is completely incapacitated. His every move is being watched, 24/7. He is harmless. His army is only 33% the size it was during the first Gulf War. Two, we have absolutely no evidence that Saddam is linked to Al-Qaida. If we did the American public would know. This would generate public support. If we had that evidence I would get behind this monster propaganda campaign. Three, the weapons inspectors have found no weapons of mass destruction. Zero. Four, the best way to free Saddam's country is not to bomb the hell out of them and kill a 100,000 Iraqi citizens in the process. It is to increase sanctions and discourse amongst his own people, not kill the very people you are trying to free. W e have never had another country come to America and kill thousands of us for violating a sanction or disagreeing with another government. 9/11 was not a full on military action. It was 19 guys in hi-jacked jets. Put yourself in the Iraqi citizens shoes. How do they feel? Shouldn't we have an indisputable reason for this upcoming slaughter? I don't know what information Colin Powell is privy to, but he knows many things the public does not. However, his reasoning for war is based on speculation and not fact. Powell is a career solider. Without a war he is useless. Like GW, he is a yes man told what to do by GW's daddies administration. I don't trust them. They are old, ready to die and they don't give shit about you or me. They don't care about anyone. If we are going to kill thousands of human beings at least give me a credible reason. If this makes me a pussy then I am a big pussy. However, when nothing changes, when Iraq is still a violator of human ri ghts, when our kids come home in body bags, and nothing has changed, remember where you stood. Like 1991, when the only change war produced was the thousands of dead Iraqi citizens and hundreds of young American soldiers suffering from Gulf War syndrome, remember which side you were on. Remember what you stood for when the shit went down. It is your American duty to question and demand answers from your government. Jesus, if Thomas Jefferson were alive today GW would burn his pussy, liberal ass on a cross, KKK style. Hell, Lincoln would be called a faggot race mixer and beat with clubs. And Ben Franklin, good God, he would be bent over a fence and anally raped with a baseball bat for his fraternizing and his questioning way. Good times are upon us friends. Don't question, don't think, obey like the good little bitches you are. If you question you will be locked up in a questioners camp and beat until your brains run out your ears. I could be wrong, but I doubt it. The growing American hatred is being lead by religious fanatics, al-Qaida, and other weirdo's. Our President is a borderline religious freak. These people worry me. All this God worship equals a whole lotta dead people. Praise Jesus, it seems to be working well and it makes sense. Which is the commandment about killing people? Guess we missed that one.
Gooch Exposed 3/6/2003 I have many friends. Some are more interesting that others and at times it is nothing less than work convincing the insipid that they are not banal drags. But they press on, killing me with the drivel of their lives, the problems, the boyfriends and girlfriends, the kids, jobs, bands blah, blah, blah. But I listen because I am a professional and that is what I am trained to do. Again, I have hundreds of friends and you're wasting your time if you are trying to get into my head and ascertain who I am referring to. Don't, you can't, but the fact remains I know some ponderous motherfuckers. However, my closest friends are never boring. Sure, we all have our tedious moments, but tedium is different that boring. Tedium is annoying, it evokes a response. Boredom does nothing, save bore. In the past year I acquired a new friend and he is never dull. The person I speak of is a fantastic musician and a sweet man. Kind, gentle, handsome, funny, he helps people and he always has a fine word for his fellow brother or sister. However, every good man has his dark side or weakness. For some it's the sweet taste of sugar. For others, it is a fatty treat like a Big Mac or Taco Bell burrito supreme that satiates the screaming cries of their voluminous fat cells. I, admittedly, like the juice, the liquor, that's my filthy pleasure. Yet others get their kicks from drugs-heroin, cocaine, crack, meth, pills, pot, hooch, ghanja, the devil's weed. However, not one of these vices add up to squat compared to the greatest vice of them all. The Gooch, he got that vice, for the Gooch, he loves the ladies. The first time I met him I could see it in his eyes. He was introduced to me by his nickname, Zeus. "I'm Zeus." I shook his hand, strong grip Zeus had, and I started shaking my head. "How could they miss it", I thought, "What kind of clueless friends does this man have? My God, deep in his eyes, it's right there." I let go of his hand. "What the hell kind of name is Zeus," I demanded. "It means power, yo, strength, yo. "And it's fucking gay, yo," I said. I grabbed him by the shoulders and said, "For now on you will be called Gooch, and you Gooch, you love the ladies." It looked like 12,346 pounds had been lifted from the Gooch's shoulders. He looked up at me with his dreamy eyes, lipid, gorgeous pools that will melt your heart and he said, "I am the Gooch. Thank you." So it was said. The Gooch always has ladies, always, and no woman can resist him. He put the play in player G. My goodness, a dweeb like myself doesn't have a chance when the Gooch walks into a room. He has style, grace and a rap. He talks to women, not at them. He is all about them, their wants and needs, their looks, their jobs and he never speaks of himself. Here are words from the Gooch when talking to a girl at the Rock Star Club show. I secretly tape recorded the entire conversation. All of this dialogue happened in the first five minutes. "Hi, I'm the Gooch, you look gorgeous tonight honey." "What do you do?" "You are so smart!" "You are the prettiest girl in this room." "Who cares about me, let's talk about you." "If I was your boyfriend I would never let you out of my sight." "Can I pay your rent next month?" "You like this jacket, take it, I will buy another." "Would you like another drink?" "Here's a hundred bucks, the Gooch is not blinded by paltry things such as money. No, the Gooch is blinded only by your beauty." Mind you, all this in five minutes. Why do I care? I'll tell you why, this girl was my date! And the date was over. You see a woman I have been out with called me and asked me if I would like to meet her friend. "Hell yes, no one sets me up", I said. "Chuck, you have a bad reputation, but I like you and you'll make a good pair." However, I am a man. "What's she look like?" "Oh Chuck, you will like her. She is hot. I will bring her to your show tonight." Jackpot, coming to my show? That's instant sex, a guarantee and I have nothing to do but show up. I love rock n roll. And the Gooch, he loves the ladies. Like a dumb fuck I arrived at the show late. I glanced around the room trying to locate my conquest. "Um Um, she looks fine. Damn, I'll take her also, wow, nice bucket." RSC shows are always full of attractive ladies. To my right I see my friend with this incredibly hot woman. She gives me a smile and motions towards her and gives me a "What do you think" look. In my head I heard the strains of "Staying Alive" as I strutted across the club. She introduced us, I made small talk. I made her laugh, smile. She was stunning, lovely, angelic and I was feeling high and mighty. In fact, I was so confident that I decided to leave my new friend and walk around the club to greet the hundreds of fans at the show. I glad handed with our fans, grabbed a drink, a shot, talked with some other people and the band. 10 minutes later I decide I had made my point. Mr. Tipton is not going to stand around kissing a chick's ass. I have options and I know it. However, a woman this attractive is used to constant attention, so I had best get my ass over there and close this deal. I am a closer, no doubt. The music in my head turned to screams of horror as I gazed at the sight before me. There was the Gooch, cocksure, like a young Mick Jagger, whispering into my ladies ear. She was laughing and smiling, obviously mesmerized by the smooth, velvet rap of a man possessed by pussy. He slid his arm around her and continued to put 1000% of his focus on her. Fucking 9/11 could have been happening in the building next door and the Gooch would not have been detoured from his prey. I had to think and fast, but I was dazed by the drama unfolding in front of me.. WACK! My friend smacked me in face and screamed, "You spineless, ball less, faggot motherfucker. I bring you a woman that is going to fuck you and you prance around like a Queen at the gay pride parade! Get over there, now, you are losing her and embarrassing me. The gooch is gooching her, he is goooooooching her!!!!!!" He was, but I wasn't out of this fight yet. It must have looked ridiculous as I sprinted towards them. The Gooch spied my out of the corner of one of his cat like eyes. He started to back away from his prey. The Gooch is not dumb. I may not be smooth, but I am a big kid and I think the Gooch thought I was gonna kill him. I was not, but at that moment she turned and looked at me and smiled a most radiant smile. "There you a.................................." and everything slowed down. I saw it in mid air. It caught a glimmer of light as it floated through the air and I swear the prism effect created a rainbow. It looked kind of pretty actually, but it wasn't. As the last word started to leave my throat, a chunk of mucous that had been in my lungs since 1997 beat the syllable to the punch and was launched viciously into the atmosphere. It felt like minutes, but it was a terrible second that ended with my hoocker in her eye. Splat. ......."are?" Game, set, match to Gooch. After the show I went to Carol's Lounge with my bass playing replacement Bob to get drunk. Nothing like drowning your sorrows in a country bar with the man who is in line to take your job. With me out the way the Gooch was in the clear. I guess he took both the ladies out to dinner and they gave him a ride home. He is a pro. As they dropped him off he told them how lovely they were and how they were responsible for his perfect night. My friend described what happened next. The Gooch looked at the woman and said, "Can I have your phone number." She shifted uncomfortably in the car seat and said, "I don't know. I'm kind of seeing someone." Friends, take note, this is a man. The Gooch looked slowly from side to side, he gently but firmly grabbed the girls arm and said coldly, "You have no choice." And she didn't. The Gooch was exposed and although I cannot tell you what happened next I will say this. The Gooch always wins, every time.
Drinking on Sunday makes you forget that Monday isn't so far away. My head is swimming and honestly, I'M NOT RESPONSIBLE for anything I write or say(like this disclaimer means shit). I blew off a girl last night because I woke up 5 hours late to fuck. That sounds crazy, but it's pretty much the truth. I was going to have sex with her and I am too old for that. It's wrong and I guess I should have called (I didn't call or e-mail) and said I wasn't going to make it. Pretty mature, but I shouldn't have been talking to her just to fuck, yeah, yeah yeah, this penis is a dummy. But it's ok, it's always gonna be ok for me, it's gotta be, because I bank on it....... Growing up is weird and I don't think you really get it until the day you die. Well if you make it until a grand, old, age. I had this dream about dieing, it was great. I was old, 90, 95 and I was desperately trying to remember my life, but all I could remember was my old guy bullshit. "Where is my social security check, why doesn't Ms. Ronozsky, the 91 year old widower. like me." I woke up laughing. The rest of the shit means nothing and even then I was caught in the silly moment. What will matter is the crap I am wrapped up in the very moment I kick. And honey, sweetie, that's ok, it just means you are living, until the bitter end. The 20's, 30's, 40's, gone, god damn, the 70's, 80's, 90's are rocking and every feeling, instinct, it's still alive. Damn, getting old, the party never ends. Does it? I went out drinking/eating, with my friend today. She is one of the most intense chicks, and I have met a few, that I know. She came to this country with nothing. No family, no money, no language, nothing. She has made something of herself. Learned the language, done things I cannot fathom or understand. God damn, I grew up in the Midwest and I don't get it. I would be lost. I get lost when I am in a room where I am the only one who cannot speak Spanish. Wow, she came her naked and now she is clothed. It impressed the hell out of me... I have one other friend who did the same thing. Damn, these Russian girls, these Ukranian girls, they have guts. Whooooooooooooooooa, this is not working and I cannot write, can I? So I went to the Twisted Spoke where the mdl was working, and we drank, and listened to Soul Asylum and smiled and laughed and dreamed.... a lot, but after 6 hours of drinking I ain't much. My girl was working, we all know it's true, don't we? do I ? does she?. God I suck, but there she was and we both talk, deny and pretend and it's never gonna be so and it's all...... Yup, it's going to be ok. I can't spell or speak or yell. My roommate just told me I can't have his phone number and he only lives 25ft away. We have separate numbers, it's very professional. You know, nothing is better than drinking on a sunday when monday isn't far away. I'll miss it, time to quit for a little while.
The band gives me a reason There are several things that are great about being in a band that doesn't suck. You get to hang out with your friends all the time. You get that "I feel more powerful that Christ" feeling in the pit of your stomach when the band writes a kickin new song (that's right, kickin, just like 50cent says.) You get a lot of free food and drinks, get on guest lists, get to go to amazing parties and you meet interesting people. Ok, some of the other musicians you meet are interesting. Actually, most of the people you meet are incredibly boring and the majority of record company people make me want to kill. Parasitic fuckers, sucking on the tit of incompetence and selling out like the whores they are on a daily basis. I hate the stupid and brother are they stupid. After years and years of fucking America and everyone else they could fuck, the party is over. Industry jobs are being lost, record and promotion companies are downsizing like motherfuckers. Well fuck those rats and their sinking ship. Die fuckers, the free, never-ending "label" party has ended. Admittedly, I have attended several label parties in my day. The party is always for the new "buzz" band and all the reps and label scouts suck the shit right from their assholes. FudgeEaters. I was once at a label party for a band called Bran Van 3000. Who? What? Exactly. After that festering, puss-filled, never had an original thought band drown in it's own shit, the sycophants bailed like roaches caught under the glare of kitchen lights. It's good these people are losing their jobs. They have no talent, skills or redeeming qualities. It was all play, little work. Discover one band that goes platinum and your career is made, forever. One time. Your average can be 1 for 10,000 and you're still the man. It's comical and tragic. But remember, the record labels know talent and you know nothing. You are shit. They hate you, believe me, they do. They laugh at you at their free parties and promoti! onal eve nts. I will give them this, they chose the right career as hollow as it is. However, along the way you do meet people you would have never meet without music. Some of those people can become life long friends. I met my friend Todd Cravens in 1989. I think the first time I saw him was after an outdoor show my band had played in West Lafayette, Indiana. I had just finished smashing my Epiphone guitar in a moment of testosterone fueled angst (pretty stupid, I only owned two guitars.) He said, "that was awesome." I assumed he meant the destruction of my guitar, but nope, he liked the band. Turns out he played guitar and sang for a band called Soulpaint based out of Indianapolis, Indiana. We became friends and we started trading shows with Soulpaint. As good as we were, as great as I thought I was, they were better. Soulpaint is one of my all-time favorite bands. Wonderful, catchy songs, great melodies, powerful music played by fantastic musicians. Truly, out of all the bands I have known that have deserved to get signed by the label whores, they were the best. Better than I will ever be, no doubt. But it didn't happen that way and since that time Todd has been unable to sustain a band for more than 6/7 months. He had a band called the Brassmasters that was strong, but it fizzled out. Too bad because he is a talented songwriter and better singer. Friday the band goes to Indianapolis to play. I am glad I get to see Todd and catch up. We always argue about music, his tastes are far more eclectic than mine, but we both love music, it's a bond. We are staying with Todd and his kick ass wife. It is always good to see him and he is always interesting and I respect his opinion. I love playing out of town because it is an opportunity to see old friends and make new ones. I wish we played out of town more often because something good always happens. A new friend, a new band to worship, a crazy story or maybe a girl, but it is another opportunity for something new. I remember the last time we played the Melody Inn in Indianapolis. I was drinking heavily in those days. The goal was get as drunk as you can before you touch any instrument and play. Paul and I both were living by this mantra. It didn't pay off, but it was exciting. Eli never knew which band would show up. The brilliant, critically acclaimed RSC, or the drunken duo of Paul and Chuck barely able to play. My recollection was we got free beer that night. I also remember playing very well. I ended up with a girl. She is pictured next to me on the cover, or insert, of "The Entertainer", (she has red hair and I am next to her giving the camera the finger.) That never happens unless you are in a metal band. Or a country band. Jesus, it happens to every band but our band. I woke up the next day and had one of those "where the fuck am I moments." I was partially dressed and laying on a floor. To rip off Soul Asylum I thought, "I have seen these clothes before, because I have woke up on this floor before." But, this ain't any carpet I have seen? I had no idea where I was, who I was with or what town I was in. Somehow I located my cell phone, it was in my pocket. I called our manager. At that time we had a manager and I figured it was time for her to manage. Jesus Christ we were a fucking nightmare of a mess. "Lynn, where am I?" "What?", she replied. "Where the fuck am I?" Indianapolis, I think", she said while laughing. "I know that, but where?" Now this is where a manager earns her keep. She said, "How would I know where you are? I'm in Chicago. Look out the window, what do you see?" I replied,"Some buildings! , looks like an apartment complex, wait, my car." "Ok, grab your stuff and get into your car and drive home." "Lynn", I stammered, "I don't no where I am." And here is where she made her money, "Ask someone how you get to the expressway to go to Chicago." So I got in my 1997 Honda Civic, grabbed a Big Gulp and asked the clerk which way to Highway 65. Months later I spoke with the girl who took me home. It turns out she had driven me back to her place where we hung out. What a nice girl. I sound like a drunken moron, but I love stories like that. The band gives me a reason, the band is the reason. Once I have a reason I can take care of the rest. I love this feeling of leaving, like we are doing something good, valuable and redeeming. In reality, playing out of town is like trying to get a pretty boy or girl to notice you. You gotta do a little something to get noticed, open your mouth or just be better than everyone else. Something has to set you apart. Otherwise you end up playing in a club for 13 people who don't give a fuck about you or your shitty band. We're not models so we aren't going to get noticed for our smashing good looks. We need to be louder, or more obnoxious, or just plain better than the other bands. It doesn't matter. I like the challenge and it makes me feel alive. That's pretty sad for a guy who has never left the borders of the U.S.A. You would think I would be chomping at the bit to get the hell out of America and see the old country. I am, but I have always thought the band and I would go to Europe or Japan, together. The band is the reason to leave... The other day a friend of mine said to me, "You and your running, always running, doing something, what are you avoiding? You're just like Holly Golightly in Breakfast from Tiffany's, you run because you don't want to be trapped in a cage, but the very things you run from puts you in another cage." I had neither seen nor read Breakfast from Tiffany's. I always thought it was a girl movie. However, my sister has seen it 1,000 times so I asked her what the hell this meant. She explained that Holly Golightly would move from one insignificant relationship to another to avoid being trapped in a relationship. However, by running from love she would never find true love and ultimately become trapped by the very thing she was trying to avoid. Interesting, I may have to read that book. I don't know if that describes me or not. It might, but I let the music dictate most of my choices and it has always come first. Is music my trap, my insignificant relationship? Maybe it should come second Holly? Either way, I look forward to Friday. I wish we were gone every Friday. It's time to go, again.
Another shitty explanation for wasting time. 02.20.2003 I still look ok, but I am very hard on myself and I am sick of always feeling tired. I hate being tired. I hate thinking about being tired and thinking about thinking it. I have never been this unmotivated in my life. I move, always, 5 hours of sleep, out the door, moving. This wake up at 7am, blow off the gym, go back to bed until 10am and fuck around on my computer is bullshit. It's very close to addiction because it is effecting my personal life. I may as well start masturbating wherever I go. At the drive thru, "Ok sir that's a Big Mac, small fry and for the love of god sir put that thing away! NOT THE SPECIAL SAUCE." At the grocery store, "That's $8.98. do you have a preferred card." "No, I've got this ughhhh." If you see a man furiously masturbating into the $2 toll basket on the Skyway that will be me. Pay no mind. Just paying my fare in my own special way. I don't like this. I don't like how I feel in the aftermath of a warm bed and a big meal. I feel tired. My body looks soft and doughy and I have lost my edge. I am no longer hungry. I am depressed, slow, weak. I hate those fucking excuse making, feel sorry for me, tv watching, never going out motherfuckers. I am becoming one-of them. I need time to get my life together (right.) Unfortunately, I love drama and I love the organized chaos of my life. However, I need a schedule, a strict regiment. Without it, I go straight to hell and for all my discipline I can be incredibly out of control and reckless. A large percentage of what I write has actually happened to me. It hasn't killed me, but that "will make you stronger" shit is just that, shit. A passing daydream that allows the stupid to convince themselves that everything is good. It's not all good. I need time and I am taking it. I am going away f or a while. Nothing to do but deal with the accumulation of a lot of things that are serving to bring me down and change what I am. I don't need a person in my life to make it whole. However, I need to be at my best, time is running out and every minute I waste is one I can never have again. I can hear that fucking clock ticking on and on and on. Sometimes I wonder if anyone else feels like this and if they think they are wasting their lives like I do. Is there a tribe of people who constantly believe time is running out, but they do nothing to change it? Where are my people? God damn, that would be a helluva self-help group. A lot of great ideas, but no one to get them done. I could be the leader, follow me you god damned idiots. I will lead us all to the promised land of success and fulfillment. Ah, fuck that, too much work. Maybe I should work on getting up at 7am and lifting weights. Instant gratification honey. Maybe I should get a job at a company that I don't hate. It's like working for the enemy and the load will bring you down. Boy, this is a whole lotta maybe. Maybe I won't get drunk at the Liar's Club tonight? Sure, maybe I will convince myself that it will be another step towards falling down. But you can always get back up can't you?
The beatings will continue until moral improves Anyway, RSC is playing a show with Mammoth Car on February 21st and Wyatt and Jay of Mammoth Car asked me if I would sing "Junction" if they played it. Since I love myself more than anyone I had to say yes. At one time I was a fantastic front man. Driven by liquor and ego, my goal was to crush the audience, every time. Love me, hate me, just have a fucking opinion of me. I love RSC, but I do miss singing. I will never sing in RSC because Elias thinks I am the worst singer in American music. He hates my voice. He recently said, "If Chuck sings I quit." The truth hurts and it is a bitch to find a good drummer. If the drummer is the Lebanese Lion he wins. He is impossible to replace, so I just play bass. I shut up and play. No back talk from me, no sir. However, after singing with Mammoth Car I may go solo. It took about three tries, but after I warmed up my voice came back. I am truly great. I may quit RSC on Friday. These fuck ers are holding me back. I am a star. I am beautiful and I must be on display front and center. Maybe I need to sober up? With the Zuckler on keyboards we played "Just what I Needed" by the Cars. Zuckler picked up a guitar and we went headlong into "Hot Blooded." Jay owns a house and the basement was set up with the instruments ready to go. It was awesome. It looks like one of those college houses in a college town, which it is. Thanks dummy, brilliant observation. Jay's kitchen, living room and dining room are split by a wooden structure with a walkway in the middle of it. It has a wooden beam across the top and giant windowless windows, a couple of shelves are on the bottom. All college houses built in the 30's-40's have a similar look and feel. It made me want to buy a home with a basement to play in. My old band had a house on 2913 Underwood St. in Lafayette Indiana. It was notorious and it was a filthy mess. Everyone in the band lived there but Paul. I lived in the garage which had a bathroom. Living in the main house was the MDL, rock n roll sex symbol Bobby Nicksic and non-band members Brian Carpenter and Steve Dolina. It was insane and the MDL and I had an antagonistic relationship. He would blame all the filth on me.(Years later it has been proven he was the main source of filth.) The motherfucker would put post-it notes up all over the house that said, "Filthy Tipton was here." In retaliation I would sleep with a girl and put the used condom on the MDL's drum kit. God that pissed him off. The MDL and I would come home and we rehearsed all the time. We practiced constantly and the focus was music 24/7. I was happy in that environment and I miss it. I would like to live that way again. Our neighbor Jim High, the coolest guy around, would listen to a police scanner and when the cops were coming to shut us down he would tell us and we would stop rehearsing. It was perfect. I mean what guy with a family wants a drunk rock n roll band living next door to him? Jim High, that's who. We often drank with Jim, his wife Debbie and Jim's best friend Kenny. Good guys, good times. We need an RSC house. Three hours later practice with the Mammoth Car boys ended and we went out to the local bars to pick up some hot Valpo snatch. Ok, to get drunk with men, but the snatch line sounds less gay. Ok, to celebrate Wyatt's birthday. Ok, to get drunk. We went to the Northside Tap a cool, little, neighborhood bar. I knew I was in trouble when the Hilljacker(see previous random thought for explanation) walked through the door. He was with my friend George Mohoi, who along with the Hilljacker and Mark Taylor play in Team Hoss. Mohoi played bass in my first punk rock band, Broken Class. Jesus, band incest. Remember, I was with the Zuckler and the one thing the Zuckler does is Zuckle. He talks very excitedly, he talks with his hands, he does a little dance and he is zuckling and jiving all over the place. Tonight was no different. Within five minutes he had located a bachelorette party and he was making small talk with the entire party. He called me over and I joined their table. "You're this guy," and a woman handed me a playing card that had a picture of a muscular guy on it that said, 'The in-love with his body guy." "What's not to love," I said. The girl gave me a disgusted look. p;I thought to myself, "You fucking heifers, on the best day of your life it would take 20 beers for me to sleep with you." Cocky fucking bitches, jesus, the attitudes, like I asked for that, for them, or their opinions. The girl looked at me again and I said, "I am the over thirty and not fat like your lazy boyfriend guy." I walked away and the Zuckler continued to Zuckle. He grabbed a hottie who the girls thought had fake breasts so the party could give her the "fake boobs card." Of course they hated her because she was in shape and had a tight body. Nothing worse than bitchy, fat, jealous, married women. I know a lot of amazing married women and these women give them all a bad name. I wished I had the "Going to White Castle" card or the "Old Country Buffet" card, because God knows they hang out there on a semi-regular basis. But the Zuckler, he loves all women. Anyway, the Hilljacker asks me, "Do you like Cognac?" "Ye s, why?, I replied." "Because the shit is good", he said. "Let's do some shots." The Hilljacker, being down with the street, ordered two shots of Martel. You know, keeping it real. No Martel, so he went Busta Rhymes on my white ass and buys two shots of Courvoisier. I must have been in a parallel universe. So there we are, me and my main "nigga" the Hilljacker, drinking like rap stars. Of course only true white trash would do shots of Cognac, but I am not too proud to pretend I don't have a little trash left in me. I do, I just hide it well. So there we are in the middle of Porter County Indiana at a bar called called the Northside Tap. I was having a great time and the bar actually played the new Rock Star Club cd three times. I was embarrassed. I was having an out of body experience. It didn't make sense. We were in deep trouble. I was drunk, smashed, tanked. The Zuckler was engaged in deep conversation with a bachleorette party and we were still in Indiana. It was 2am. For some reason I assumed I would be driving home. I always drive. I am the driver. Wow, I guess those billboards that show a drunk guy gettting pulled over work. I saw several of these billboards when I hit the county line. The Zuckler and I had band practice at 11:30am. We had to be there, on time. He was pissed. I never thought he would leave me. I am the fucking driver. You cannot leave the driver. He stole my car! Fuck, that's his car. I thought we w ould wake up in each others arms on the dirty floor of Jay's basement. My fault, not his. He warned me he was leaving and he did. I think his parting words were, "Don't push me because I'm close to the edge." I was stranded, but not for long. Jay said he would drive me home the next day and he was a man of his word. He drove me to Chicago the next afternoon. I missed practice. I missed a date, but I had a good time with my friends. I cannot stop thinking about how cool it was to have a house to practice in. Gary, Indiana I am coming home. I am in the buyers market and Gary is my market. I can afford Gary. Hell, I was born there and I may as well die there. I love the symmetry.
Love will tear you apart and if it doesn't you're doing it wrong. Sometimes I cannot describe how I feel and the feeling isn't good. It's that nauseous, hollow feeling, in the pit of your stomach, the buzz in your head and those fucking butterflies just don't die do they. I haven't felt this way in a while, but I know the sensation like I know any old friend that isn't welcome any longer. But those friends come back and the memory can do nothing to take away the weight of the blow. It's a kick in the nuts sweetie and that pain always remains the same and you never forget it. I once wrote a song that had a line that went, "it's not desperation, wouldn't call it frustration, I'm so excited to feel something new." This is how I feel about a girl I wrote about and have been seeing on and off for the past few months. I have dated people because I wanted to get to know them better, they have intrigued me. I have dated people I wanted to love. And, although its probably not smart to admit, I have dated people just to fuck them. The "feel something new" part is that she brought out all three. I have felt this way before, but it's been a while and I never understand or comprehend it. That overwhelming, "everything is great," bullshit, love feeling. It always leaves or someone takes it away, either way, it never lasts. She lives far away and has a daughter. It couldn't work and in my heart I knew it wouldn't. She and I weren't in it for the long haul. I told myself, "enjoy the moment while you can." I did, every second, but it still hurts. But come on, she has responsibilities and I could be the most self absorbed motherfucker on the planet. I knew it was doomed. I can't commit or give her what she needs and deserves. I could picture the conversation in my head and I hated myself for it. I want her to get everything she has ever wanted and if that means I get crushed too fucking bad. When the phone rang tonight I knew who was calling and what she would say, "I can't come and visit you this month and we need to talk about what we have." I said, "I already know what you are going to say." Her voice sounded weak and shallow but she tried to smile through the phone. "I don't see this going anywhere. You're not moving, I'm not moving and this thing we have keeps me from pursuing anything that could go somewhere." Enter the kick to the balls, owwwwww, like air exposing a chipped tooth, raw nerves. She's right, it's not fair, but she's right. I know she loves me and cares about me. I know she loves me with all her heart. I love her, it's easy to do. We have known each other for a long time, she knows me very well. Again she said, "I know you're not moving anytime soon and I'm not moving either." The end, this girl knows me. She said, "I don't wanna lose you, this just means we're not fucking" and we both laughed because she was correct...... again. No mother in her right mind should ever date an unstable freak like me. If she did the state better walk it's self righteous ass into that home and take that child away. "We are taking your baby for it's own good. This is a dangerous man who has left a path of destruction, evil, death and pain in his wake. No daughter should be exposed to that hell." Well I can't fight you on that one Mr. Policeman, no sir. God damn, she has more to think about than herself, whereas all I think about is myself. For that reason alone I ignored all the warning signs and I dove on in. Why not, she's smart, sexy and fun. I deserve that don't I? Maybe, but life don't work that way El Tiptone, so quit your god damned crying. I feel horrible, devastated, like I just lost a close, dear friend. I feel like drinking and doing piles and piles of cocaine and waking up in a bad place with a strange woman whose name I will never remember. But I have done that enough for all of us and it's just a temporary pause on the path of hurt and fear. If you are ever gonna feel a fucking thing you have to take a chance, let your guard down and let someone inside the castle. Well, my castle is burning to the ground right now. It's burned down before and although I don't want to admit it, it will burn down several more times in my lifetime. But me and the troops will regroup under that oak tree in the field far from home and we will lay the best of plans to fight another day. Who am I kidding, I'm a mediocre fighter and a shitty lover, but I will go down fighting. After all, it's all I really know how to do. The stupid never, ever quit. And I'm not a quitter. So I put a smile on my face and I jump right back in. No one likes a cry baby and I have drown in the negativity before to no avail. I am glad I had this time with her and I know we will always remain friends. I should be happy because I had the opportunity to be with her for a little while. Some time is better than none. It's the "what if" that kills your heart the most and the ruminations that sweep through your head. I feel dumb and I am old enough to know better. Maybe we never get that old? So here I am, Friday night in Chicago and the band has a show to play. I refuse to feel sorry for myself and I am not going to let this drag me down and in the process drag the band down with me. Nope, I can turn it on, forget, smile, perform like the puppet master I am. Once I hit the club it's show time and everyone loves a show. Everybody love me.
Another response from a giant fan of RSC: I don't know how many times I have to ask, but take me off ALL Rock Star Club mailing lists. Period. I do not want to receive another announcement about anything relating to Rock Star Club ever again. Rachael J. Byrd Chuck, who cares about people, feelings and above all, e-mail rights, responds: Rachael, Sorry, don't beat me up, I'm just not bright like you! I never got any message from you and God I have waited and prayed. If I ever see you I will try hard not to say a word, bother you, offend you or violate your space. After all, people are much harder to delete than e-mail. I don't think we have many mutual friends, therefore, my disgusting, vile, aids ridden psyche has little chance of violating your important thoughts. Again, sorry to cause you so much pain and agony. It must be horrible to have worries like extinguishing the crushing weight of e-mail. Jesus, you are strong to manage this terror! My God, this e-mail will be the end of us all. However, hitting delete is very, very hard and no doubt I am personally taking away from the quality of your life. Please accept my apologies, with luck I will succumb to brain cancer and perish in drooling, demented, mass of delirium, puke and shit. I deserve it. Have a great day! Oh, by the way I am having a party on Feb.15th, 1809 West Grand, 312-371-4095, hope you can make it! Chuck Tipton
The men of porn are going to hell. Another weekend in the big city. I met this woman for drinks around 8pm on Friday night. A blind date, but why not, you take a chance and sometimes you win. She smiled at me, "Hello, nice to meet you." I gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek all hollywood and shit. "What's up honey", I replied. You may be there already, but if you're not, one day you will be able to pull off calling women honey without sounding condescending or misogynistic, it's sweet. We talked, laughed, she called me a pussy for playing bass with a pick. She backed off when I started to get angry. No one calls me a pussy, fucking bitch. But then we agreed to disagree and changed the subject. We were drunk. I think we were on round five or six and she said, "Do you like strip clubs?" I really don't, but I thought better of it and replied, "Why?" "I have VIP passes to the Krazy Horse, wanna go?" "Yes I do. Let's pay the bill and get the fuck outta here." We are in a cab speeding down Kingsbury towards the Krazy Horse and I am thinking "Fuck yeah." We walk in the club and this chick is all TCB, taking care of business. Some mook grabs my arm and whisks me to the table at the front of the stage. Immediately a 20 something women is shaking her ass inches away from my face and it's only 10:20. My date starts kissing my neck and the music get louder and I realize that I am getting hard. I better get hard, Jesus, look at this! I see men staring at this scene, hating me and thinking "What the hell does he have that I don't have" And they are right, they have fat guts and bad facial hair and outdated clothes. I don't have that. We get more drinks as I watch a gorgeous Russian girl grind herself into my dates lap. She looks like she is gonna cum. More girls, more dances, more drinks, a little kissing and everything is fine. But this is overload and I cannot take much more. She must sense this, grabs my hand and says, "Let's go." There's nothing sexy about buying beer from an Indian cat at the White Hen at 1:35am morning. But the party can't stop and you gotta have that beer so you pay the ridiculous price and move on, way upstairs to floor 40. I live downtown, but she really lives downtown, amongst the skyscrapers hundreds of feet in the air. I never get used to that amazing view, the lights, the city and I feel alive, cool, like I got one up on the suckers living in the burbs. This shit never happens in the burbs. She open the curtains, the music is loud, heavy, pulsing and I can see the Chicago River and a million lights, energy and it's feeding into my little ego like the overpowering motherfucker it is. I can feel it, the cold wind on my chest as she takes my shirt off, coos something soft in my ear and runs her long nails down my chest. She dances in front of the window slowly taking her clothes, moving.......slowly. Somewhere in the distance a man with a telescope is hitting the jackpot as he strokes his little cock and watches the show. But I am living it baby, right now. She strips completely naked and is down to just a thong, gyrating, showing me what she has, will give me, wants me to take. And she is shaking that ass inches from my body, taunting me in the cool breeze on a winter night. I can see the buildings, her slithering body and I am thinking maybe it ain't so bad to be me in this stainless city, without emotion, no pretension, full of lust on a Friday night. Maybe I am missing all the good things that life has to offer and one day I will be old and lonely watching a James Bond movie on a Friday night. Maybe, but right now I don't care, when it feels good I just don't care. Maybe my place in hell is secured, but then again I don't play by those Catholic rules. And there is little doubt that I have done far less damage to the moral fiber of America than the Catholic church and it's good old boy network of pedophiles and baby fuckers. I got no worries. But I am not the only one in this long running porno without a plot. Nope, I am not alone this time. I don't like to write about the other guys in the band and their adventures, so I won't. Five words: Zuckler, dance floor, hand job. But that's his drama. Last night I am out at a bar that the MDL works at because the only way I can hang out with the son of a bitch is to go and see him at work. I am talking to a girl who works there and telling her about my little date. She is laughing at me. I am telling her how I rarely hit on girls because I hate rejection. I do, no lie. She looks at me and says, "Chuck, I am a girl and let me tell you something about girls. Girls don't throw it out there like that. We don't have to. This girl took you to a strip club and her house, first date and got naked and danced for you. You asshole, she wanted to impress you. You wanna know why, because you're fucking hot. Chicks don't do that for anyone, you're hot. I can't believe I said that." She smiled. "You dick," and we both cracked up because the whole god damned thing is ludicrous. But what the hell, it was Friday night and not much was going on.
Gimmie a sandwich Nell sang the theme song to "Gimme a break" and it is a fantastic sitcom ditty. "Gimme a break I sure could use one....", the open line rang and that tubby little fucker sang with lungs the size of Godzilla. It is right up there with the theme to "Welcome Back Kotter" and "Three's Company" in my opinion. My goodness she could belt it out with the best of them. I loved that show and I love that song. I can remember lying on the living room floor of my aunt's house with my brother, sister and two cousins after school, around 1983, watching after school TV. My parents were divorced and so was my aunt. After school all of us went to my aunt's house for dinner, TV, to play, so our grandma could watch us until our mom's got home from work. Grandma and grandpa fed us, picked us up from after school activities and took care of us. I can still remember the line-up on channel 32, WFLD TV, Chicago. It was "What's Happening", "Gimme a Break", which were the openers for the Gary Coleman, Todd Bridges, Dana Plato melodrama, the interacially pioneering, "Different Strokes." You know when Dana Plato od'ed I was quite sad. It is difficult when someone who you can connect with your youth dies. It doesn't matter how old you are. It just feels strange. It is like a part of you has died, but the worst feeling is when you realize it has long been dead. Thud. Anyway, i t was a sweet deal and my Grandma and Grandpa spent a lot of time raising us little bastards. Actually, they gave up their golden years to help raise us and make sure we did not become juvenile deliquents. We tried, oh, did we try. In my adolescent, oh poor is me anger, I become a punk rocker, my sister became a partyier, my brother was a stoner, my cousin turned to the goths and my youngest cousin was angry all the time. But no matter how weird or stupid we acted my Grandmother and Grandfather loved us unconditionally and accepted us for who we were. Sure, they questioned us, but they never stopped loving us. As I sit here and think about those days I feel a longing for my past, a happiness and grateful that the five of us had that time together. I feel fortunate, which is rare for me, that my grandparents answered the bell when marriages went bad. It's crazy to remember the way we were and see what we have become today. Children of divorce are supposed to be fucked in the head. That's not true, as long as those kids are loved they turnout ok. We were loved. We are all successful and we are doing pretty well. We have become adults, funny huh? I don't miss those days as much as I miss being with all of them after school. It was as if the five of us were one family of brothers and sisters and those bonds remain strong to this day. We had it pretty good and sometimes Grandma would bring home some KFC which just kicked ass. So Nell, gimme a sandwich and thanks for the good song and the silly shows, but the show had to end. It all has to end.
Tipton out. It was Paul's master plan to dump me and from the beginning and I HAD TO BEG TO BE IN THE BAND. However, my persistence paid off and I was allowed into the club. Soon, although I have no musical talent, I was the most popular member of the RSC. We recently hired a publicist, a person to weigh and sway public opinion and the results were astounding. When 1000 RSC fans were asked, "Who is your favorite member of Rock Star Club?," 67% said Mr.Tipton. 16% said Elias, 14% said the Zuckler (mainly chicks) and 3% said Paul. Paul went ballistic and inside sources say he stated, "This is my fucking band, MINE, and that bald, tubby, loud-mouthed motherfucker is out." And he had a plan. Paul is a very, very, smart man. Methodical some will say, but regardless, he is a vindictive son of a bitch. To this day he is still angry at the high school jocks who shunned him. Jesus, thank God he did not have a gun. (Editors note: Paul was the youngest letterman in Merrillville High history , cross country) But, he needed a way to work his plan and he finally had the opening he needed. Paul was offered two solo shows in two consecutive weeks. They were booked as solo shows which means my services were not needed. I have never been on a vacation since we started this band. I had finally saved enough money from can collecting, recycling, male escorting, and making amateur porn that I had enough money to buy a $100 ticket and fly out of town for a weekend. No vacation, but a weekend out of town. Not even a long weekend, but a regular weekend away from Chicago. I booked the flight for January 17th because I knew Paul had a solo show on the 18th and RSC was not playing. God he is devious. Last week he asked me to play bass with him at his Boulevard Cafe show. Eli played drums. We played some ancient RSC songs in a different way, quieter and we performed several Paul solo songs. It was a great show and honestly, RSC was brilliant. Fans could actually hear what Paul was singing. Our publicist called after the show and told us Paul's approval rating had soared to 7%. It was wonderful, a coup de tat for all of us. After the show Paul says , "Great show Tipton, I can't wait for next weeks show." I replied, "Yeah, the solo show should be awesome. You are a great songwriter and it will be excellent." He looked at me and said, "What solo show? It's a Rock Star Club show and you are playing!" I stammered, "Paul I saved for months, sucked hundreds of cocks and my ticket in non-refundable. It was booked as a solo show, I thought.." He cut me off, "You don't get paid to think baldy, you get paid to play and if you can't play I have no use for your services ever again!!!!!" Tears welled up in my eyes and as hot tears rolled down my face I tried to explain myself, but Paul did not want to hear it. He grabbed his guitar and left the Boulevard to leave me alone with the crushing blow, drowning my sorrows with drink after drink, desperately praying that he would realize that the show was booked as a solo show, not a Rock Star Club show. Apparently that did not happen. On Tuesday and Thursday the club practiced with new bass player Bob Conlin. While Bob is admittedly a much better bass player than I and better looking, he cannot replace my witty stage banter. However, he is married and Paul issued a statement through our publicist that stated, "Mr. Tipton's services are no longer needed. I want to perform with serious, mature, musicians in serious, mature, stable, relationships. Obviously Mr. Tipton and his frat house antics are no longer welcome in this club. He is a drunk and sloppy. He is not able to make important Rock Star Club performances like the show at the Pontiac this Saturday. To my dismay, Mr. Tipton thinks it necessary to vacation rather than play music. I will not tolerate that kind of playboy behavior. I have taken possession of Mr. Tipton's bass equipment. Mr. Tipton owes the band thousands of dollars. I have given this gear to our new bass player, originally from Indiana, like Mr. Tipton, Robert Conlin." Game, set and match my friends. Months ago I wrote an article about the bass players waiting in the wings to replace me. How in the fuck did I miss Bob? Big, bald, Indiana, Rock Star Club fan, great bass player. Holy fuck, the signs were there, they were there. The trap has been sprung and I am out. The lord of the vacation, gone for months at a time every year, missing top line shows, really stuck it to me this time. He fired me for going on vacation, that ironic son of a bitch. I guess you can do that when it's your band. I am sure many of you don't believe me. That's fine, go the Pontiac and see for yourself. Tipton out.
The cold wind is near me However, when I leave the gym at 7:30 the world is different. The city I love and adore is alive. The meanness is gone and everyone is moving. As I walk, people find the courage to smile at me and I find myself smiling back, warmed by the sun and the endless possibilities a day may bring. My heart starts to race and although I have been struggling to error on the side of caution; I have always known my love for the written word would betray me and this is one of those moments. I think about a lovely women I have found again through a communication network I don't yet understand. I think of the what could happen, what may be. My mind screams at me, "Chuck, do what you do best, react." But I am reacting to every emotion, every small word she says, striving to learn more in a veiled attempt to protect myself and my fragile psyche. The paradox, the more I learn the more vulnerable I become and I start to questio n, "Am I a passing fancy, an one time enigma, poorer than she, but smart, un-cultured, but unique, a flavor to be tasted on a night out in a town that will soon be forgotten?" And I don't care, I don't, because the sun is out and the light is warming my heart as I hear the sounds of the city I love and I think maybe, just maybe, these people have a chance to overcome the weirdness of their serendipitous union, and just be. Somewhere today a beautiful woman will read these words and decide for herself if she thinks I say too much, if I come on too strong, or if I have over-estimated my small place in her world. But on this gorgeous morning I have to throw myself out there, naked, exposed, because this has far surpassed big, dumb sex and struck a chord in me that I thought was beginning to become like the night, cold and harsh. But I'm not, I'm alive, I'm warm and the light seems endless.
Are you sleeping brother John? God knows I'm not. I went to bed around 12:20am and woke up at 4:40am. This happens on a regular basis and instead of fighting it I am giving in and getting my non-sleeping ass up. I think it's jet lag without the jet. Let me explain. During the week I get up, well I get out of bed, around 7/7:30am and go to the gym. On the weekend I go to bed around 7am each night. It's like going to Japan for a weekend and then trying to jump right back into your day job on Monday. It's hard, but I do it every weekend and Japan is always fabulous. When I settle down my weekend trips will only take me to the border states, Indiana, Wisconsin, Michigan, but for now I gotta log some frequent flyer miles and kill the thoughts of slowing down. Does that make sense? Actually, I have not been going out during the week as much as I used to for a couple of reasons. One, I need to stop spending money in bars and two, I have been trying to fall asleep at 12 and wake up at 7am. Time to throw that out the fucking window. When I wake up I will get up, ah Japan. Actually, I am not a morning person in anyway. I'm dumb until 10am, but there is peace in not knowing a fucking thing. I like this time of the morning though. The sun is starting to creep up and the morning haze and cold is still in the air. When you walk outside it smells clean, even here on Grand Ave and the cars and trucks move like blood towards the heart of the city. They are the only signs of life the eye can see. In a few hours the streets will be full of energy, but for now, the city is a barely audible dead zone and the signs of life are dim, holding on, blood barely moving through the veins of Chicago. It's peaceful and it smells like home. A man can sit and think when things go wrong. In the background the channel 9 news has just come on and Larry Potash has said something that makes me giggle. This early I can giggle. However, they flash to a clip of the Osbournes and a sign of the real me pops into my head as I have an overwhelming urge to slap the fuck out of the Osbournes and piss and shit on them. God dammit I am sick of these fuckers and I have never seen the show. I hate them. I hate Jack and Kelly. I hate I know their names. I hate that America pretends that they can relate to a family that is worth 300 million and their kids who are spoiled and clueless. Ok, I am done. I am still working on my top ten for 2002. It was a good year and I really need to think about what happened last year, what happened to me. I have been seeing a woman that reminds me of my last girlfriend, a lot. Therefore, I have been thinking about her. I think about the things we did, how she has been, what our plans were, where we were going and where we ended up. No doubt, we had a great time, Jesus, it was fun and it all seemed perfect for a while. However, she had her plan and I had mine and in the end I left because her plan was infringing on mine. In retrospect, I suppose we could have made a plan together, but neither one of us was bright enough to think of that. I don't want that to happen again. Nope. I often wonder if I am capable of making a plan with anyone because you cannot get much more tolerant than she was. Similarly, this woman I am seeing has the ability to laugh at me and the fucked up things I do, which happens often, fucked up things. Ho wever, I have learned to trust myself and my instincts and I know that I was not willing to do the work that a relationship takes. A relationship, a job, they have to be number one for either to be a success. Unfortunately, my number one priority has always been creating this minor league/celebrity persona of myself. It's quite pathetic, it is, but once it starts cycling, rapidly, it's hard to let go of. Sure, on the outside it seems like a tremendous waste of a life and energy, but when you are in the middle you cannot see it and letting go of an 18 year old habit is a hard thing to do. So I keep moving. What if? What if is bullshit, what now? I may be getting into something so I will tread lightly, no rush like the last time, no rush for me. I have always had the feeling it was going to work out, it was going to be ok, like it was my destiny. That's fairy tale shit. If it's going to be ok I have to sit my ass down and do the work. We all do if we want anything that is good in our lives. Like I said, I can think at this time in the morning, but I wish I could sleep. If I could sleep, for a moment, all of these thoughts would fade away. Fuck the Osbournes.
Gas, grass or ass, in 20-03, everyone pays First, in 20-03 Sabbagh will quit his job as the most over-educated file clerk in American history and take a job on Conan O'Brien as "that terrorist guy." Sabbagh will walk across the set and Conan will say, "Hey, it's the terrorist guy." It will end when Triumph the Comic Dog poops on the terrorist guy. For six months it will be a great run. Two, as you know, Paul is already dating Shakira and she will be at his solo show this Saturday at the Boulevard Cafe. Three, Paul will go solo and fire his entire band. The Zuckler will unveil his new look in March to rave reviews. Five, Mr. Tipton will get married and quit music forever, have a kid, get divorced and go on a shooting spree in a Target. Amazingly, the maniacs have forgotten about Target. Humm, seems appropriate for a gunman on a shooting spree. How have these boys missed it? Well..... Mr. Tipton will come through, don't worry Target shoppers. He won't let the K-marts and Wal-marts get all the false glory, hell no Target shopper, he will be gunning for you! And, before he snaps you will pay for reading Random Thoughts, somehow motherfucker, you're gonna pay.now let's talk 20-03. If you read Random Thoughts, help a brother out and buy our new album. It is nearly sold out and we need to move the rest of these cd's to put out our new album in August. Ah, Hot August Nights. Anyway, either buy a cd or buy some of my soon to be available Random Thoughts merchandise. My motto for 2003 is "Grass, gas or ass: everybody pays." I'm not sure what the payment is going to be, but I am working on it. Lets see, a weekend with Mr.Tipton, hanging out with schizophrenic strippers who shoot up? I think the bidding will start at $17 plus expenses. The expenses are going to kill you. I seem to end up in bizarre situations on a regular basis. I don't know how many times I have ended up at crazed crack parties on the West side of Chicago. However, there are many nights when I watch a local band by myself, drunkenly muttering about the sudden resurgence of Dungeons & Dragons geeks. D&D makes sense when you are an adolescent boy, but come on, by 45 you need to let it go. Anyway, the weekend with Mr. Tipton has no guarantees, but every now and then you have to roll the dice and take a chance. On the other hand, you can be the proud owner of a Random Thoughts t-shirt. Sure, only three thousand people on earth will know what the hell it means, but the best clubs are the small intimate ones. Either way, a cd, a weekend with Mr.Tipton or a t-shirt, you are gonna pay. If not, we are coming after you, seriously. Our website is programmed by the Zuckler. Unless you are a retard you know that every computer has an IP address which is logged at every website you visit. Essentially, with a little work, any site you visit can be used to determine who you are, where you live and sometimes even obtain information such as your social security number. We have done this. We know the name and address of every person who has ever visited rockstarclub.com. By cross referencing these names with our internal logs we can determine who has given us gas, grass(money) or ass. Remarkably, we have slept with about 25% of our visitors and 25% have bought a cd or t-shirt. At 3,000 visitors a month that's pretty damn good. Unfortunately, my readers have never paid a dime, never and it has to change. You have thirty days to comply or you will feel our horrible wrath. Zuckler and Elias are in favor of using SS#'s to destroy families and lives, they are new school, but Paul and I are old school. We grew up in the industrial corridor known as Northwest Indiana. We need to take care of this the old fashioned way, hands on. So, when your door gets kicked in FBI style around the middle of February and we anally rape you, your lover, kill the kids and animals Genghis Khan style bitch, don't cry or whimper. Remember this Random Thought, you were warned motherfucker. Gas, grass or ass, in 20-03 everyone pays.
I am trying She is right about one thing, I enjoy doing what I want when I want. I answer to no one and I can be as selfish as I need to be. I love me. I better, because for now that's all I got brother. So it is easy for me to look at the couples at parties and secretly whisper to myself "what the fuck is wrong with me." That's simple, but when you wanna fuck all the girls like an eight grade boy it's hard to pretend you're mature and grown up. Actually, I think most guys wanna fuck every hot girl they see. I'm just the asshole who says it and looks like a caveman. Cavemen get tired of the cave and the settlers get tired of settling or so it seems. It's a constant push and pull, figuring out what you want and how to play the middle. I play the middle all the time. I stay on the brink of a relationship, sucking them in but never quite committing. I always have an out and I look for something better to come along. It won't. Although I can't pretend, that's me, always looking fo r the fantastic offer, the party and if the girl has gotta come in second I guess she does, for now. It sounds hollow and lonely doesn't it? Oh poor me. It hurts me to, it pains me and I am not an evil man, but if some one has got to be broken it's not going to be me. I'm not worth it and neither are you. No one is. I've been hurt enough and I don't want it again. I will try to break your heart and leave you in lifeless wanting state, everytime.
Maybe a soul? Thank you breakneck beaker for sharing you thoughts on the RSC message board. There is little doubt that I am a god. Look at me, fucking A, I am perfect and I get so much pussy that I could suck cock for a year straight and still be considered heterosexual. I have fucked so much that porn star Peter North calls me for stunt cock duties. I have polluted enough women with my vile swimmers that a small army of my clones will soon be taking over your block. My body is god like, kind of like if Brad Pitt wasn't a skinny girl or if Vin Diesel was over 5"6" and actually had a set of balls. I have model good looks and an IQ of 141, mensa shit motherfuckers. Actually thanks to me the mensa slogan is now, "Welcome to MENSA Motherfuckers", get a t-shirt today. We are hipping the smart people up. I am the greatest unknown writer in America. The greatest, argue if you must, but come on, with 5 readers I am number one. I am great, awesome, amazing and the most undervalued talent on earth. Fuck Dave Barry, that god damn pussy. Jesus, I finally got rid of that asshole Bob Greene. Anyway, I am smart, talented, holy shit, I am the baby jesus. I don't believe that has ever been in question. However, what has been in question is my utter importance to the band known as Rock Star Club. I have been under appreciated and under valued for years. However, those in the "know" realize that I am by far the most valuable member of this shitty little club. Thank you for your acknowledgement. On the other hand, you are incorrect beaker and no one will remember me so I gotta keep writing this drivel for the people. My life is great and I love goat cock, it's the best, and if I gotta suck one now and then so be it. I want to personally thank my two readers, Myles Standish and the beaker. While there is no doubt they enjoy ridiculing me on the message board, at least they write with their ideas which I enjoy. My other readers rarely respond to my genius, so having someone take 3 to 4 seconds out of their day to say "you suck" is kind of heart warming. So, coming soon you ungrateful fuckers, the random thoughts fund drive and exclusive merchandise. I am sick of getting no money and no glory. I am in this for me motherfuckers, me!!!!!!
12/25/02 9:36am
So here I sit alone and weepy in my bedroom on Christmas morning. Family Ties is on the tv, Coltrane is playing on my stereo and god dammit, Alex Keaton finally gets the meaning of Christmas in a very 1980's moment. I am such a sap, but it's ok, because in a few hours I will see my family. Tonight, I will be with my friends. At times like this I feel like a complete idiot for whining, bitching and feeling sorry for myself in these random thoughts. My life is what I make it and if I want to change it that is within my grasp. I am surrounded by support and people who love me, tolerate my actions and believe that my life has been a success. Sometimes I doubt myself and it's nice to have people around me that will bitch slap my ass back to reality and help me see the world straight. Thanks to all of you. I don't know if that is what Christmas is about, but for now, it's the best I can do. Merry Christmas. Side note: Fat ass Ricki Lake and her fat ass audience will quickly sour and destroy any Christmas spirit you have. My God, if I had a bomb I would blow up that fucking studio and all the heffers in it. YEAH, now that's Christmas!
Surfing the sickness It's been a bizarre end of the year for me. Some may say my entire life is strange and at times I would acquiesce to that opinion, but this is a different kind of weird. I have been physically sick several times since September. At first I attributed it to physical exhaustion and my crazy schedule, but tonight it is something new. Either food poisoning or the flu, but I have been vomiting violently every two hours starting at 11pm. It comes in massive waves of nausea and sweat. I standing shaking over the porcelain toilet praying that I vomit, the sickness leaves my gut and finally I can sleep. I am so fucking tired I can barely focus and my fever is running high. I ache. My head, ears and stomach hurt and I am dehydrated. I smell of vomit and sickness and there is no point in lying down, because I know it will be on me soon. It's like surfing and you know you're gonna crash because this is the kind of surfing you never quite get the hang of. So I write because I don't know what else to do. I have missed so many days at work I fear I will soon be fired. Merry Christmas. In the background "Cops" is on my tv and no matter how sick and pathetic I become a small part of my brain says, "Get through it, at least you will never be like them." And she's right. I don't live in a God forsaken everglade with dirty kids. I am not fat and wearing a shirt that says "Kool." Years and years of cheap fast food consumption have not destroyed my girlfriend or wife and given her a double chin, a massive gut and the tell tale stains of last nights meal on her shirt. My car works. Ah fuck, it's over and M.A.S.H. is on. This doesn't make me feel better, it makes me laugh and think. I don't want to think. It hurts to laugh. I wanna believe this will soon be over and I will be employed and ok. I hurt. I am cold. At times like this I feel very lonely and sad. Selfish to the end. But my car window is broke and it will not roll up. I am ghetto cruising in the 25 degree winter with my windows down. My job is not secure. Maybe F.L.A ain't so far away.
Hot chicks and loud guitars are all right with me. It started when I picked up my friend from Kansas at O'Hare. I walked down the stairs to the baggage claim and I spied this Hot Mom sashaying through the promenade. Jesus, what a sight. It was her, there she was. I called her name and she looked at me and smiled. I melted. I ran to embrace her and for the weekend she was mine. She dates, I date and that is something we both understand and have no problems with. However, she holds a special place in my heart and she is a force, no doubt, quite a woman and I am glad I know her. We drove from the airport to my show at the Prodigal Son. RSC was brilliant, great, phenomenal and I was happy she was hearing and seeing us in top form. After the show I immediately took her to Carol's Lounge, a country bar, which has rocketed to the top of my after hours drinking destinations. She was floored by the weirdness of Carol's, the live band, the odd mix of coked out business m en, indie rock, heroin chic hipsters, thugs and country bumpkins. A toothless man desperately tried to pick her up and we drank ice cold Budweiser products. I really like her. But it all ends and as the music died so did our night. We jumped into my mighty Honda Civic and headed back to my compound to live another day. On Saturday we went shopping. When you live in Kansas there is a lot of fucking things to shop for in Chicago. Being a he/she, I love to shop and we had a gay old time. It is always easy to shop when you have a hot chick by your side. Jesus, it's all easy when you have a hot chick by your side. We went out to dinner and then stopped by the Twisted Spoke to drink mescal with the MDL. I was having such a great time I nearly forgot I had a show to play in Indiana. So the Hot Mom and I drove to Indiana and the Jolly Roger. She used to live in Indiana so the mixture of band kids and mullets was nothing new to her. However, once you leave the heartland the memory of that 'life' fades. Back in Indiana the memories come rushing back, at least they do as far as I am concerned. Good times in NWI(Northwest Indiana), are there any other times in NWI? Mammoth Car was the opening band and they get better every time I see them. Team Hoss was rock sol id and swinging. RSC played a transcendent show, but the best band was Dead Steelmill. The Mill has been around since 1985/86 and they are one of the first punk rock bands I saw perform live. I had ventured from the safe border of Indiana to the dangerous South Side of Chicago. My friends band, HJD, was playing with Dead Steelmill at a small bar called Lalo's Lounge. Legal drinking age at Lalo's was 6 or something like that. Dead Steelmill was the headlining band and their leader, wearing goggles and work boots, was a short ball of energy named Corny. He looked like he had just got off the swing shift at the mill. Corny was railing against the system, the man, fighting for the little guy, the worker and asking, no, screaming at the steel giants, U.S. Steel and Bethlehem, to pay a decent wage. They didn't hear. Even then I think he knew it was a losing battle, but he sang and preached on. Most people get a little money in their pockets and they forget about the worker. Their new job becomes protec ting their own interests. As the saying goes: a young, poor Democrat is smart and an older, rich Democrat, is an idiot. The vast majority of young punk rockers become the things they hate, or worse, rich, deadhead Republicans. They forget what they were fighting for or angry about in the first place. With full bellies and a SUV they could give a fuck about the poor and less fortunate. Corny is one of the great, unsung front men in American rock. 15 years later, on a small stage, in a hick town in Indiana, he was still raging against the machine and fighting the good fight. I felt like an asshole for playing the whiny ass love songs of RSC. The Hot Mom instantly recognized his greatness. Eli's girlfriend, Porkpie, recognized his greatness. Paul has always known Corny was a genius and Eli and the not so zuckly, Zuckler got their asses kicked in by the mill. After the show Corny and I talked about his family, his kids. Long ago he invited me to his house and ;I had met his family, nice kids. He is a grandfather now. All I know is that he is a man and a real punk rocker, fuck yeah. On Sunday the Hot Mom, the MDL, MDL girlfriend and I went to the Riverside deli for brunch. Riverside is one of those great Chicago secrets. Essentially, a restaurant built into a house that has an amazingly ridiculous brunch spread. Hundreds of foods that have no business being on the same menu together, yet it seemingly works. The finishing touch is the Ho-Ho as a desert. After gorging for an hour, the simple Ho-Ho makes a lot of fucking sense. However, I still had a trick in my bag. I wanted to impress the Hot Mom and knowing she is a fan of great food, being raised in a house of academia and culture, I had to show her that Mr. Tipton can at least spell culture. I have said in these rants that the only pay off rock n roll has given me is the opportunity to know a lot of interesting people. My friend Michael Dean moved to Chicago from Washington D.C. about four years ago, didn't know a soul and in that time has made Chicago his town. He has become sous chef at Cafe Absinthe, which is a top shelf restaurant in a city known for food. Michael has always told me to come into the restaurant and he would TCB (taking care of business, like Elvis.) Tonight was the night, set me up brother and God damn he did. There is no doubt that when it comes to great food I am an idiot and an amateur. I mean Taco Bell is my favorite restaurant. But fucking A, what a god damn meal. I ate goose liver and several other things that have never been on my tongue. I thought it was desert, unbelievable taste, I was in awe. Michael sent out appetizer after appetizer and even bought us a bottle of wine. The Hot Mom was impressed and I don't know how I will ever repay Michael. He is great and I am really proud of him and his accomplishments. You know you are doing well when they put your name on the god damned menu, nice. After that meal we headed over to the Twisted Spoke to drink mescal with the MDL manning the bar. I have recently discovered mescal and I cannot get enough. Think tequila meets scotch, I know, it doesn't make sense, but it is a bitch. Once settled in the Hot Mom and I discussed our bizarre relationship. She understands and I understand that we both see other people. Neither one of us wants to know about it, but it's a given, come on, we live 500 miles a part. She said she would never ask me to leave Chicago. She told me I belong in Chicago and I do. Likewise, I would not ask her to leave Kansas. Her family is there and for now it is where she belongs. I understand. We love each other and its a strong love. A mutual respect, admiration and after 10 years it is a pleasure to spend time with her again. She summed it up when she said, "if you ever get married of course a part of me would be sad, but I would come to your wedding and support you and love your wife because you have chosen to make that person a part of your life." I feel the same way about her. Am I growing up? As bitter, egomaniacal and jealous as I am, she somehow makes that shit disappear. Hell, I don't know why. Anyway, she turned to talk with the MDL's girlfriend and superstar chef Michael Dean. I was approached by a person I used to go out with. We have not dated for several months. About three weeks ago I sent her an e-mail saying I missed talking with her, which was true. However, it did not say, "I miss talking with you and I am not dating anyone and I want to date you so please take me back." Apparently, between the lines it said that. I hope she was drunk, because what transpired was absolute bullshit. She approached me, hostility in her voice and said something like, "You say you miss me and then you come into my bar with every tr amp you go out with just to shove it in my face." Comical, I know. I can be a motherfucker, but I have been nothing but nice to this woman. I can think of better ways to shove it in someone's face, come on, that alone is an insult. I think she forgets that the MDL is one of my closest friends and he bartends at this bar. I date hundreds of tramps, but how dare she call the Hot Mom a tramp. Furthermore, around Halloween she was happy to inform me that she was dating, in her words, "a black, 6'5", 240 pound Chicago cop." Huh, does he have a name??? Also, she had no problem bringing this man and his cop buddies to "my" (pretty fucking self serving, the show was open to the public) Halloween show. I never mentioned that to her and I wished her luck with the relationship. Apparently it didn't work out. However, she found it necessary to tell me in a bar full of people that I was an evil motherfucker for bringing my friend to "her" (open to the public) bar and that I was throwing it in her face. Silly, that relationship was over months ago. I can go where I want, with whom I want. I don't tread lightly, fuck that and I have always been a good friend to this girl. Holy shit, I wrote her a letter of recommendation to get into grad school. Remember kids, in most cases honesty never pays. Anyway, I told her that this topic was not up for discussion and there was no way for her to win this argument. She didn't like that. She took MY beer and proceeded to pour it all over my pants and shirt. No one noticed. I snapped. That fucking bitch. I took the remaining beer and threw it in her face. I am not proud of that reaction, but of the options that ran through my drunken skull that was the least violent and most appropriate. I was furious that she going to this extreme to ruin my night when I had done nothing wrong. She was trying t o embarrass me. Good luck. I was having fun and minding my own business until she decided my business was her business. That's shitty. I cannot remember what happened next, the liquor was weighing on me, we had consumed two bottles of wine, two shots of mescal and several beers at this point, but I think she left. I was covered in beer and my lady friend walked over and asked me what happened. I told her what went down and she laughed her ass off. She didn't care and thought it was hilarious that a woman dumped beer all over me because I was out with her. Then she grabbed me by the face and gave me a kiss. She is excellent. Other women would freak out and leave in the face of my dumbass drama. She just laughs at me and my so called drama. And when I think about it, it is pretty fucking ridiculous. What an end to a weekend. On Monday I drove her to the "L" so she could catch her flight back to Kansas. I'd be a fucking lair if I said I wasn't sad to see her go. We walked down the dirty steps into the darkness of the tunnel, hand and hand. Hugging as the roaring, deafening noise of the trains enveloped us, we waited for that train to pick her up and take her away. I nearly crushed her I held her so tight. I hate letting go. We both know it cannot work right now. We have to take this for what it is and hold on to the moments we have like teenagers. But we are not teenagers and she misses her girl in Kansas. She has to leave. The train pulls up and she gets on, kisses me and I see her smiling and waving good-bye. I'm gonna miss my girl in Kansas to.
Playing with yourself isn't so bad. Tonight RSC plays the Prodigal Son and for the first time, ever, the entire band literally wants to beat the fuck out of the other bands. Personally I want to rip their livers from their living bodies and force fed it back down their throats. I want to play so hard they tremble in fear and realize that their bands are shit and they have wasted entire lives and moments pursuing a silly dream that they were never built to achieve. I hate. I hate and I want to win, always, every fucking time. Music, like life, is a competition and there are winners and losers. I have been on both teams and fortunately I have won far more than I have lost. However, it took balls the size of Texas to continue to make music by our rules and our values. These rules are fucked. We are fucked. We are so fucking pretty on the inside, but no one cares about that. Ha, I talk about ripping someone's liver out and they proclaim my prettiness. I am such a fucking asshole and it' s catching up to me and I don't fucking care. Punk rock don't care, it just gets older, kinda like me. In a few hours it won't matter I'll be another drunk on another stage trying to make someone I don't care about see a light that will not turn on. Success.
Easy, loud and for hire. Last night I was with a friend and she said something to me that I have heard at least 50 times from various individuals. She told me I am "emotionally unavailable." That's such a bullshit catch all phrase. Kind of like a child saying "they" and everybody." Who is they and everybody? I told her it was a bullshit statement. I said that I am very emotional. I am available. She concurred and she said, "Well you do share emotional things in your life." I said, "Then what does emotionally unavailable mean, please I need to know what I am." She thought about it, looked me over and said, "You're so scared. You're so scared of being normal. You're so scared of conforming. You are scared of other people thinking you are normal and thinking that you are conforming like they do." I started to argue, and she said, "Maybe that's just how you are and everyone else needs to adjust." God damn, that hit hard, very hard. I l ooked at her and said, "tou-fucking-che." There was nothing else to say. What can you say when your bluff has been called? However, I never considered her other point. Maybe this is me? Maybe other people need to adjust? Not bad for a Thursday night of drinking. Anyway, I have been sick for three weeks. This fucking West Nile, walking pneumonia, cold is killing me. Tonight, minutes after work, I drive to Milwaukee to entertain Wisconsin. As shitty as I feel I am excited to get out and play. I love playing. However, change is on the way. I can sense that the band is getting bored and we are struggling and looking for new answers. When this happened previously we put out a new record and that kicked our lazy testicles good and hard. The sickness crept into out stomachs and after we could stand up we decided we didn't want that to happen anymore. So, like 8th graders, we bought athletic cups to cover our delicate nuts. We suited up in armor, prepared for war and booked a fucking ton of shows to support our new record. We have pushed, sales have been ok, but we haven't pushed hard enough. It's time for change. Early on, when this band first started I was the proxy front man. I have always been the front man. Like me or not, I am a leader. I have a big fucking mouth. I like to talk and I love to get a reaction from people. I like to find the breaking point and nudge just past that point. You know, when shirts get tight and people move uncomfortably from foot to foot like they have to pee. I enjoy that. Well, good for me. I was wrong. I failed, my way failed and after helping the rest of my lazy ass band destroy our music careers we decided to try a new way. It is Paul's band. Paul is the leader. Paul will do the talking and when we are not talking we will be rocking. I am not sure if Paul was ever comfortable with being the mouthpiece of the band. After years of having diarrhea mouth I had suddenly shut the fuck up. It worked at times. Eli liked it for a moment. I think the Zuckler liked it to. Although we have had mo ments of pure fucking brilliance with this "pro look, pro gear, pro attitude" mantra, there have been times when the old fucking mule just would not move. At those times the band and the show would have benefited from the self-important big mouth actually opening that mouth and saying something, anything. But I didn't. Part of it, 30%, was me being a bitter little cry baby. Babies pout when they don't get their way and I am a pussy. Wah wah. Jesus, I am a pouty little cunt. However, the other 70% was my belief that the guys were right. Paul would lead us, his song's are amazing, and a super tight band, playing great songs with minimal bullshit would equate to a great show. After all, the great bands don't need ancillary bullshit during the show, they just rock. Maybe we are wrong. Maybe we are not a great band. We make great records but we are not a great band. Well fuck all that shit. Most people do not get our songs until the third or fourth listen, period. 75% to 90% of the people watching an RSC show do not own our records. Therefore, they are never gonna get what the hell we are trying to accomplish. That's the truth. So I guess I gotta tell them. Looks like I am making a comeback. Grab your cocks Milwaukee, it's almost show time and I am in a vile mood. I remember at the last show Paul looked at me and said, "Say something Mr. I've got so much to say." Wish granted and I got a lot to say. I can't wait until tonight. They may not like our music, but they sure as fuck will not forget our name.
All the carny's are beautiful When it starts you always think you are right and the truly insane still think they are right in the end. Placating themselves with the words, "they don't get it" and "no one understands." Until it actually becomes a truth. "They don't understand." It starts with a bang and soon it's got a life of it's own. The plans and dreams that are made become laws and there is no breaking or changing those laws and paradigms. Put the blinders on and plow forward to the promised land. It's a lot of fun believing you are some thing you are not. If you truly believe many people will follow because they are faithless and they have nothing else to live for. It doesn't mean that they are vaugue or weak. It means they wanna believe in something, anything, please give us something to believe. Some people go to church. Others see the Virgin Mary in the frost that accumluates on poorly insulated windows in the indigent neighborhoods in the winter time. (One of those stroies every year.) Some people join a frat or political party. Some people follow a Jim Jones or Charles Manson. Others follow the Grateful Dead or other lesser bands. It's all the same. They want to believe and Go d damn it we were gonna make them believe. We knew, we always knew from the moment it started and there was no other way. "I always knew." First you get it going and you build the hype. Make noise. Tell anyone who is around how great you are. Get a couple of followers and if you're lucky and not too ugly, a few of the followers will be cute girls who always attract dumb boys. It's rolling and you're not the only one who believes, "they don't get it." You've got a small group of followers who are telling you, "they don't get it." They are right. What was once a self-fulfilling mantra has legs and it has become the word. Chicks, more chicks, fucking, drugs, liquor, it all comes easy when you are on the winning team. Winning by losing, it's an oxymoron, but if you ever get there nothing will make more sense and feel more right and holy. Tell yourself, "I am right." Never stop, keep moving and never look back and let the unbelievers slow you down. Ever. The fucking orgy of fun has begun and the whole world is good times and every night is a carnival. All the carny's ar e good looking and they have all their teeth. I never knew it could get so high and perfect. Now it's beyond knowing or even being right. It's a part of you and destiny is to be great, strong, powerful and forever. The goal is to chop off the head and neck fuck anyone who ever doubted you. Oh, there is gonna be a lot of neck fucking going on. They gotta pay. They must. Oh, you're gonna pay fuckers. Anger has it's own life and energy and there are plenty of parasites who will feed off your anger and suck your tits dry until their bellies are full and you are flat-chested and desolate. Don't you see it? They don't care about you. They don't like you. They are using you as a pathetic rest stop on the way to the next big thing, the next cheap rush you stupid fucking whore. But the high and mighty never see that shit and the genius of being an underappreciated artist is just that, the artist never sees that no one gives a fuck. It doesn't matter because "they don't get it", so why would they care. They are blind. I am great and the blinders are on. "One day they will see and for now this is my insular secret and the minute they do see it I will no longer care. I'll move to something else." But we are way past that point now. Every hanger on is saying we are great. Oh my god, it's a motherfucker of a beast we have created and we are too far gone to quit or give up, because we have nothing left to live for. But when they leave for the next thing what will happen to this beast. Does it die? Do we die? Will anyone care? Maybe ten years from now someone will care and in great, last gasp, a group of old fucking musicians will go on tour and proclaim their own self-importance. But it ain't dead and I want to believe, I have to believe. For now, I have nothing else. That sanctimonious little fuck just got back up. To stupid to die.
Shitkicker I am not a liar, but I am certainly a pretender. I pretend I don't care. I pretend I am a rock star. I pretend I don't have any feelings and I have trouble reconciling those feelings with the feelings of others. I get confused. I am dating several women at this point in my life and although I have fun, I feel guilty, like I am lying to them, or myself. But that's guilty, Christian bullshit. These are grown women and I am not snake charming women into liking me or going out with me. I don't lie to these women. I do not tell them "I am your boyfriend and we will be together forever." And God damn, forever is a long, long time. I respect them, like them and we have a good time. I respect them enough to realize they are responsible for their own choices. They are my friends. So I am getting rid of this fucking guilt and embracing the concept of dating. I am not responsible for anyone's feeling and if someone g ets hurt they will get over it, or decide they no longer want to be my friend. They will get over the hurt just like I have, simple. Back to the bus. I am riding downtown listening to this Chicago band called Wickerman. Wickerman is no more, but in their prime, right before they got signed to the "major" label, they were truly one of the most powerful bands I have ever seen. I am convinced that the major label killed them. They were tight, hungry, passionate and cool. But not cool in that Strokes, Hives, wanna-be garage rocker, is it 1969, it's already been done and come back way. They were cool because no one sounded like them. It was original. The band was led by Keith Pastrick, this arty, punk rock kid who grew up In Hammond, In.. I met Keith when I was in high school at a punk rock party his band, HJD, was performing at. My best friend at the time, Bill Daniel, was the drummer of HJD. Bill and I parted ways when I moved to Lafayette Indiana to join a band called Young Lords. Keith went to the Art Institute in Chicago and immediately ensconced himself in the music and artist community. We went to a lot of crazy parties at his loft PagoPago, back in the day. The real cool kids from the Midwest go to art school in Chicago. The rest of us go to Big Ten schools. Some never leave. Paul, the singer of Rock Star Club, has often said in interviews that he always wanted to "hang out with cool guys, be a cool guy, like Chuck, when I was in high school." Which is funny, because I always wanted to be one of the cool guys like Keith. I guess every cool guy has some other cool guy that they want to be. Keith is cool, no doubt. Only certain guys can get away with singing lines like 'Sometimes I wish I was a girl", and seem even cooler. What's funny is that Paul has become a cool guy, he just won't admit it. There are a lot of people who would kill to write songs and lyrics like Paul. He is in a successful band. He does what he wants most of the time. He wears clothes that only he can wear. He sings lines like, "You broke the fuck out of my heart" and sells it. He is tall and rock star thin. Now if the motherfucker would just get some of those tall, skinny guy, tattoos and truly embrace what he has become, a cool guy, we could get d own to some serious business. Interestingly enough, I wonder which guy Paul wants to be? No one but the boring is ever satisfied. But then again, no one really cares.
Dilaudid delusions On Friday RSC played the Fireside Bowl. There is something absolutely fantastic and liberating about playing an all ages show. The kids don't care. they move, they dance, they rock and they buy records. The kids still love music because they have not fully tasted drugs, sex and alcohol. The most dangerous thing in their lives is music and for that alone, I love the kids. For most people the liquor and sex become number one and the music dies. Just like that fucking American Pie song, it's over. Soon they sell their souls and asses in shitty dance clubs that have no artistic merit or life. It's a dead pulse baby. Incredibly, these $20 covering paying asswipes think they are the purveyors of hip and cool. Bimbo wouldn't know cool if it punched her in the face. WHAM! Cool comes from the music, the art, the people who make and invent fashion. Sit your ass down and suck my fashionable cock honey because I will tell you what is cool. I make cool and t he kids, they know cool. For now you just keep sucking. After the show the band heads to the Liars Club. Recently I was approached by a Random Thoughts fan about doing a Random Thoughts tour. The idea, I take my five readers, that's right, up from last year's all time high of four, on a tour the places mentioned in RT. Obviously, Liar's Club is a place near and dear to my heart and I have spent hundreds of drunken dollars there. Essentially, it is the home of all local musicians. At Liars Club you can quickly assess your local band "star" factor. Factor one, do you get in for free? If you have been in a local band for a year and cannot get into Liar's Club for free you should quit. Don't question, embrace the fact that no one knows or cares who you are. Maybe spending time at an actual career that pays would be a good decision right now. Today, cancel all your loser shows, sell the guitar and turntable. Jesus, your mom was right, you fucking suck. You will never be anything, it's over. Once you are through the door, free, factor two kicks in. Factor two, how much do you pay for drinks? Three levels here, pay close attention. One, full-price drinks, be happy with the free cover. Two, all drinks are $2, or three, a combination of free drinks and $2 drinks. Level one is for up and comers or has beens still holding on. Level two is for minor league stars and the beautiful. Level three is for well known minor league or major stars and incredibly drunken wanna be's who tip...a lot. I am at level three B. The drunken wanna be who tips well. Either way, this means I don't have to quit the rock and I can hang on for another moment. I love hanging out with my band after the show. It's that feeling of belonging to something, something you care about and love. At times it feels like it's us against the world and that's when I like it best. We have something to prove and one day we will prove them all wrong, the unseen enemy. Well, the gang sta rted to break-up around 2am and Paul I decided to go to Exit to hear some punk rawk. Walking into a punk rock/industrial/light bondage club while wearing sunglasses at 2am, people assume things. Either you are somebody, a complete asshole or you are gay. I joked to Paul that we looked like complete fags, but in reality we always look like fucking stars. We are stars. About ten minutes after we sat down a cute woman walked over and asked, "Are you guys in Rock Star Club?" God damn fans, can't even have a quiet drink without someone wanting a piece of our precious time. Ok, I exaggerate. How we know her is irrelevant, but we did know her through other friends. This party of one was with two friends who were drunk as hell. Paul decided to leave and she and I sat at the bar drinking and talking. Drinking tequila specifically and talking about whatever nonsense drunk people talk about at 4am. The bar is closing, time to leave. She looks at me and says, "Wanna go to the beach?" It's 4am, 35 degrees out and the beach makes perfect sense to me. "Yes, let's go." We jump in her car. She proceeds to back into a wall. She is drunk, I am wasted, but I feel safe in her capable hands. Don't ask why. There is no reason why. She drives fast, very fast. We are going 80mph down North Avenue towards the beach. It doesn't even seem like we are moving, but we are flying, hurtling over the North Avenue bridge, passing the closing time hookers, towards the beach. When it's late and you are very drunk everything.......moves..........slow, so driving 80 to 85 mph in a 35 mph zone is the correct thing to do. You have to drive fast to catch up because you are losing precious time. If you get lucky you catch up or slam into a telephone pole. Either way, the entire pathetic charade ends. But we weren't gonna hit that pole and a feeling of calm engulfed me. It makes sense going to the beach at 4am with this woman driving 80mph whom I have known for an hour. It is a bright move. Fortunately, no one is calling me bright. It must have looked strange to the people driving down Lakeshore Drive as a man in sunglasses and a woman jumped the breaker wall to make their way to the beach at 4:15am. Maybe not, no one called for help and the police never came to save us, or her. We sat at the edge of the lake on the cold concrete. Waves breaking three feet away and I was freezing my ass off. She was doing fine. As we talked I noticed what looked like track marks on her left arm. "Are you shooting up?" "No, I'm not shooting up, well not heroin." I was confused, what else do you shoot up? She certainly didn't have the make-up of a crackhead or a meth freak. "I take dilaudid and syringes from work and I inject myself." God damn, I had heard about professional addicts but I had never encountered one. I won't say what she does, but she works in a profession where drugs are available and she knows how to administer an injection. "So you're a prescription drug addict?" "Fuck you, ;I do it once a week if that, it's fun, I like it and everyone who is around drugs takes something. It's a job benefit", she laughed. We talked some more, sobered up and she drove me back to my car. She lives close to me, but is moving to the burbs to live with her parents to save money to buy her own place. She's cute. She's got her shit together. She has a plan. She likes to party. She drives incredibly fast. She loves drinking and shooting dilaudid. With my past there isn't much I can say to anyone who takes drugs, works full time and pays their own way. So, I didn't say a word except good-bye. On Thursday I played a Halloween show with my band Devilounge. A great show and this woman came with her hot friend. Her friend wanted to fuck our singer so badly it was painful. She seemed annoyed while we played, but she sat up front, crossing and uncrossing her legs. After the show she said, "He's such a fucking asshole." I started to defend him and she said, "I love assholes." I wonder what she will think when she finds out I am the king of the assholes. Perception is everything. Anyway, a couple of girls I go out with were at the show; which was cool since I am not anyone's boyfriend at this time. And I don't believe any of these women want me to be their boyfriend at this time, so my slate is clean. Earlier this woman had alluded to going out after the show and staying at my house. Fine with me, half of North America has slept at the compound, including an overweight goth band my roommate brought home after a night of drinking. I can't think of a worse way to start a work day than tripping over a tubby gothic rocker, jesus. Anyway, at the pace I was drinking it was becoming apparent that work responsibilities were quickly losing out to entertainer responsibilities. The entertainer always wins. The outcome is better than telling friends, "I got up and went to work." I have random thoughts to write, I have to go out, for the people. I always forget that my fake-ass writing career has never made me a fucking dime. Thank god for liquor. Tequila man, it always does me right, or wrong, depending on what you are looking for. Four shots later I am not working, I am living. The club is closing and I am loading my equipment into my Honda Civic. I see women I date talking to one another. That is never good for business, particularly the business I am in. It is obvious this woman is leaving with me. She is making it obvious in actions and words. I am ok with this, in a way, it takes me off the hook. I don't feel bad. I feel silly that I am in this bizarre predicament again. I am not this cool. We decide to go back to the compound and have drinks. I have wine, or something adult like that. We are sitting on my bed when of those strange, hybrid moments occurs. She pulls out two syringes and starts to tie off her arm. She sticks the needle into a laboratory bottle full of dilaudid and pulls the plunger back filling the syringe. I cannot stop watching, it is utterly fascinating. Methodically, like the pro she is, she finds a vein and shoots up. Medical grade, sterile dilaudid, foil seal, sterile, brand new syringe, as clean as it gets. She even has an alcohol wipe for the puncture mark. "Ok, ready?" She grabs my left arm and starts to tie me off. This may sound sick, but it is sexy as hell. I won't say what happened next and I am sure you have already decided for me, but I will say this. Until you actually drive to the precipice you have no idea what you will do, how you will react, or which way you will go. You don't. Until you get to the edge everything you have thought and said before this moment is bullshit. For example, macho gun owners who talk the kill shot, but cannot take it when someone is robbing their house. It's all an illusion and the talk don't mean much when you are standing at the cliff and you must make a choice. Now it's real. No turning back, no maybe, no tough talk, it's yes or no. The cleanest possible way to shoot up and it's right in front of me. I am not a junkie, it's not in me, but that doesn't mean I said no. I won't say, but it was a long fucking drop when I looked below. Later on in the evening she started throwing up and she tried to convince me it was not the dilaudid. Dilaudid delusions honey, the shit is physically addictive and its sinking into your belly. She threw up in my shirt, everywhere, it was no t pretty, but it was not as bad as it sounds. It wasn't sexy, but it didn't turn me off. I understood. Several hours later I confronted her and asked if she thought it was becoming a problem. She said yes, she knew it, but was pretending it was something else and the sickness wasn't self made. I asked her to give me the dilaudid. She hesitated and then she gave it to me. As she left I told her my secret. I said, "I asked you to give me the dilaudid because I wanted it to be your choice. You've got too much going on to get addicted to this shit. You have to quit, or at least slow down. You can only quit if you want to and I can't make you, no one can. Only I wasn't letting you leave with that bottle no matter what your answer was. I had made the decision the first time you threw up." She looked at me and said, "Thanks." She turned, walked across the street and drove away. The dilaudid is still on my dresser.
I am the punk rock dream. I don't pack my lunch, no time. I buy donuts and I eat like shit because I am weak. Fat people are weak. I am weak, just another junkie. Bring the dysfunction. Yogurt and chicken tonight, maybe, just maybe, after sound check I can scurry my rat like ass to the gym and pound out an hour of cardio. Then I run back to the show and have punk rawk kids stare at me, think I am on steroids, "You little fucker can't spell Black Flag." They don't know I am the punk dream. Worship me. I am not greedy. I help these fucking people. Ah, but they don't care and soon mom and dad will win their little hearts with money, food and cars and they will walk down the street despising anyone who doesn't live in the burbs. To them I'm white trash, just another nigger in an rap world dominated by shitty artists who have songs written by ad execs to sell cars and Hennessey. Can you see the light? They own you just like I will. They own your wallet and I own your mind because I am free.
Mr. Tipton goes to Kansas The last time I saw her was in 1996 when I was recovering from a car accident. She and another friend drove across the country to see me. I was touched, flattered and unable to do anything. I was barely able to use a wheelchair. She later confessed she wanted to see me, but my accident was a great excuse to come to Chicago and party. I love an honest woman. So 12 years after the last time we had spent any significant time together I am on a plane going to Kansas to see my dear friend. And I am nervous.
I was nervous and our lives are different. I wondered if we would click. Would she still have her sexy, funky style or would she look like another Midwestern soccer mom? I have no desire to hang out with a soccer mom. I am walking off the plane and I am going to be spending a weekend with a soccer mom. God dammit. She has red hair, I am looking for red hair. I see what looks like a mom, red hair and slightly overweight. She is sitting down and scanning the crowd for some one. Jesus that can't be her! A quick, hard look determines it is not, whew. I walk forward through the gate, look to my left and stop dead in my tracks. Standing twenty feet away, leaning against a column and smiling at me, it's her. She has straight, long, shiny red hair, stands 5'8" in her big black boots and she is wearing skin tight, snakeskin pants and a tight sweater. "God damn", I think to myself, "that ain't no mom." Wow. She is one of those peopl e who can put together an outfit like this and look absolutely classy and fabulous. She says , "Hi, Chuck" and we hug. This isn't a mom, this is one hot mom. So my weekend in Kansas with the Hot Mom began. The Hot Mom looks like one of those amazing moms they have on WB sitcoms. Beautiful, hip, smart, funny, sexy, but she is real and doesn't have a sitcom. She could give a fuck what anyone thinks about her. She grabbed my hand and we walked hand in hand through the airport. It was like 12 minutes, not 12 years, had passed. We jumped in her old Volvo and drove toward Lawrence Kansas to pick up her beautiful daughter. I noticed something about the Hot Mom. Being a mother is a natural extension of her personality, her temperament and like the rest of her life being a mother just flows from her without much effort. It seems good and right. Being a mother has not slowed her down or changed who she is. It has changed her focus. This ain't a fucking soccer mom. That night we went out to dinner. We caught up and we have more in common than we ever did before. We are both adults trying to live by our own rules in a world that frowns upon the unique and different. We are making it work, or trying. At one point I was in charge of this adorable kid and I attempted to give her some friendly advice. "Never, ever, like a boy like me. Boy bad, boy evil, avoid the penis at all cost." She smiled and laughed at me. A one in a half year old knew I was completely full of shit. On Saturday we drove to a parade in a small town called Baldwin, because the Hot Mom loves parades. We get out of the car and she is wearing painted on black leather pants and a black top. She looks like a fucking supermodel or actress and I see young high school kids stopping dead in their tracks and staring at her. The MC of this parade is Tom Burnett, the Motel 6 guy, "We'll leave the light on for you" and surprisingly, Mid-America is far more diverse than I ever imagined. Although predominantly white, I see more culture than I could ever imagine in this small town. Anyway, we are walking down the street, pushing a baby stroller and the Hot Mom isn't missing a step. Men and women look at her and she smiles at them while keeping an eye on her child and maintaining a conversation with me. She's good. But I am thinking about tonight. Tonight she and I will hit the town solo, alone. I wonder if she thinks I came to see her because I assume d we would resume a sexual relationship. It's not, I came to see her. We head out into the night to get some drinks. We stop at a local punk rock bar, drinking, laughing, I have so much fucking money in Kansas! We go to a jazz bar, watch a band, more drinks. We walk down the street to a fauxpas Mardi Gras bar and drink the house drink, the Bahama Mama. There is no way not to sound like an asshole when ordering a Bahama Mama. "Two Bahama Mama's please." It just doesn't work. Lawrence is the second best college town I have been to, Austin being number one. This is a great town. I have been to a parade and this stupid ass bar. She makes the simple things fun. She loves barhopping and we are on the move again. She is leading the way and I gladly follow. We leave Mardi Gras and go to a semi-legendary music club called the Bottleneck. I pay the two dollar cover and we walk in. Two dollars, this should be illegal. A band called Shiner is playing and they are amazing. After the first song I say to the Hot Mom, "Right now this is the best band playing on the planet" and they were. She is smiling, drinking, dancing and she looks at me and says, "God I forgot how much I love this stuff." When you have a small child it's hard to keep up with the music scene. We are side by side moving to the music and I steal a glance. She is gorgeous and I am with this beautiful, intelligent woman, listening to a loud ass indie rock band and drinking beer. She is happy. I am happy. I realize all I have ever wanted is a tall, gorgeous, intelligent woman who loves music just as much as I do. I have exactly what&nbs p;I want. I feel like those kids in Sonic Youth's "Dirty Boots" video, punk rock love. I grab her around the waist and I pull her close, tight and she nuzzles her head into my neck. The harder I hold her the more I know I will have to let go, but for the moment it is perfect and maybe if I squeeze her hard enough I won't be able to let go. But she lives in Kansas and I live in Chicago and right now it seems far away. But God damn, anytime I can spend a minute with the Hot Mom is time I cannot afford to miss. I gotta rethink this entire mom thing. I have to think about a lot of things before I see her again. But for now I don't want to think. I just want to pretend that the moment never ends.
A letter to a friend trying to explain a friendship She and I have always had a quiet flirtation going on. We hung out a lot during college, I don't think anyone really knew about it. Seeing her at 30, just as a woman, was a shock. She's really beautiful, inside and out and still a sweetheart. We just click together. She is a good person, regardless of the the ancillary things and that's what matters most. I like to see my friends do well, yourself included, and she is living on her own terms. I think it's cool. There is no man in her life and she has had her heart broken. She could give a fuck, because she will not allow that to hold her back from the happiness she wants to find. I am like that also and it's nice to find people who feel the same way. The goal is happiness and no amount of money, a house or a car can make one truly happy. Those are temporary causes of happiness, no different than drugs or alcohol. When the "buzz" goes away you are left with your life and in the end, late at night, alone, you are the one responsible for your own life and happiness. You cannot buy it. You cannot live in it. You can't shoot it in your veins and you cannot drink it. These may accentuate happiness, but in no way can they alone achieve happiness. They don't preclude happiness, that's not what I am saying, but they are not the reason, ever. They are temporary reasons. Anyone who tries that temporary route ends up a miserable motherfucker, sear ching, looking, hoping, sleeping around, feeling hollow and needing the next fix, whatever it may be. People try to ignore this and hide from these simple facts. True happiness comes from having meaning in your life. Meaning, 99% of it, comes from meaningful relationships, or work, things you care about. Only a sick motherfucker would care about material things more than what they do, who they are and the people they have around them. But people are scared to admit this and they continue to live in a foggy world, vision smeared by material bullshit that will leave the minute they find themselves sick, ill or alone. No wonder we have a nation of depressed addicts and losers, the message is wrong, the goals are incorrect and winners are judged by financial gain and what they have. Donald Trump and that ridiculous fucking hair is a winner? A sex symbol? Count me out. Fuck that, I live on my own terms and so does she. That's why we get along, she gets it. Chuck
Falling in the fall The band is playing amazing shows, transcendent shit and other than living without any income at all, I can't really complain. I am quitting my job, so having no cash is my choice, the right choice and one I had to make. But things keep moving and so does my little, fragile world, that I insulate from the bigger world. It's happening, the cold winds blowing in off the lake and I want to make some changes, because it's fall and I am falling. I make changes in the fall. I don't know why, maybe that going back to school feeling, the newness, the smells. It triggers something inside me and I start to move. These moves aren't always good for me, but I make them, damn the aftermath. Like talking shit about a pretty girl just because she's pretty, things don't make sense and you try to learn from your mistakes instead of repeating them. It must be awfully strange being old. Finally, after years of fucking up, you learn exactly what to do, to say and the only thing you have energy left for is dying. Jesus. I'll be in that wheel chair bitter as hell, thinking up a storm and not able to do a god damn thing about it. Ha Ha, fuck off old man. So you try to get ahead of the game, think about what you're thinking, over and over and maybe you get some insight that the rest of the world misses. Look asshole, the rest of the world doesn't care, but it's fun to pretend it does. As for me, I can feel that familiar creeping up on me. Falling in love with being in love has never worked for me and I have every reason to believe it will fail this fall. But the feelings are overwhelming and I am staring like a dumb fucker, wondering, listening, watching, hoping that this time I won't end up broken by my own head. Christ, that is the most cliche' piece of shit I have ever written and I deserve whatever I get for writing that crap. This is bad. I go out with a few women, it's called dating and the point is trying on different clothes, seeing what fits and then making a purchase you are happy with. The last time my shopping was going this well was four years ago. I stopped shopping because I came across an item I just had to have. The problem with those impulse buys is that you miss some of the defects, the flaws and a year later you are kicking yourself because you didn't have the nuts to hold out a little longer and get what you really wanted. I know what I want right now. I want what I want right now. I fucking hate waiting, but I have to because I don't want to repeat the mistakes I made not long ago. It's hard. I like jumping in, not thinking, immersing myself in the emotions of the moment and then dealing with the crushing withdrawal of my failures. Maybe I want to fail? So here I am. God I want and she doesn't know. It might be too late. You see, this time bsp;I know what I am getting into, but she may be afraid of repeating similar mistakes. I have to wait, before I try, a little longer than I did previously or I will be crawling in the same fucking cement as before. I don't like drowning in my own fear and stupidity, but the longer I wait, the bigger the chance I won't get what I want and the moment will pass me by. There are a lot of impulse buyers out shopping. That's going to have to be ok, because many moments have passed me by, I have been disappointed before and undoubtedly I will disappoint again. But I wonder, is she disappointed that I don't say a word? Does she even know? Does she even care, or is she smart enough to stay far away from the bad man who sucks them in and then pushes them aside. Part of me hopes so. Maybe this fall will be different?
You can't take the punk out of an old punk rocker I have settled down enormously, thank god. At 28 I was out of my fucking mind, crazed. For example, I can remember in 1996 I played at the Double Door with a band called Hummer. I was smashed, out of my mind on liquor and trucker speed. By song six in the set I was completely naked on stage. Completely, nothing on my body but my bass. I played like shit, but who cared, everyone saw my cock, everyone. The bands manager said it looked pretty big. But as I later told her, everyone looks big on stage. Anyway, I get off stage, drunk, naked and jealous that my girlfriend, Diana, was talking to her old boyfriend. I was a complete fuck -up. Sober I wouldn't have assumed the worse, but when you are naked and drunk irrational behavior makes complete sense. While I was outside of the club, loading up my prized Ford Festiva with my bass equipment, a bum, an annoying bum, keep bothering me. I screamed, "I don't have any fucking money." Apparently, when one is schizophrenic and homeless, this protestation is a signal to keep asking. The city was performing road construction on Milwaukee Ave. It was the beginning phase of the Wicker Park, "Welcome White People" campaign and the city was improving the neighborhood. Things like replacing street lights, building sidewalks, the necessities of white America. There was a blinking detour sign next to my car and I picked it up and hit the bum over the head. I felt bad as the bum slumped to the ground. One of the bouncers started to walk at me, but he thought twice and walked away. I was drunk, had been naked and had just clocjed a bum. What chance did this bouncer have against a drunken man fueled by trucker speed and jealousy. Good thing for both of us. Anyway, two weeks later I was in coma, imagine that. Maybe karma does exist on some otherworldly plain, but I don't think so. I haven't behaved like that in years, but I always have a senior moment that makes me proud. I have settled, the other things I am working on, a lot. Simply, at 34, when you act like an asshole you are a fucking asshole. At 28, when you act like an asshole you are wild, crazy, edgy and under 30. I don't want to be an asshole. If I don't quit my job, immediately, I am an asshole. I don't have the kids and that special gal, yet. The kids may never come, but that special gal is right around the corner. That is secure and it will be ok. Someone this gorgeous cannot stay single for long. However, I do have a career. I have a job and I do this job quite well. I work for the worst company in America. Horrible benefits, no pension, lousy pay, little time off, really, no corporate perks at all. Only a complete asshole and failure would stay at this shitty little company owned by a horrible man. He is the cheapest, tight fucker on the planet. God damn, his asshole is so tight he poops diamonds. And so what? He is a millionaire and the employees, other than myself, never say a word about this treatment. They are scared of losing this job. Well, tou-fucking-che, Mr. Tipton is leaving the building. Not that he knows who the fuck I am, or cares. Here's what happened: I went through the proper channels to discuss my pay raise. Being a 34 year old man, that's what you do, go through the channels. I wrote a letter to my HR manager outlining my argument. There is no argument. I deserve what I asked for based on my experience and my review. I knew this going into our meeting this morning. The answer would be, yes, here is your new contract, or "no", we cannot afford to pay you this amount of money. No other option is available based on my experience and my yearly review. However, my HR manager had another answer. "We don't know at this time. We are taking a holistic approach to looking at your department and we cannot address your concern individually. Your letter made us look at the compensation of the department as a whole." Which says two things, one, they don't give a fuck about my concerns and two, they don't give a fuck about me. Unbelievably I am the only person in my entire department who questions anything! The 34 year old thing to do was to go through the proper channels, like an adult, explore my options, work with the company leaders and come to a amicable decision. The punk rock thing to do is walk. And I will. I tried their way now I will leave my way. I will quit tomorrow and my last day will be Friday the 18th of October. Unless they counter-offer with what I want, I am gone. I don't want to completely burn bridges, so I will give the company a week and a half notice. Next Friday I catch a flight to Kansas City to visit my friend Chandar. On Monday, the job search begins. If I stay and accept this treatment, do nothing, stay complacent and safe, I have become everything I rally against in these random thoughts. If I stay I become part of the problem and blah, blah, blah, you know the rest of the story. Either you do something about it or shut the hell up. Most people remain the same and complain about their lot in life. I refuse to be that guy and I will not become "that guy." I hate that spineless fucker. I won't suck the corporate dick and take whatever scrap they throw me. I will not be happy with what I get and accept less as more. I might starve, but I sure as fuck will get the scraps I want. I know, I know, more big talk from the big man. I can hear the voices now. "We will see how tough he is when he can't find a job." "What kind of idiot leaves a job without having another one." "He'll wish he had some security when he doesn't have a pot to piss in." "What moron would leave a secure job in this economy?" I'll tell you what kind of person motherfuckers, a winner. And I have plenty of pots.
When the party never stops I just might Some people get so caught up in their careers they have no time for a relationship, their kids, family. They pretend it will payoff one day with a nice retirement and being able to do all the things they have dreamed of doing. But it never does, after years of being ignored the family has been cut out and all feelings of love and intimacy are going through the motions. No one cares, but they pretend they care, because it is the right thing to do. Soon working is all you know and the family you work for is dead to you, avoid, avoid, avoid. Some get wrapped up in the church or religion, betting all their money that God will take care of everything if they do their Godly duty. Meanwhile, the kids, ignored and ostracized by the community for having wack job parents are out drinking, drugging and fucking. Don't believe it? Apparently you did not have a Catholic high school in your community. Those kids are out of control. Others have about 50 kids and they bury their heads in childlike concerns, forgetting the rest of the world and becoming consumed by their own. I think I like this option after the party stops. I will have ten evil, little, fuckers that will do my bidding. Of course the little bastards will eventually turn on me and kill their king, the caesar so to speak, but that's the chance I gotta take. God damn, if I am the devil they will be the Sons of Satan and that's not good for anyone. I was a little out of control as a child. In 1973, if Ritalin was around I would have been Ritalin Boy. Thank God it wasn't, because some dope pushing MD would have turned me into zombie. In retrospect, it might have been good medicine. I can remember my first brush with the dark side. I was riding bikes with the Lordan boys, Mike and Doug and we stopped at a construction site and starting fucking with the tools, supplies, just being dickhead kids. I remember a big, burly, well in memory, but he was probably a skinny, stoner fuck, jumped out of nowhere and took our bikes. The next day we decided to fight back. As the men were working we went through the woods, crawled up a dirt hill and starting throwing rocks into the open roof on the house. Apparently, the Boy with the Golden Arm, me, hit one of the workers in the head and he fell, almost chopping his own head off with a circular saw. Jesus, what a throw! Unfortunately the powers that be, and my parents, did not see it that way. I was forced to go to the "model home" and apologize to the Leonard family that owned and built our neighborhood, Kingsridge. The "model home" was the picture of 70's chic and the home that our entire neighborhood and lifestyle was "modeled" after. The people in the "model" home were better than us and here I was, 5 years old, groveling in front of the dark rulers of Kingsridge. Talk about pressure. I begged for my bike, my wheels, a kids way to freedom, life, chicks, said I would not throw rocks at people again and they gave me my bike back.Yes! That was the first of many trips to the "model" home. That was the first time I realized that a completely sincere lie is more powerful than any truth. I became aware of my ability to sell any story to anyone, with minimal effort on my part. "With great power comes great responsibility," said Spider Man. He was wrong. The truth: I tried to hit that motherfucker in the head. The truth: it was a great throw. The truth: take my bike and I will try to kill you. The truth: I lied about being sorry and I continued to throw rocks, apples, snowballs, whatever my little hands could get a hold of, at anyone that struck my little bastard fancy. The truth: fuck the "model" home. Oh yes, I will be a great dad.
Bent over no more - by the Zuckler I hate agents and managers because they want everyone to believe that its their "relationships" that are valuable to you and they are the only ones with the magical powers to pick up the phone and make a fucking call to either a club, a newspaper or a radio station. Of course my next line is obviously, "thats a steamy load of shit". Our newest record (Rock Star Club) "Shut Up and Work It" has actually inspired me to do just that. To fight this attitude whithin my own band to let others take the reins and do the work sitting back and taking whats handed to us. Fuck that. I've been in this shitty business long enough to know if you want something, you have to be an asshole and get it yourself. Don't trust anyone else to give a shit and do it for you cause you will always settle for less if you do. DIY is alive and well in me and after firing a booking agent yesterday for fucking me out of some money, I feel unstopable. I feel like I did 6 years ago when my boss, the shady label guru Bobby Francavillo, made me cold call radio stations to get them to play a piece of shit gospel/R&B record. I got that fucker on more than 100 stations, cause I did what the rest of the music business assholes do, LIE. That's right, if you consider yourself a professional in the "music business", consider yourself a professional liar. Don't tell me you actually liked Bran Van 3000, they sucked and you lied to me.
So far away. Obviously if I put the things that I complain about, relationships, work, in slots one or two, they would get finished, but I don't. I like being the underdog. I like complaining about my life and I sure as hell like writing about it. It grows old and tiresome and I am not sure how much longer I can sustain this self-loathing mantra before I just start hating myself. "No one likes a quitter." I'm not quitting. I'm just not starting anything, or to the point, finishing anything. I can only live and feel for this moment. anFor now that's not so bad. I lived for the moment on Sunday, didn't think or question and I was completely happy with what I was doing and who I was with. At this moment I am satisfied, it's just the upcoming moment, minutes, that make my stomach crawl. Any change can bring the whole god damned house down and I am not one to sit and pretend the same old isgood, it's not. It scares the shit out of me, this sameness. Never being satisfied is starting to sound like a shitty existence. The trick is to feel satisfied without feeling complacent. Complacency bores me, I hate it and I dislike complacent people, I don't undertand it. I think that's why I gotta keep moving, the fear. Instead of settling, finding love, happiness, which my sickness correlates with complacency, I try to move forward. I am afraid to look back and see the past gaining on me. I don't want to look and I am not going to. The past is there, it always will be. I'm not avoiding it, I just don't want to repeat it, again. But Paul figured it out and so have a lot of my good friends and they really do inspire me. If I was an arty guy, I would say something like, 'I struggle with these demons", but if you're not an arty guy, subsidized by your parents, you have to be a complete asswipe to say that, even bigger to believe it. Hell, anyone who talks like that deserves to be hit in the head with a baseball bat. So before I start talking like that I'll duck reality, avoid it and fill my days with so much drama I can't possibly keep up with the daily trails of living. For now I'll keep my head forward because I don't want to look back.
Attack of the baby fuckers Again, until he was caught, R. Kelly never said a word about the subject. In other words, he was not a child advocate, he was just a dumb singer. Fair enough. However, Chicago Tribune writer, Bob Greene, champion of children everywhere, a proponent of good, solid, Midwestern small town values, opened his God damned yap. I always knew Bob was a creep. Anyone who longs for the small town values of old is questionable. The old days weren't better. The old days weren't cleaner, or more sanitary and "god" like, they were just as evil as today, maybe worse. The evils were not publicized by the media. If you look at the records, hospital records, studies, rape, wife beating, domestic violence, pedophilia was rampant. BUT, no one said a word, ever. If you wipe away the thin veneer of wholesomeness you soon see the dark, evil, grimy underbelly of every small town. Look hard, cross your eyes, it's right there, you can see it. Back in the day you stayed with your husband no matter what. God demands you take your beating and your black swollen eyes and stay married. If a young, small town girl was viciously raped by Farmer Jones she hide in fear and was soiled for life, a slut, a whore. Farmer Jones is a God fearing man and that little slut must have wanted it. It was her fault that Farmer Jones raped her. The local small town priest is ass raping the alter boys, don't talk about it, hide it, bury it, don't want to get anyone upset. Fuck small town America, it's sick. If there is a God what kind of values are these? I'll tell you, they are the values of a scurvy, puss filled Bob Greene. Rambling daily in the Chicago Tribune about this nostalgic place that never existed. When men were men and women were women. Yeah, it was great. Fuck you Bob Greene, I can only pray that your daughter gets preyed upon by an dirty, old man using his power and authority to get his rocks off. And then when your daughter tries to contact the man 10 years later just to say hello to her mentor, I pray that baby Jesus, the same Baby Jesus who lives strong in the small town, will direct this man to call the FBI and say your daughter is a stalker. Just like you did Bobby, you dumb, weak, asshole.. Ah, small town America, it feels so good. Next time shut your mouth. Avoid the obvious and stifle your guilt just like R. Kelly did for many years. Next time make a movie Bob, R. Kelly still has his day job.
9-11 ain't a joke I write about a lot of stupid things. Silly, cry-baby, oh poor me, nobody loves me, jesus christ it's a wonder I don't get collectively bitch slapped by America for throwing these thoughts out there. But they are real, the hurt is real, the feelings are real and this is real, to a point. I feel strange and out of control today, near tears and I have never felt like this in my life I am a licensed professional counselor, which may make some people laugh hysterically, but when your ass is on the line you might want to talk to someone who has been through most of the stupid shit this world throws at you. I just wish it was all stupid. I work for an employee assistance program. We are the mental health provider for some of the largest companies in America. Bank of America, JP Morgan Chase, Coke, the IRS. Some of these companies were based in the World Trade Center. In 10 minutes, one year ago, many of these people, people I had worked with, talked with, will be dead. In ten minutes it will be one year since I got the e-mail from Chase human resources that stated "a plane has hit the World Trade Center." In ten minutes it will be a year since my dumb ass didn't think much of it and assumed a small bi-plane had lost it's way and some how the pilot hit a building in NYC. In ten minutes it will be a year since, for once in my life, I didn't know what to say, or do. In 20 minutes the actual reports told us a jet had hit the World Trade Center. In 25 minutes a wife will call me, praying for any information and say, "My God, my husband is in that building, can you tell me if he is alive." In 30 minutes a father from London will call and say, "Sir, any news on my daughter, is she alive?" And in thirty-one minutes it will be a year to the minute when I realized the words, "I don't know" are the only words that mean a god damned thing. It's been a year and a lot has changed for everyone, but it really stays the same. The fear, the ignorance, the stupidity, the violence, it's all there, take a look. Just over a year ago I spoke with a woman who was speaking with her husband on a cell phone as the towers went down. She was sobbing and kept asking me, "What can I do, what do I do, tell me, please." There was nothing I could say, nothing. Words would have been an insult to this woman and a pain I could not understand. So I shut up and I listened to her pain and agony. I was like a sponge. Trying to hold some of these feelings for her, just for a moment, a human listening to another person's horrible pain and fear. I talked to 20 hysterical people a day, every day, for a month. Over and over I was asked, "What do I do, my friends, family, they're dead, what do I do?" I didn't know then and I still don't know now. I remember walking down the street days later and seeing people laughing, talking, like this motherfucker wasn't going down in NYC. And for many it wasn't, it was on t.v. It wasn't real and many Americans did not talk to anyone, or know anyone, directly affected by this slaughter. I wanted to attack these people, but I had to step back and understand that the experience was different for every individual. I was talking to people who were in that building when the jets hit. It made it strikingly real. People were in denial and some people were too stupid, shallow or ignorant to care. Well fuck them. People died, a lot of people and if you are to selfish to possess the empathy to understand this I have no use for you. Stay out of my way, please. For a long time after this I was very angry about my life. I spend a lot of time pretending I don't care about other people, but anyone who knows me knows that I care. I care enough to write about the stupid fucking things that turn my little world upside down and try to understand them. I care enough to understand that my thoughts and opinions are just a sliver of the picture and the world is much bigger than me or my random thoughts. I care enough to help people for less than 30K a year because I believe there is value in helping other human beings. A year ago people needed my help. It's funny. Presidents of major corporations were asking me what to do. I had no answer, because in this situation there were no answers, none. Millionaires, who wouldn't think twice of walking over me, asking for my help, my guidance and I did the best I could. Pretty god damned ironic huh? The one's that help the rich never get paid themselves, wow. I was angry for a long time about my shitty, pathetic income. It didn't make sense. One year ago I went on auto-pilot and I wasn't bitter about my paycheck, my benefits, my status in the financial world. One year ago I was too overwhelmed to give a fuck about that stupid shit. One year ago I sat on the 24th floor of a tower by the lake in the city of Chicago and I prayed to a God I don't believe in. All of the petty bullshit was gone and I was left with what I am, my core being and I was scared. And I have to say I feel embarrassed that I complain about how much money I make and that I cry about not going on vacations, to dinners, because those things never really meant a fucking thing to me anyway. I love my family. I love my friends. One year ago I ran to catch the final bus out of downtown at the corner of Columbus and Grand. There was not a soul downtown and it looked like the end of the world. My family and friends, they are the ones I thought about and they are what matters to me the most. I guess I am selfish. But for the next minute I am going to think about those that died in the Twin Towers, the other humanitarians, who lost their lives doing what comes naturally, helping others. I am overwhelmed. I am crying and I still don't know what to do.
Sometimes you can hear it in a song For every person that thinks we suck and are wasting our time, aren't getting rich on this mission, there is one who walks up after a show and says, "Thanks, I see what you guys are about, I get it." When you're on a mission you can't quit, just stop, because it's hard and your tired. You keep on going, working, playing and writing because it's what you do. It's not about a financial payoff or getting laid. It's about music and connecting with other people who love music as much as we do. Simple.
Correlation and causation. It would be nice and I have no desire for the finer things in life. At least the way the normals define the finer things. I believe their vision is clouded by commercialism, celebrity and tv ads that portray a fictional life that no human can ever have. That's why I love reading "Star" magazine, it isn't real. I have known famous people and they ain't so special, exciting or smart. Some are attractive, but in a city as big as Chicago you can't walk 12' without running into someone beautiful. However, the famous all have shitloads of money. Sadly, in America cash makes you a star. How fucking pathetic. I like how I live. I like the clothes I wear. I like the people I know and care about. Sure, it would be nice to be rich, go to fabulous restaurants, have a new car, go on vacations and have a secure retirement. It would, but that's not an option for me. It never will be, not on the path I have chosen. I spend a lot of time being miserable, trying to get to that other place, that fantasy land. It is not going to happen, it's not. I will work until the day I die. I have accepted this. I believe it. I'm not bitter or sad. I am happy that I can finally live on terms that work for me. On Friday night a girl (mentioned about 10 thoughts back in "Don't let the Normals Win") walked up to me on the street and the first words out of her mouth were, "Hi Chuck, I ate two bottles of Tylenol and tried to kill myself. When I woke up I had a headache, but I was out of aspirin." You can't make that shit up, it's genius, sad, but it's true. It's real life and it hits hard. The finest experiences I have, that have defined my life, are experiences with old friends, new people, new things. Talking to these people, seeing how they work, becoming amazed at what they create, overcome and how they do it. Regular people are much more interesting than any celebrity. I am happiest when I am doing these things. Remarkably, this doesn't cost much money. When I am creating and helping other people, watching them, hearing them make new and exciting music, sharing ideas, damn, it fulfills me... I am happier right now then I have been in a year. We have a new album coming out, we have been playing, working, getting things done, talking to new people, making some noise within our day to day existence. That counts, we are alive. I am alive. This week I practice four times and I play two shows. There is no time for sleep, no fat, no downtime, nothing wasted and I am completely happy in this chaotic environment. Correlation does not equal causation, but I think I am seeing a pattern here.
I love rock n roll I am all about programming the masses and making them bow down to me. I have seen the competition and it is laughable at best. I will conquer them without trying and make them buckle and submit to our greatness. I know it and they know it. They always have and if I hear another beatlesque pop band I am going to vomit, or spontaneously combust. God dammit, can someone kill the last two! Paul will be difficult, but Ringo, that retard will be easy pickings. I know baby, you're tired of the same old thing, same old songs and you need a little excitement, something different, strange, weird, dangerous. Don't worry, you don't have to think honey, we're gonna shove it down your throat. Now, if our jet setting singer/songwriter will get his ass home from Greece, we can play a fucking rock n roll show: If you were anywhere near a radio this weekend you heard the song "Shut Up and Work It", from the CD, "Shut Up and Work It" by Rock Star Club. WXRT, Q101 or 94.7, it was played on all three stations. This is Rock Star Club's third album, following the critically acclaimed "The Entertainer", which topped several "best of" lists. "Shut Up and Work It" is the first album to feature guitarist/keyboardist Justin Zucker. His addition has allowed Rock Star Club to experiment with new sounds, writing styles and expand the scope of the band's already unique sound. This will be an incredible show, full of energy, great music and passion. Augmenting Rock Star Club are Milwaukee legends The Nerve Twins and Chicago's own Douglass Kings. The show starts at 10pm sharp and Rock Star Club will go on at midnight. Hope to see you there. Friday August 30th at the Note- 1565 n. Milwaukee Ave - Chicago,IL.
when blowing your head off is an option, don't do it. What the hell am I doing and why does drunkenness correlate with past memories that I cannot let go of. I don't think about these things when I am sober. Maybe I need to dry out for a decade or two. For the most part I had fun tonight. Myself, the lion and his girlfriend went to the Double Door to hand out flyers and cd's to promote our cd release show. I saw some old friends, but it only takes a moment to make it all go wrong, again. So, 27 minutes ago suicide made sense for the first time since December of 2000. It's the oddest feeling and if you have never been there it's hard to comprehend. Pre-2000 I didn't get it either. Hopefully you won't, but if you do, enjoy the knowledge. If you go back to the beginning of these thoughts, it's fucked up, they are in reverse and you gotta go to the bottom of the page and click backwards. There was a time when killing myself made sense. It's easy. I was dead before and its all black and inky. Hell you don't even know it, you're dead. You cannot know that people are sad, you're gone. I thought about that 27 minutes ago and I wished I was dead, but I won't ever kill myself because I hated being dead in 1996. I hate myself when I get like this, this dead on the inside feeling. In 5 minutes it will pass. You get used to hanging on. I am drunk and my life is on this silly website, this band, and here. I saw a girl I used to go out with 70 minutes ago. She is pretty, smart and cool and I left her, again. It seems a have a pattern doesn't it? On Friday she went to a film festival with a friend of mine. I would not commit to her and she has pulled away from me, she's gotta move on. I know this. I have no feelings, no soul. Anyway, I asked her about her night and I knew she had slept with someone the night before. You can see it in the eyes, when someone doesn't look at you the same way and their gaze, and you, are so far away you barely register on the optic nerve. I know, she's gotta move on. I made these choices. I don't want her to be sad or alone, ever, I care about her. I cared enough to leave. If I wasn't so high and fucking mighty I wouldn't have left her, would I? That's way off, but it sounds much better than the truth. I would like nothing more than to hide from the truth for a couple of more years. Maybe I am selfish and I don't have the capacity to make anyone, including myself, truly happy. But god dammit I am entertaining. You gotta trust your friends and I need to open my eyes. No girlfriend of a friend has ever hooked me up, with anyone, ever. But they hook everyone else up. I am obviously, judging by the response of my friends, not worth the trouble. There is always an excuse or a reason not to: "I don't have any friends", or "They're not your kind of girls." Would someone explain what kind of girls are my kind of girls? God damn. The message is clear. You're fine entertainment, but I would never suggest a friend go out with you. As a girlfriend of a friend said two hours ago, "You are the devil." I don't need my friends to set me up, God no, but once, when I am way down, it would be nice. In a world of drug dealers, child molesters, rapists, murderers, frat boys who gang rape and listen to shit music, I am the evil in this world. I have nothing to offer and I am wrong to think I do. I am so fucking clueless, At least I feel that way right now.. I deserve to hurt and vomit and wah wah wah. It's true. I am a bad person. If there is a hell I hope I go there and burn. Jesus, even Hitler had Eva Braun. So I go on. 20 minutes from now it will be ok. Just be happy, it's your only hope. Time to pass out its almost 4 am. Another night in a successful life.
The Camel Jockey and the Aryan Nation And we are off to a horrible start, the end could be near. Zorba(Paul) is off in Greece doing God knows what. The Zuckler, who according to my sister is the "sex symbol" of RSC, is also vacationing, but he may return and lend a hand. Hit the clubs, go to some shows, press the flesh, but alas, he is in love and love never rocks. I have hope for him and he usually comes through, but this is a big show and hope doesn't sell tickets. Hope does not kill fear friends, it inspires fear in my little, dark soul. This weekend the band was down to the rhythm section, myself and the Lebanese Lion and it was our job to promote this show and put up some flyers. We jumped in my 1996 Honda Civic. The Lion has given up driving to protest the treatment of Arab Americans. As he explained in his analytical way, "The Arabs are good for than producing American oil, they make Hummus." God dammit, he was right, but then again, who the hell eats hummus? Off we went to Wicker Park, home of the fake starving artist and The Note, where we play our cd release show, 12am, August 30th. I pulled the sexy, black civic into a currency exchange and parked, albeit illegally, but I parked. While the lion manned the car, I ran around like an asshole with spray adhesive and RSC flyers in hand. I placed the flyers on walls and purposively covered up any legitimate flyers for other bands supporting abused animal shelters, heroin addiction, child adduction, homeless shelters, food drives and seven thousand other charitable organizations. Don't get me wrong, I support animal abuse, child abduction, heroin addiction and homelessness as much as the next musician. I just don't want it to fuck up my show. I run back to the car and say "Lion, run across the street and put up a couple of flyers and I'll meet you back here in two minutes before we get towed." The lion agreed. In Chicago you don't fuck with towing companies. They scream down out of the sky like vultures, descend upon you in seconds, literally and your ride is gone. Taken away to a filthy towing yard run by fat, white whores and thieves, with thick Chicago accents that make them sound dumber than they look. I have seen cars towed and stolen in less than two minutes. It's inspiring in a sick way. I walk around the corner and I hear the Lion yell, "Chuck get over here, quick." I look and see a man flailing underneath my car, like he is grabbing for something. The Lion is smiling, laughing and he yells, "Get over here." I couldn't figure out what was going on. Had the man lost some thing? Had his small dog, cat, a rat, run up inside my hood? A guy on North Ave yelled, "Dude, he's trying take your shit." He said, "Dude." He wasn't kidding. I ran through traffic. I get to the car and the lion is laughing. He is blocking a stocky, black man from putting a boot on my car. The man is saying, "Get off me, don't touch me man, I'll call the police." I didn't know what the hell was going on, but the Lion had roared. With one leg he was blocking this punk from achieving his goal, the parking boot. I think the guy freaked. The lion is 6'2", 230 pounds and for the last year he has been under my delusional tutelage. In other words, he has become one strong son of a bitch. The lion was impressed by his strength and he was enjoying pushing the man away from car, reaching down and undoing the boot. I run up quickly and as much as I deny it, I am a big motherfucker. So this guy is surrounded by a big Arab with an Afro and a bald weightlifter who aparently play in a rock band together and definitely are not going to let the car get the boot. The man gets up, shoves me and says, "Are you gonna hit me." I was surprised and honestly a little scared, not sure why, we would have killed him. I could have killed him. I guess he did have a metal boot in his hand and a crazed, cornered animal look in his eye. I didn't respond to the shove. A real man would have decked his scurvy ass, got in the car and drove away. He attacked me and he could not have proven otherwise. I was confused and not sure what to do and the stupid fuck was trying to put the boot on again, talking about call calling the police, "you can't park here." As the lion held him off it hit me, "Dumb ass, get in the car and drive away." So I got in and started to back out. The man stood behind my car and I thought I would run him over. As we struggled, some stupid bitch decided she needed to park next to my car, blind to what was going on, blocking my exit(on purpose?) and prolonging the struggle. The lion walked around the side of the car, I unlocked the door, nearly hit the other car, and we drove away. The man said he was calling the cops (like the police are going to drop everything for this) looked at me and said, "You try that again." I said, "Ok I will" and laughed in his face. Final score RSC 21, Currency Exchange 0. My car had a dent in the quarter panel from the Lion blocking the man and I tried in vain to convince the Lion we needed to go back, file a police report and threaten the man. He alerted me to the fact that we were breaking the law and had no ground to stand on. We parked around the corner and as we walked the man was yelling and pointing at us, yelling into his his cell phone. I can hear it now, "This giant camel jockey and the leader of the skinhead Aryan Nation attacked me, but I kicked their asses and they ran like the bitches they are." We are bitches. Ironically the man is right. The lion is a camel jockey and I am the leader of the Aryan Nation. It's a strange union, but we are united in our hate of America. Just think, it took an angry, pathetic, parking lot attendant to call our asses out. But motherfucker, the show must go on and it will.
It's hard to say goodbye when you can't spell hello
I guess that's cool While I was out pimping the band the rest of the group was doing double, probably triple. They were practicing 5/6 days a week, passing out flyers, putting up show posters! The vacations, dinners, dates, they were all a front to thwart me and get my ass out of dodge. While reading the RSC message board and the usual "Chuck is gay" comments I saw a posting from XXXX(Paul?) and another from the Lion, confirming my demise. I could have been fired at practice, but apparently my "friends" did not have the courteousy to do so. Fucking A Jack, that's a square kick in the balls. It's my fault and my own weakness was my end. I don't know who will replace me on Friday and I have no idea who will have time to learn the songs in three days. Who am I kidding, a fucking monkey could play those ridiculously simple parts, a god damned monkey!!! I predict that RSC will sound like a classic rock band. Think ZZ Top meets White Snake. They have killed the caesar and now he is dead. Here is a list of my possible replacements gathered from inside sources: 1. Ben Burton- Ex- Infraction. A former band mate of Eli's. Rumor has it that Sabbagh convinced the other members of RSC to kick Tipton out of the band and replace him with Burton. Ironically, Sabbagh is trying to secure a computer programming contract with Burton's company in a last ditch effort to save his imaginary programming career. 2. Chris Schuler- Fin, Ex- Brando's Charm, Ex-Laughterhouse. Tipton was in a 11 day coma and legend says that on day 10 of the coma Schuler offered to replace Tipton. The only thing that stopped him from becoming a member of RSC was Tipton's miraculous recovery on day 11. Schuler played in a band called Laughterhouse with Sabbagh. LaughterHouse was fronted by a fat guy named Bill. Sabbagh is gaining weight, hummm. 3. The Zuckler- filled in for Tipton at a Metro show before he was in the band and still believes it was RSC's finest moment. A close friend reveals, "The Zuckler has always thought Chuck sucked." But if Zuckler played bass who would play guitar? Not likely. 4. Wyatt- Ex. Powerwagon. Possibly the biggest RSC fan on the planet. He would kill Chuck to get in RSC. Sources close to the band say Paul has considered this option. 5. Cristal Smith- ex. girlfriend of someone. Sabbagh's current girlfriend. Another source states that this relationship is on thin ice and Cristal has become suspicious of Sabbagh's occupational prospects. After one year of unemployment, no money, no car, not even a bike, reliable sources report that Cristal was seen at a local Chicago hotspot dancing with a member the very popular rock band Woolworthy. Sabbagh is said to be jealous and believes that to stay unemployed and continue his lifestyle he will need to keep Cristal close and away from these devious forces. Paul has always wanted a "chick" bass player. Cristal hates Chuck as much as Eli. It is said this hate is what keeps them together. 6. Jeff Lee- ex. Young Lords. The Midwest Drumming Legend does not play drums anymore and Chuck is playing HIS Music Man Bass. Tipton has only given Lee $100 for the bass and Lee says he can play "those shitty bass in my sleep." 7. George Mohoi- ex. Broken Class, Chuck Conners Experience, Kursed, current, Team Hoss- He is better than Tipton ever could hope to be. 8. Micheal Dean- ex. Hot Blooded (Foreigner Tribute Band.) Dean played bass in Hot Blooded, a Foreigner tribute band fronted by Tipton. Hot Blooded broke up after one infamous show on 10/31/01. Paul's wife is desperately in love with Dean and thinks he is a dead ringer for one of Hollywood's gorgeous Baldwin Brothers. Inside sources state she has threatened to leave Paul unless he finally "Kills that fucking Caesar" or invites Dean into their bedroom for a hot threesome. This makes sense, because pussy always wins. I put my money here. These are preliminary rumors, the truth will be revealed Friday.
38,395 drinks too many It was only a matter of time before The Gambler himself crept into a Random Thought, but he has, and being a star, better than you or I ever could be, I take Kenny at his word. "You gotta know when to fold em" and last Friday night, myself and the Self Proclaimed Song Writing Genius, Paul Kasprzak, came to the realization that our time has come. It's time to fold the Club, walk away and count our money. That will take minutes, but it's time to call it quits and end Rock Star Club. A good band keeps on going, a great band knows when to abandon the god damned ship. Let the rest of the rats die on that sinking ship, we gotta move on. Why? Several reasons, one, the fire is not there anymore. The excitement is gone and the honeymoon is finally over. No one in the band really wants to BE in the band, that includes me. We don't promote the band, we don't sell the band and certainly don't live the band. Our lives are consumed with jobs, homes, computer programs, parties, getting laid, girlfriends, wives, weight-lifting dinners, getting fucked up, not the music and not the band. With this kind of momentum it would make more sense to get drunk and "jam" (I don't know how to jam) in someone's basement. We do that now, essentially paying to practice once a week. Which is the most we have ever practiced in our history and is not enough for a "rehearsed band." It does not make sense to play shows that we do not promote and have little interest in playing, like it's a chore. Simply, we don't work and we don't want to work. We want to eat and drink and watch t.v in clean air-conditioned houses. Rock n Roll is dirty and we are not dirty, anymore. Two, we have become a parody of ourselves. In the beginning our show was over the top, huge, made no sense and had little to do with the music we were playing. The show was a concert and the cd's held the music, the words, the vision. Ultimately, we were wrong and we became prisoners of this image. Only a handful of people figured out the ironic genius in a band that looked like "this", but played such intimate, heartbreaking music. It was a complete oxymoron. In other words, we did not want to look like Radiohead who is the last band anyone would invite to a party. We like the party, but we don't make party music, no one got it. We failed, led by myself, another wrong choice in a career of bad choices. Three, we fired our manager. Another bad choice, because it has been downhill since that day. The vast majority of bands do not need a manager. They do not need someone to tell then what to wear, what to say, which songs to play. We are idiots. We do need a manager. We are the idiot savants of entertainment and it is a testament to Paul's song writing ability that we got as far as we did. I would like to say it was my magnetic personality, but that has nothing to do with the music. The personality comes in to play after the show, sometimes during the show and sometimes it hurt the show. Anyway, we would not listen to our manager and we should have. But we didn't. Christ, we are a bunch of fucking punks. Four, 38,395 drinks too many, before the show. We drink because we are scared and it is a crutch. It started with the old band and escalated into a habit. We drink,then we play, it should be the opposite, but we were too drunk to figure it out. While this behavior was charming for The Replacements, it made us look like assholes. I'd blame Paul Westerberg, hell, I blame myself. When you have little talent one cannot afford to hit the stage at.02, which I do more often than not. Making out with Paul, on stage, at a music festival in St. Louis, where we were the 'buzz' band in front of 10 music labels, press and curious music fans should have been the low-point. But NOOOOOO, not us, we just don't learn, ever. I could go on, but I think those four points sum it up. Lazy, a parody, no manager to make us toe the line, drunk. This equals a mess that somehow functions because of Paul's talent. Damn. Actually, both of the bands Paul and I have been in have functioned the same way and we have never approached a project with a sober, rehearsed attitude. I wonder what would happen if we did? Of course there are two other members of RSC and they will have some say in this matter, but I vote to quit before we suck. New album, last album, out August 30th and then a couple of final shows, maybe a New Years Eve blow out, but definitely finished by the end of 2002. It's been a great run, but it is time to try something different. Different sound, sober, a direction, a manager. Hell, maybe I should quit and the boys should get a different bass player. Either way, it's stagnant and it's time to drain this fucking stinky lake. As a band that has made every wrong choice it will be nice to make the right choice, once. We will leave how we came in, without a care in the world.
A pussy in love. I was thinking about something one of my professors, Dr. Joy Whitman, brilliant woman, said to me. She said "Chuck, it doesn't make any difference to a person that you have gone through a similar experience, it doesn't, because although the experience may have been the same in every detail the perceptions are alway quite different." She's right, it's one of the reasons counseling works, because the counselor doesn't need to "know" and honestly no one can ever know what you have been through. However, humans naturally seek out others that have had similar experiences. Although it might be helpful to let others see what I have been through, at some point it becomes an exercise in showing off. I am a fucking show off. Maybe I can help other people by showing them how I got through some rough times, but ultimately the choice is their own and what someone does with this information is their choice. I don't know what you've been through. I've been through some shit, but I guess that doesn't mean anything to anyone but me. It makes sense and if you don't get help, or have the ability, which no one I know does, to analytically detach yourself from yourself and look at what you are doing, with an objective eye, you are doomed to repeat your fate. Which is what I have done time and time again, but thanks to a friend, who said the right thing at the right time, I may have a chance to get it right. My friend once said to me, "you won't allow yourself to be happy Chuck, you want to be miserable." That hurt, and for a while I thought it was true. Maybe I choose misery. It's easy, pity poor Chuck, feel sorry for Chuck and when miserable you always have an excuse. An excuse for being angry, sad, crazy, scared and stupid. As I have said in these pages before, I have failed at every relationship I have ever been in. Failed is strong, but it has never lasted, never matured into something worthwhile, it just ended with a horrible feeling of loneliness and shame. Not that I will ever marry, I don't know if that's for me, but one day I need to go to the next level. You can spend your entire life bouncing from one high to the next. Every time you meet someone new it gets you high, the hormones kick in, the attraction, that silly feeling of love. I suppose I could do this once every year for a lifetime, but for me the downtime is hell. The self-loathing, disappointment and hate is overwhelming and no amount of good, hard, fucking can lay rest to it. It's a motherfucker of feeling and it hurts. Maybe I am a pussy in love, either way, I recover slow. So she said that to me and I started to wonder if she was right. At the time we were seeing each other and it was coming to the point of seriousness. I ran, scared, but in my gut I felt I was making the right choice. Now I understand. I have been at that same point three times in my life. Great sex, massive swellings, tidal waves of love, respect, joy for a woman, and I felt all these things for her, but I ran. I ran because every time I succumb to these emotions, 6 months to a year later I am an emotional wreck. Abusing myself, wanting to fuck anything that walks or talk, ok, at least walks, and beating the shit out of myself because the feelings are gone and I can't understand what is wrong with me. It would have gone the same way, again, it's my history and I was doomed to repeat it. If I don't change it this doesn't mean shit, so I am going to try to do something different. I have never dated, maybe I will give it a shot. In the past I have had what I will call "brief encounters." Meet someone, go out, have sex, and never call them again. Eventually, I meet someone, we go out, have sex and I don't run. This hasn't worked. Having sex with every woman who has been my girlfriend the first time we have gone out has not worked. It worked for a time, but it faded. So my friend made me think, maybe I should date like normal people date? The drink and fuck method has failed me. I have great stories, but ultimately I am left with the stories. Memories, memories. I hate dating, I do. I have no desire to entertain someone I don't care about, but I am going to have to do it, I am. It's like shopping, you try on different clothes and eventually you find a suit you like. I hate dating. I like shopping, but dating sucks. Maybe I can combine the two. At Dominick's I can run my grocery cart into the hotties buying produce, "Hey, nice melons." Maybe not. I have to play the game and see where it leads me. I sincerely hope it leads me right back to this woman, I do. She might meet someone else, move on, couldn't blame her, because I have no idea how long this will take. This time I have to try to make it right. Like the song says, "If it feels good I just don't care." I wrote that song and for that moment I didn't care. I was drunk and on mushrooms when I wrote that. I was wrong. I care.
You are that guy. Last night I was at Hot Osco on Chicago and Ogden. I call it Hot Osco because the pharmacist there is the Queen Hottie of all pharmi. She is smoking, ok, smoking for a pharmacist. A month ago I went to Osco to get the life saving medication I need to maintain my lifestyle and there she was, tight leather pants, just ready to fuck, looking fine. I thought, "pretty cool job, leather pants, what job allows you to wear leather pants to work", in control of the drugs, making big bucks, not a care in the world. Anyway, I went to the Hot Osco last night to buy some gum, not drugs, on my way home from having a few drinks with the MDL. It was 9:48, a precarious time, because the low paid Osco employees are busting ass to get the hell out of there. The pharmacist was long gone, she closed shop at 9pm. While the employees are working hard to leave, the store fills with last minute losers who need gum, ice cream, toilet paper, tampons, condoms, band aids and whatever the hell else people don't think about until the last minute. Grossly understaffed, the normally efficient Osco becomes the K-Mart of drug stores. K-mart is bottom of the food chain. A shopper at K-mart expects to wait in a long line, 12 people deep, dirty diapers and shit on the floors, items strewn all over the god damn store and never in the right place, only three registers open, while some cheapjack, white trash, moron is going to price check seven items to save a dollar and make everyone wait and wait and wait. No wonder the store is filing for bankruptcy. Normally, Hot Osco is reliable, but at this time it becomes a model of K-mart inefficiency, one register open, thirteen people in line and that guy is right in front of me. There he stands, short, balding, slim, khaki docker shorts with a matching golf shirt, the paradigm for the feminine male. Ok, I'll say it, he looked like a pussy. He looked like one of those guys, and we all know one, who has the most foul smelling, silent farts known to man. Just a vile stink rising from his skinny, gaseous ass, my God. Only he wasn't stinking, he was shopping. "Um, I had two rolls of one hour film developed and I would like to pick up my two rolls of one hour film." "Fuck", I thought, worse than a price checker, a last minute film picker upper, fuck man, I just want to buy a 25 cent pack of Big Red. But no, here we go, the photo person is in the back, or somewhere drinking, popping oxycotin, whatever druggists do after work, but the photo person is no where to be found. So the one woman, at the one register, with 13 people in line has to stop checking people out and try to find this fuckers "two" rolls of films at 9:59pm, one minute before closing. And we wait, because God knows she ain't gonna know where that god damned film, containing naked pictures of his scurvy wife is located, fuck no, so we wait, wait, wait. I am getting visibly inpatient, fuming, angry, upset and I just want my GOD DAMNED GUM!!!!!!!! And then it happened, stinky grew a set of balls and he said to me, "Is there a problem?" I assume this man is some sort of mid level management type, fires and hires, drives a Volvo, or BMW, makes more money than I could ever hope to make and likely, I could be wrong, but likely thought I would back down, or say, "no problem here", like his subservient employees. He thought me a dumb muscle head and looked down upon me like the lowly piece of shit I am. Enter Mr. Tipton. I said, "Yeah, there is a problem, you're that guy, you've always been that guy, you were born that guy and you will die that guy. When the jocks beat your ass in the eighth grade it was because you were that guy, when the punk rockers beat you up in high school it was because you are that guy, when your girlfriend fucked your best friend it was because you are that guy, when your girlfriend left you and said, 'it's me, not you' it was because you are that guy. When you played baseball as a kid and threw like a girl it was because you were that guy and when you come to the fucking Osco at 9:55 to pick up your film and hold up an entire store, it's because you are that guy and I hate that fucking guy. Does that answer your question!!" He started to speak, the entire store was staring at me, I had snapped, and I said, "Don't speak, please, just shut up, please." I put a dollar on the register and I walked out of the Hot Osco smiling. I hate that fucking guy, I have always hated that annoying little prick and it felt pretty damn good to tell him exactly how I felt. After all, I am a counselor, I help people.
50ft. Queenie has nothing on me. As I wait for the bus and an older gentleman, maybe 60, asks me, "is the 66 coming?" "Yes sir, I take it every Wednesday, it'll be here." We make idle small talk, his name is Walter and he is downtown for a convention. 30 seconds later the bus rolls up and we get on. I walk to the back, Walter follows and feeling friendly, I motion him to sit by me. Why not, I never talk on the bus and he seems interesting. He looks like a handsome version of C.W. Fields. Overweight, balding, but not a bad looking man. I find out Walt is 72, he has the energy of a younger man, single, no kids, owns a funeral home on Chicago and Noble. I know that funeral home, a five minute walk from my place, a neighbor. He has lived there for 72 years. He tells me about the neighborhood and the changes he has seen. He tells me, "When the first immigrants came in, the Polish, they would drink and fight with their fists and knives, now the new immigrants, the Latinos, they fight with guns, but they fight just the same. I have to remind my friends that they were a bunch of drunks with no money at one time. What's a young man to do? Drink and fight, the Latinos are just like the Polish, except back then we didn't have guns, but if we had them we damn well would have used them. All the immigrants fight." I instantly liked Walt, he didn't have some idealized vison of his youth when, "things were different" or "the kids were different then" or "people just don't care like we did" or "parents didn't let their kids act like that." That is bullshit. It is no different today, the weapons, sure, but the behavior is identical. Back in the day kids got drunk, tore things up, vandalized, destroyed, raped and fought. They didn't kill, as much, because they didn't have access to the guns, but if they did, they would have killed. As a matter of fact, those kids were worse. I say worse because they are the parents of all the fucked up kids they bitch about today. Those bad kids all have evil, vile parents and I blame the parents. And I blame their parents for raising such horrible kids. For some unknown reason they thought fucking and raising their own families was a good idea. Idiots, it's your fault the kids have guns, gangs, poverty, fucking, loser, parents. Walt looks at me and says, "How's your love life?" I replied, "not bad" and as the words left my mouth I realized I was being hit on by a 72 year old queen. Gay men never hit on me, ever. Once I was at Berlin, a gay bar, with some friends and I got upset that NO ONE hit on me. I mean, it is a gay bar, it's like being in a bar with 100 women, you are the only guy, and no one looks at you, very disconcerting. Ok, it's not like that, but it felt like it. I said to my friend, "How come no one is hitting on me?" He turned to me and said, "Chuck, it is so obvious that you are not gay." I got mad, I said, "I am such a fag, pull down your pants. I'll suck your cock right here, come on, do it!!" He walked away laughing at me. The age range at Berlin is 21-40, mainly 20's, they have no time for me, but I had never considered the older, gay male demographic. Apparently, bald and buff goes over with the older queens. So there I am with 5'6" queenie and every other freak in the city of Chicago rolling down Chicago Ave. He says to me, "Why don't you stop by, we'll have an orgy." God I am hott. I see my stop, Orleans, gots to run Queenie. I pull the cable to request a stop and I start to muscle my way past the drunken, coke-addled stock whore on my right. I stop and look at Walt, he looks so sad and small. What hold do these freaks and weirdos have on me? It's me, I find them, I like them, I NEED THEM. The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, "Maybe I'll stop by for a cup of coffee sometime Walt, I know where you're at." His face lit up and I almost knocked the broker on his ass because he wouldn't move out of my way. I will probably never stop by the funeral home, probably, but I have to say, part of me wants to because I can't get enough of this drama, just a day in my life living in the big city. Pretty cool.
Food is my heroin. I want to be like the Flaming Lips. They do whatever they want. I want my life and my band to be "lip" like. They have incredibly well orchestrated shows, same set, same show, same effects, every night, because their show is perfection. The beauty is they can pull it off, no bullshit, again and again. That takes discipline, vision and hard work. I respect that, no fat on the Flaming Lips, nothing wasted. They fuck that carcass bone dry. I don't think my band can do that. Our new record is coming out August 30th. We are going to debut a new image, a new professionalism that night. The old Rock star Club will be dead. No longer a drunken mess, no longer thanking the "ladies and gentleman" after every song. No bullshit, cutting off the fat, the crutches, the in-securities of 12 years of self-fulfilling prophecy and failure, over. We are going to attempt to play the new record, in order, exactly as it is on our new cd. That will require six guitar changes in one set, six, that's tough. If we cannot do it I quit. I am really proud of this album, it's different from our last album, more focused, a moment in time when we weren't kidding ourselves about making money or getting signed. Things were good and the record sounds, relaxed?? Hell I don't know. But I can hear them, the tubbies are at the trough grazing, feeding their faces, cavernous mouths open like a baby waiting for momma's succulent, milk-filled nipple. They are desperately trying to bring me down on this bus. It would be so easy and food is like heroin, but I can't break. Like another New York junkie who makes shitty albums and appears in Calvin Klein ads, I won't break. I won't give in. I am so hungry and being obese in a fast food nation is automatic ecstasy. It's a fat fraternity here; they all look so happy as we ride to work on the #65.
Fuck the rich kids, because I ain't one The rest of the country toed the line, like the punks they are and voted for Al Gore. However, the rich kid from Yale, with drunken, whore daughters and his scurvy, Floridian brother, with scummy, slut, cock sucking for drugs daughters, stole the whole fucking election. I gotta say, evil, vile, but genius move. The stolen election issue died quickly and the liberal media hasn't said a word about it since. I was never a huge fan of Bill Clinton, what a fuck-up, (how can't you get away with doing your intern?) BUT, if the so called liberal media is truly liberal, why aren't they shredding the Bush boys and their substance addicted klan to pieces. Why, because any asswipe can read between the corporate lines and see that the MEDIA is owned by filthy rich Republicans. Do some research, any research, and you will see the biggest media outlets in the country are owned by Republicans. It's not rocket science dummy, just look at who owns what, it is public information. The Chicago Tribune, New York Times, Washington Post, ABC, CBS, NBS, FOX, even CNN, which is owned by Ted Turner, but look at the board of directors, owned by rich kids. If that pig fucker Rush Limbaugh would put down a sandwich and read, anything, he would see the media is owned and operated by Republicans. And the media reports what the owners say to report, the end. Look I could give a fuck about who owns what, but I don't like the bias. If Clinton's kid was drinking and whoring they would have crucified that poor girl. If Clinton had sold 200,000 shares of stock the day before the company he ran went under, like Bush, Rush Limbaugh would have him on all four, buns up and kneeling, having an anal orgy with that god damn hillbilly. I think he is in love with Clinton. He fantasizes about he and Billy in a hot 69, sucking each other off, ummmm. I will buy that video, wow! Anyway, fuck these rich kids, they don't care about you. They care about staying rich and they are going to do it anyway they can, period. Come on, that's what it is about. The rich want funding cut, cut mental health, cut the school funding, cut health care, and the poor want it all handed to them. Myself, because I am a liberal pussy, I would give it to them, who cares and I like to help out. Everybody bitches and everyone wants more. The parents blame the teachers, the teachers need more money and anyone with a brain knows it's always the god damn parents fault that their kids are losers. Ahhhh, it never changes. The poor stay poor, the rich stay rich and I slowly creep downward to the bottom of the middle class. It's a caste system driven by fast-food and Target, fatty foods and cheap clothes. However, being in the top 1% of educational excellence has served me well. I have no money and mental health is getting cut like a motherfucker. Pray with me, "Dear Jesus, please let all the politicians cutting mental health get Alzheimers and die, drooling on the dirty streets of Chicago with the other mentally ill people, because there is no money to help them." See I am just like everyone else, I want, I want, I want. But I deserve it, don't I? me me me me me, I guess I am just like the rest, no better no worse. So get me a fifth of Jack Daniels, a bottle of oxycotin and a couple of Bush girls, I got some some fucking to do. Those poor girls are in trouble.
To Live and Die in Chicago First, Paul just bought a townhouse in the city. There is no doubt he is a Chicagoan. When you buy a piece of the city, it is your city, your home. He killed what was left of Indiana with one giant purchase. Paul got married in Chicago. I think it's time to let go of the Indiana shtick. If Paul's mom and dad did not live in Merrillville I doubt he would ever go there. There is a meanness in all of the outlying suburbs of Chicago. The farther you get from downtown the smaller the minds get. I am not talking about intelligence, because I know many brilliant people who live in small towns. I am talking about exposure. If you are not exposed to different cultures, art, food or ideas you can grow to despise and hate these things because they are different from what you know. A quick litmus test to see if you live in Smallville, ask your co-workers if they have ever tried, or would try, sushi. If they say, "I would never try that, raw fish," welcome to Smallville. Anot her quick test, if your local club has more cover bands than original music, yup, you live in Smallville. I like some of Smallville. Homes are cheap. Food is cheap. Liquor is cheap. There are lakes and neighborhoods, well, there are lakes and neighborhoods in Chicago, but Smallville is a sleepy, relaxed place. Until you peel away the thin veneer and notice the violent hatred bubbling underneath all of that ridiculous "small-town values" bullshit. New ideas are not welcome, fuck, go to the mall and look at the hair. I am not a part of that 1980's bullshit. Not everyone in Smallville is like that, but the longer you stay the closer you get to becoming one of them. I always hated them. I fucking hated those closed off motherfuckers and I spent a lot of time trying to get out and I did. I have lived in Chicago longer than I have lived anywhere else in my life. I lived in Gary, In., Portage , Valpo, Merrillville for 8 years, then off to Lafayette Indiana. I moved to Chicago in 1991, that's 11 years in Chicago. Whenever I leave the city for Smallville I always feel there is going to be a fight. The Smallville normals, the freaks are ok, don't like us big city people with our gay, liberal ideals and our black, green, blue, yellow or brown girlfriends. Interracial, holy fuck that is a funny word, but in Smallville it is taboo. Another quick test, if you are against interracial(stupid word) relationships because, "it will be hard on the kids" you are another cracker, racist, motherfucker. You and I know both know you don't give a fuck about the kids, please, stop lying to yourself. No one really cares about the kids, if they did they would do something for the kids, anything for the kids. Work with kids at shitty social work job, volun teer as a big brother or sister, or lobby the state for tax increases to support the schools. If you don't do these any of this shut the fuck up about the kids, you're not helping. Like anyone is at home saying, "those poor interracial babies, what god would condemn them to such a fate, what are they, who are they, they have no race, how can they live?" It's the niggers, spics, ricans and the asians all taking away a little chunk of white America. I guess Tiger Woods is ok because he looks black, thank God. But what about Tiger's babies? I stay up at night worrying about that. Who cares, I got my own ass covered and other things to worry about and so should you. Anyway, I can't live in Indiana. I can go back and visit. My family is there and I love them, but if they weren't I doubt I would ever go back. I have been poisoned by the big city. I like the different cultures, foods, music, and I love all the options. When I go to a bar there is never a fight because someone is "hitting on my girlfriend." I rarely go into music club and hear a band playing a shitty Stone Temple Pilots song. The majority of girls have great clothes and updated haircuts. I live in a neighborhood where I can park, but when I look out my window I can see the Sears Tower. I don't like some of the attitudes and bullshit, but I will make that trade. I live in Chicago and I will die in Chicago. If I die please don't bury me in Indiana. Scatter my ashes on Grand Ave, it's where I live. As for Paul and his perverse attraction to Indiana and his idealized memory of the place he calls home, well, it ain't home. I know if he had to live in Indiana with the ignorance trying to kill his music he'd be miserable, isolated and downtrodden. If he went back to that horrible caste system ruled by fat ex-jocks and tubby cheerleaders he would feel the way he felt in 9th grade, angry, confused, out of place. He has found his place and I'm not sure what grip those fuckers still have on him, but they still got a hold of his short and curly's. Justin, the Zuckler, always talks about how he could live in the country. Whenever we go to Milwaukee he looks at the cows and the cornfields and says, "I would like to live here." I think he would like it until he realized there was nowhere to go and that he had to stay: forever. Of course Justin grew up in Florida, the home of "Cops". I guess after growing up in that white trash nightmare, rural Milwaukee seems like nirvana. Justin owns a home in Chicago. Sabbagh, the Lebanese Lion, has an idealized vision of Bloomington Indiana and "Spicewood", the neighborhood where his parents live. Bloomington is nice. It's a college town. Beautiful country, hiking, waterskiing, limited culture and it is located in the poorest county in Indiana. Look it up. Spicewood would work for Sabbagh if he hiked, water-skied, rock climbed or liked nature, but the Lion is the antithesis of nature. There is nothing natural about him. He hates nature more than I do. The Lion plays his computer and his drums. He likes science and his girlfriend, future wife, owns a home in Chicago. He's not going anywhere. What the fuck am I thinking?? I have no ties to Chicago. No girlfriend, no home, no commitment. Maybe I should move back to Indiana. I would get used to it, hell, I might even like it. Fuck all that, I cut that cancer out of my body when I cut my last girlfriend out of my life. My friends are here. This is where I belong. I'm not saying that Chicago "people " are better than small town people. What I am saying is that a bigger city has bigger ideas and plentiful options that a small town can never see. Once you've seen it, lived it, moving out would only slow you down. After about a day life would be.............................slow. It's slow now and if I went back that fucking clock would never move................tick.....................tick.........................tick.
Fighting against the normals On Saturday my band, Rock Star Club, played the MOBfest in Chicago. One thing about my band, never a dull moment when it comes to our career. I think our "Behind the Music" episode will be called, "Rock Star Club: Doing everything they can to fail." One thing is for sure, we play by our own rules and we may be the last "true" punk rock band out there. No one tells us what to do and if they do, like adolescents, we will do the complete opposite, every time. Call it fear, call it fuck you, call us stupid, I call it all three, but it's true. For example, let's review our Saturday night performance in front of nearly 12 record labels. I should have known we were fucked. It started when the MDL and I got on the guest list for Social Distortion at House of Blues. I had to go to this show. I missed our sound-check for this show. I figured it was pay-back for my 16 years in the music industry. All of my years of playing paid off with a free $25 ticket, not waiting in line and getting smashed with the MDL. I love Social Distortion, great band. Great show. Rock Star Club was scheduled to play at 11pm so at 10:10pm I tell the MDL we have to go. His response, "Thanks for ruining my night." You're welcome. We stop by the compound so I can eat three ephedrine, legal speed, to sober my ass up, and then we hit the club. I was drunk on fire and the band knew it. 20 minutes later I am on stage waiting to play. I look to my left and I almost wet my pants. Strutting across the stage is Paul, or is it? He has no shirt on, tight jeans, snakeskin shoes and he is wearing a gigantic, fake mustache made of real human hair. In my stupor I thought he looked hot, but the entire club thought we were butt nuzzlers. So there we were, bass player/back up vocalist, drunk, on speed, wearing sunglasses in the dark, lead singer/guitar player shirtless and looking like the construction worker from the Village People. Genius. Anyway, after the show a guy from the first band told Eli we were awesome but not "chick friendly." Eli, accepting our destiny as the band that makes all of the wrong moves said, "Yeah, well were not chicks." A label stooge asked me why we do such self-defeating things. I said, "We are a rock n roll band." He said if we acted normal we could get signed. I told him any one who signed us would end up blowing their heads off. Unlike bands that toe the corporate line, Jane's Addiction, Tool, Ozzy, Blink 182, Slayer, we are no one's bitch and we will do whatever we want. Of course they are rich and I am writing this bullshit. So I did what all losers do, I ran like a sissy, grabbed my gear and went to Liar's Club. I was inside the door for 5 minutes when a tall, thin brunette walked up to me and said, "Hey big, bald and handsome." This a confused me and for a second I thought she was speaking to someone else. We spoke and she was giving me too much information far too quickly. Within minutes I knew she was a little "off." She told me she had been beat up earlier in the night, people were out to get her, including a man standing behind me, and that she had nowhere to go and no ride home. She asked me 5 minutes into the conversation to take her home. I'm gorgeous, but not that gorgeous. So I decided to use my evil psychotherapy powers for my own good. I knew she was suffering from mental illness. I said, "I think it's cool when people go to psych hospitals and then fight their way out, I always think those fuckers are going to come and get me." Bling bling, winner. She said, "Really, I just got out of the hospital last week and they are trying to put me back in." I am good. I asked, "What meds are you on?" She told me she was taking a massive dosage of resperdol(sp), among other things. This drug is given to schizophrenics and she was obviously in a paranoid phase, people out to get her, etc. Why she latched on to me I will never know. Anyway, she kept hanging around. I ignored her, talking to the MDL, local guitar hero Michael Dean and resident rock star/dj/bartender Sean Rice. She left. An hour later Mike and I were walking out, the bar was closing and there she was. God dammit, I had forgot about her, but she had not forgot about me. She ran up and said, "Giving me a ride home." Mike said, "have sex with her, you know, that crazy girl sex," and people call me evil. I said, "Yeah, let's go." I felt bad for her and I am a professional, well, sometimes. Anyway as we are walking through the alley she yells, "You're not going to rape me are you because if you do I have HIV and you will get AIDS and die." I said, "No, I'm not going to rape you." We get to my car and pull up to a stoplight to take a left on Fullerton. She told me she lived off of Fullerton Ave. Remember, I had been drinking for 7 hours and I had a crazy girl in my car. Edit that, as I turned to my left I notice she has taken her shirt off, is completely topless, crazy girl tits aren't bad, and she grabs my dick and says, "Let's go to the forest and make out." I removed her hand from my cock and drove. She says, "Come on, let's go to the forest." I am thinking what the fuck, what forest? So I say, "Ok and then I take you home." She agreed. We drive past some cops on Fullerton, I am drunk, she is topless, Jesus. She says "turn right, here". We turn off the main road on to a side street and we are by the expressway. She says , "Stop!" and she runs out of the car topless. I get out and chase after her. I see her open a gate, run up a hill and disappear in a tiny forest of pine trees, 20 feet from the Kennedy Expressway with a beautiful view of the city. "Fuck me, what is this place and who is this girl, a forest, god damn." I walk up the hill and into the pine trees. She is in a clearing, completely naked and says ,"Fuck me now please", and throws herself on me. I, for once in my life, didn't know what to say. I am drunk, with a crazy, naked, schizto girl, in a restricted, locked, fenced in area of forest, 20 feet from one of the busiest highways on earth, in the one of the biggest cities on the planet, strange days. Somehow I stammered, "I would but you have HIV." She let go of me and said, 'Oh yeah I forgot." We sat in the forest and talked for a couple of hours. I sobered up, she eventually put her clothes back on. She told me she had not taken her medication in a while and I made her promise to start taking it. I gave her my phone number and told her I would be her friend. I felt sorry for her, she said she had no friends and I have caller ID so I don't have to answer the phone. I told her she was the most interesting person I had met this year, that's the truth. She told me she had just moved to Chicago from California and was staying with her mom for a while. As we drove to her house she called her mom and asked to be let in the house. It was 5am, she is 24 and she had lost her keys. She said, "my mom loves me" and I said, "Yeah, she does." I dropped her off and watched her get into the house safely and I couldn't help and wonder what will happen to the most interesting girl I have met in 2002. Will she be ok? Will I see her again? Will she get home ok the next time a strange, bald man gives her a ride home? Will someone hurt her and take advantage of a fragile girl in a precarious state of mind. God I hope not. For some reason these freaks and weirdos are strangely attracted to me and I have to say I am attracted to them. Us freaks and weirdos need each other, otherwise the normals might win.
He Ain't Heavy This morning I was feeling bad about my life, my place, my existence. I have been depressed, tired all the time, wasting time, making excuses, trying in vain to get a little rest and not getting anything done. I feel helpless. So I jump on the bus at 6:30am to go to the job that is burning me out and the company that is trying to kill my spirit. I get off the bus at Michigan Ave and I walk up the stairs that lead to upper Michigan Ave and NBC tower where I work. As I walk up the stairs feeling heavy, weak, overweight, tired and worthless, I raise my head which feels gigantic, swollen with all my bullshit thirty-something problems and I notice the sun coming up over the skyscrapers, beautiful, majestic, a real motherfucker. I have my headphones on and the song that comes on as my shoe hits the upper level of Michigan Ave is Neil Diamond's "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother." The sun hits my face as it comes over the Tribune tower and I see the other workers walking to their corporate jobs, not smiling, hurried, busy with all their working concerns. The sun is warm, the man made buildings are more awe inspiring than any nature I have seen and I belong in the city. This song is wonderful, well written, powerful, it's taking away all the self-made pain I inflict upon myself and I feel silly and stupid. So I stop walking and I look around, just taking a small moment for myself before I clock in and listen to the troubles on the world for 13 hours. "It's not raining is it," I think to myself because my face feels wet. I notice my body shaking and as Neil sings the pretty chorus, there I am crying, sobbing, shaking, smiling in the middle of Michigan Ave. It's all so beautiful and although a hundred people walk by me I am completely alone because no one looks up or smiles. It's ok, I don't think they would understand. I love being alive. I love playing music. I love being in a band. As I stood there I knew that this weekend might be the last show I ever play, so I better play like I am going to die. I can only focus on one thing at a time and the rest of this will have to work itself out later. My job, love life, it's going to be ok, it has to be, but I can't worry about it now. So the song ends, I wipe the tears off of my face and I walk through the plaza and into the building to put in my 13 hours. I wasn't crying because I had to go to work and I sure as hell wouldn't be crying if it was my last day. I was crying because for a moment I felt alive and all the weight had lifted from my shoulders, all the concerns about how I look, how much money I make, being in love, they disappeared and I was free to see these things as they are, dumb. When I am on stage I feel this way. When I am at band practice I feel this way. Nothing else makes me feel this way and I was crying because it might be go, leave, evaporate like my tears did in the sun. And as I sit and write this I feel so heavy and slow because all of that could slip away from me and if I don't fight for it, it's gone. I wonder if all the other musicians feel this way. I don't think so and if they don't I wish they would stop writing songs that don't matter and concentrate on the things that matter to them. I think I need to beat Fred Durst of Limp Bizkit over the head with a baseball bat until he is dead. He ain't heavy and that fucking midget is not my brother.
It's Strangelove So, you join a website or twenty, get some e-mail, exchange some notes and soon you find a different world. If you're not ugly as hell a few women will definitely go out with you. Jesus, some even approach you online, which is a switch for this American society. In our country men approach women and act like fucking idiots to get their attention. I don't, hence no dates, just a bad attitude. Why the internet, I wondered that myself, but it makes sense. All of my friends are married or in serious relationships. Their girlfriends would never hook me up with one of their friends, after all, "I am the devil." Going out and looking for girls with a "married" friend isn't much fun, no team work. I would rather talk with my friends, a guaranteed excellent time. I don't want to waste 29 minutes talking with a woman who I might find boring or silly and isn't going to have sex with me. Honestly, anyone can put up with boring and stupid for a night of sex, it's that second night that is a bitch. So you run.... Recently, I have gone out with a few women I have met online, nothing big, coffee, a drink or two. All were very nice, intelligent, seemed to be good people. Not all showed up and looked like their pictures, but w hat the fuck, I had a nice time talking with them. I like people. I like girls, all girls, sizes, shapes. Ok I like great shape better, being a work-out junkie, but I have loved them all at different times in my life and I am not ashamed of that. You have to make choices, you do, and it's your responsibility. My choice, no bullshit, I can't fake it, I am me and these women are gonna get me full-on. Full-on "me" narrows down the field drastically, quickly, dramatically, soon it's just me, nothing more. The other day I was chating with a woman and she asked me what I was looking for in a woman, hmm, good question. What do I say, I decided to tell her the truth. I said, "I desperately want to be in love and I get jealous of those who are, really in love, not the fake, house buying, bullshit that society wants to shove down your throat, but love. Love that is so true that it hurts when you are without it, something so visibly real that anyone can see it. Some one who loves me so much they don't want to change me and doesn't care to change me. Someone who will fight for me even when she knows I am wrong and will tell me to "fuck off' when I need to hear it. Someone I can support, cherish, fight for, cheer for and lust for. A woman who makes my thighs ache just thinking about her. A woman who is unafraid, strong, brave, funny. A woman who takes care of her body because she likes herself. Someone who has passions that don't mean a thing to me and doesn't give a good damn if I approve or not, because it is HER thing. A woman who is independent, has a backbone, can dish it out and isn't easily offended. Someone who can drink and likes music and loves my band. A woman who can talk dirty. Someone who has qualities I admire and someone who is a person I aspire to be and is my friend." And the line went silent. Maybe I am fi guring out what I want? Maybe I am crazy? Maybe I'm a pussy? Maybe I am right. Maybe I don't care.
Looking Chicago, Feeling Indiana There is a character who has popped up in these pages on and off. He has remained unnamed, but I have referred to him, his band, his antics, several times. He earned a name this weekend. The band played a show in Valparaiso Indiana, on a lake, in the middle of a suburban neighborhood. It was awesome and it was unbelievable that the police did not crush our fun because it was loud as hell. Anyway, when I am in Indiana I usually hook up with this character and we see what kind of trouble we can find, we always find it. We both like to drink and chase girls and have a good time. I remember one adventure that lead us to three cities, three parties, a bar fight, chased by police, a hippy pulling out a gun and shooting a deer, Jesus, it was Twin Peaks come to life. Anyway, this character will be immortalized in these annals as "The Hilljacker." And you don't fuck with the Hilljacker, EVER. So what the hell is a Hilljacker??? Good question and I will try answer it. Think of a white-trash hillbilly with a propensity for violence, drinking, fucking, mayhem, racing, but take out the white-trash and hillbilly parts. First, a Hilljacker isn't dumb. Hillbillies are the banjo boys of the real world, sitting on the porch playing Deliverance. Hillbillies are not bright. Billies are inbred. The Hilljacker is smart, went to college. Secondly, the Hilljacker is not poor, billies are poor. A true Hilljacker makes good money, spends it all on crazy things, motorcycles, liquor, with no remorse. Third, and this is key, while a white-trash hillbilly is obviously dumb and violent, the Hilljacker can mask his aggressively violent tendencies with his intelligence. The jacker is too smart to tip his hand, has enough money to hire an attorney to defend himself after he beats the shit out of you and dresses well enough that no one suspects him of any of this behavior. How can you determine if you know a hilljacker? Simply, hillbillies and white-trash have been in jail or have records a mile long for assault and domestic violence. A Hilljacker doesn't hit his wife, but when he hits you he sure as hell won't end up in jail. A Hilljacker has NEVER been on "Cops." My Indiana friend is a Hilljacker. On Saturday night I went drinking with the Hilljacker. The Hilljacker can drink as much as me, fight better, but I have all hilljackers in the ladies category. Most jackers get married young. Anyway, we talked about fighting. The jacker told me he once saw me punch someone. He saw a fight I was in and I punched wrong. "As big as you are, you generate no power, you don't know how to punch, you wind up, you gotta use those big ass shoulders, punch straight through from the shoulder, like this." Wham, that hurt. Hilljacker told me I was on his list of guys not to fuck with, which is flattering comment coming from a guy that was born and bred to kick ass. A pit-bull. I must do a great job of giving off that "don't fuck with me aura." Hilljacker is at the top of my "don't fuck with him" list. The hilljacker would be a rough fight for me. We discussed fighting techniques, another point that makes the jacker the jacker. He reacts quickly, violently and aggressively. For example, my strategy in a fight, take three or four of my opponents best shots. Once I get a hold of him, it's over. The by product of years and years of wrestling and I am strong as hell. I have to get hit before the violence comes out, once it does I will beat you dead. I cannot turn it off. The Hilljacker is like a gunslinger in the old west. When he enters a room he instantly sizes everyone up, checks the room, looks for weaknesses, advantages. He will not wait for you to make a move, hell, you probably won't move, because fighting is like chess to the Hilljacker, he's five steps ahead of you and when you are thinking, "I'm gonna kick his ass", the jacker has already grabbed a beer bottle and smashed it upside your thick skull. He may not get in a fight, but if he does, he will be ready. Me?? I don't think about it until it's is too late. My lifetime record is 13-7, 13-8? The Hilljacker is about 47-2, he doesn't lose often and he likes a good scrap. The Hilljacker can grab a woman's ass, 1950's shit, and instead of getting punched, she smiles at him. It's ok for the Hilljacker, it seems acceptable and when you are around him it makes complete sense, things are simple. There we were in our old high school bar, every town has one, throwing back shots and getting drunk, talking, looking at girls. One of the girls was kind of sexy, sexy in a six shots and six beers way. Hilljacker is married and when you are married all the girl look sexier than they actually are, much sexier. Hilljacker says, "Your mister suave, go and pick her up, I can't, she wants it, she's staring at you(she was), just make sure I get a ride home." Look, this girl was ok, I wasn't interested, but I didn't want to look like a puss in front of the Hilljacker. I couldn't live with that. I was looking Chicago rock star, Motley Cure, "Too Fast For Love" shirt on. That is the only great Crue record, it's almost punk rock. So I strut on over thinking, "this beachht won't know what hit her, look at me, I'm hottt, sexy, I fucking rock." I start talking to her, giving her my rap, which was some bullshit, but the Hilljacker was watching with approval. The girl's friend says, "you look buff, let's see", and pulls up my shirt. They look at each other and smile, those Indiana girls aren't shy. The Hilljacker and I both know this deal has been closed and I am the ultimate deal closer, game over. The girl pulls my shirt back down , looks at me and says, "You have an awesome body, but I could never fuck anyone with a Motley Crue shirt on." I, in shock, said, "What state am I in?" She replied, "Indiana" and walked over to talk with a fat guy with a mullet and horrid gold chains. God damn, the Crue, metal, is the definition of Indiana, or so I thought, I left years ago. I was looking Chicago, but feeling Indiana and after 12 drinks, getting shot down, I wasn't feeling Indiana any longer and it was not feeling me either. It was a bad fit. As much as I'd like to pretend I didn't give a shit about that girl, and I don't, it still felt bad. So the Hilljacker and I drank some more, went our separate ways and I drove back to the city I belong in, Chicago. Indiana don't want me know more and I know I can never go back. It's changed, so have I, it doesn't feel like home. I live in Chicago and although I tell people I grew up in Indiana, it's now a place I visit every now and then. And for about ten hours I believe I could live there again, I do, but the 11th hour always comes, darkness sets in, and my mind wanders back to the action of the city and that's where I go, home.
I met Dee Dee Ramone and now he's dead. In 1993, when our band was kicking in the head of every band we played with, when bands would shake in their god damned boots because they didn't want to to take the stage with us, we started to play with bigger acts. We had some muscle and we were using it. We played with Dee Dee, Courtney Love ("You guys are pretty good, how come no one knows who you are?"), Stabbing Westward (guitar played was a cock) and a hundred other bands that never made it, but had the corporate money we were hungry for. And Dee Dee was still a minor star and we opened for his solo act. I don't think he was retarded, but as close as you can get, think Corky, but without the telltale signs of Down's Syndrome. He put on a good show, but the years of drug abuse had dumbed him down and I am sure he couldn't spell Dee Dee. It was funny, because he was the star, but he recognized us as the young hipsters that we were. He was going to be in town for a few days and he kept asking me what was going on. Probably because he was really trying to fuck my girlfriend. She was 6', blonde, big tits and Dee Dee was maybe 5'7" and he reeeeaaaaallllllyyyy liked her. Anyway, we see Dee Dee Ramone at the Taste of Chicago. How God damn funny is that. A junkie, a founding father of punk rock, at the taste. Well Dee Dee was very simple and none to bright, so the taste was where it was at. And it was where we were at and I was hanging out with Dee Dee Ramone, of the Ramones, at the Taste of Chicago. Later that night we were hanging with Dee Dee at the Vic, seeing Rights of the Accused and Wicker Man play. Dee Dee was trying hard to fuck my girlfriend, but as drunk as she was, and she and I were a couple of drunks, she didn't go for it. In retrospect, she should fucked him. I guess it's a better story than saying you fucked me? Anyway, I read that Dee Dee OD'ed about 20 minutes ago and it made me sad. I didn't get sad because he was dead and God knows the stupid fucker wrote some amazing songs. I got sad because I was younger, drunker, maybe happier, but more sure of myself then than I am now. It's nice having these memories that fly up from the pits of your brian and kick you in the ass and make you remember. I was so sure I would be a star. I was positive I could will my way to the top and there was no one who could stop me, us. I don't miss those days, ok, a little, I miss that feeling of knowing. Knowing if one person got it, one person bought an album and really listened to it, heard what we were saying, fighting for, the battle was won, mission accomplished. Just one person, that's all it takes. I know my old band inspired about a hundred other kids to go into the garage and play, we have the letters to prove it, we won that battle, I just forgot what we were fighting for. We won. Tonight I play at the Double Door with Rock Star Club in Chicago. Fuck a million bands would kill to play there any night. It's Thursday and I have no idea who will be there or if anyone will even listen to us. But, if one person gets it, or listens, hears what we are trying to do, say; if we inspire anyone to do anything at all, we win. That's what great art does, inspires people. So tonight I go for the win, which is what I should have done all along. I just forgot. It's why I play, it's what I do and you're a fuck-up if you don't see it. Thanks Dee Dee, your death inspired me to go play like I am on fire. I'd like to die like that, an inspiration to someone, somewhere....
I am Caesar and Caesar lives... I remember that horrible night, when my army quit, left, decided the fight was lost and ran like a bunch of sissies. I remember, I was taking a piss, vulnerable and they pounced upon me like the ravenous creatures they are. One by one they left me, alone, bruised, battered. I had no idea the troops were conspiring behind my back, conspiring to leave the ranks of our crappy empire and go onto an even crapier one. Maybe they were right and the band had run it's course. Paul decided he wanted to sing the songs, be the star, the frontman, but he wanted none of the pressure of being in a band with me, the constant pushing, more, more, more. Jeff, the drummer, wanted more freetime with his girlfriend and Bobby wanted to go back to college. Me, I had nothing else, the band was it. I was in a hollow shell of a relationship and I was still sure we had some gas in the tank. Maybe we weren't writing songs like we used to, but that would surely change. It killed me when they quit and I was in shock. I have always thought half the reason the band left was to see my reaction to them quitting. Sticking it to the martyr, showing me who the real boss is. When I said, "Yeah, I guess that's cool", I was scrambling, looking for an angle, a life jacket, anything to save my drowning ass. But it wasn't there and as I looked at the guys it looked like all the weight was off their shoulders, they looked relaxed, happy, comfortable in their own shoes. I saw that I had beaten them all down, loaded them down with heavy weight and what was fun was now a chore, a job that didn't pay. I felt completely alone for the first time in five years. So they left. The fight was over, and I never knew who we were fighting against, but it was over, they had won and we were going home. I hate going home. And since I didn't know how to do anything else but play in a band, two weeks later I started a new band called Flatbush Foot Brigade. My God, what a drunken, drug addled mess that was, but I marched on. Paul was in San Diego pretending he belonged in California, Jeff was bartending and going to school, Bobby was drunk and I was still in shock, disbelief that I was alone. So I did what I do best, organized a new band and I started over. Only it wasn't the same. Being in a band for five years, constantly rehearsing, fighting, getting drunk together, playing hundreds of shows is like going to war if you are doing right. If it isn't like that you may as well quit the band and get a job that pays, because you will never know what it is like to share that bond. Most bands never have that bond. It's like a family, closer than your family, because it means the world and it's existence is your world. Being together constantly is the key, everything else is secondary, it's a gang. When we moved to Chicago the gang wasn't as close, it wasn't the same. That was the first nail in the coffin. If you can separate the army from itself you weaken the whole, morale goes down and that's what happened. But the good times were unreal and my new band could never replicate the war stories and drama of the previous band, ever, it just didn't have that kind of "fuck you" in it. Anyway, Paul finally came back from San Diego and we talked for the first time in 6 weeks. It was strange, because I had talked to him everyday for the past five years. He was writing songs, which I knew were good, I was jealous, but God Damn, this didn't include me. Jeff and Bobby were not playing at all. About a year later, Flatbush played a show in Bloomington Indiana. The opening act was Paul Kasprzak playing an acoustic guitar and his band consisted of a drummer named Elias Sabbagh. Although I was under the influence of mushrooms and beer; I recognized the genius in the songs and I knew it was my destiny to play bass in this band. You see, although Caesar was wounded he was not dead and the king would live once more. As much as they hated Caesar, they needed him and I needed them. What parasites we are. I weaseled my way back into the fold by volunteering to play bass. I was back and soon Paul and I were playing together again. Forging new stories, getting drunk as hell in Austin Texas while breaking our albums, I'll explain later. Jeff and Bobby have never fully recovered. Bobby has a wife and kids and he is doing just fine. Jeff, also known as the MDL in these pages, wanders from band to band, a rock n roll hobo without a home. I might be a giant cock, hell I am a giant cock, but I am a leader and leaders lead and I sure as hell don't know how to do anything else. So here we are, back at the bottom, the more things change the more they stay the same. I'd like to club the asshole who came up with that saying. So the Caesar is exactly where he belongs, fighting an unseen war against an unknown enemy with a band at his side. As pathetic as it seems it's what I do, what I know and I don't want to go back to being alone, not ever.
This Town is ugly I thought I could play the show on Friday the 12th, walk off stage and go directly home. I had my first beer around 9pm. The thing about beer, it always tastes better when you can't have it and God damn, it tasted sooooo good, cold, um um. By 10 pm I had downed three Bud Lights, the beer with no taste, and at 11:30 we mightily stalked the stage. Ok, a few more drinks than I planned on, but hey, it could have been much worse and I was right on schedule. Before we played, an old friend of mine strutted up to the stage with shots of whiskey in hand, Jesus, not now. He handed me a shot and like the egotistical moron I am I downed it. In all of my self glory, I played the show, which was perfect. But, I had made a fatal error, I had surpassed the deadly three drink minimum, the party zone, dopamine pumping through my head, liquor, the love drug. So I had about four more drinks, I was drunk and at about 1 am I decided to go home. But god dammit, the party was still rocking in my skull and at about 4am I decided sleep was pointless and I got up. At 6am I took a massive dose of trucker speed to stay awake and by the time I got to the test site I looked like every other crack head in the city. Dirty, wide awake, babbling, test time. I think I knew about 40 out of 200 questions, or it seemed that way. I was struggling. Jesus, didn't I go to school for this shit. Maybe I'm not so bright? Maybe playing a rock show, drinking and staying up for 30 hours before a national exam isn't the best way to prepare? Too late, two hours later I turned in my exam and went to band practice, it never ends when you're a star. On the plus side, Love on the Rocks was so perfect later that night we made a woman cry with joy, nice, like a good fucking. Ok, but this fucking test haunted me. I have bragged and bragged about how bright I am, well now the king fucking rooster was coming home to roost and I would have to take it just like I give it out, damn, this town is ugly. I got the results last night. I think I if I would have played it safe, played it straight, I would have done better. I missed it by 5 points, 5 fucking questions. My goal going in was to pass by 30 points above the minimum score, a tall order. What was I thinking, this shit is hard, the national exam! I only passed by 25. Maybe I am better than most people, I always knew, god dammit, I always knew.
8 beers, a shot and a day job. I try to stay home, I do. Sometimes I win, most the time I lose and out into the nighttime world I go. I must have looked fantastic because everywhere I went girls were checking me out. This never happens to me. Not that I'm ugly, but it never happens, or I don't see it. However, when someone is repeatedly staring at you, looking up and down, making you squirm in your shoes, because they know that you know that they are looking at you, I think that constitutes being checked out. It was so foreign to me I didn't even say "hello", because I wasn't sure what was going on. My loss. If I had my A game I would have said hello regardless of being checked out. You gotta open your mouth to meet people and I failed. Maybe next time. Probably not, too scared of losing, losing my cool, fuck I don't know, but I need to behave in a different way. Whenever I have tried something different it has worked. Ah, but the fear of the unknown is massive, maybe, but not too big to overcome. Without bragging, every girl I have gone after in my life I have gotten. I'm not sure what I got, but I got it, fair enough. I ended up at a bar where the MDL works. And we started drinking, and drinking and drinking. I live my life on the three beer limit. Actually I try to live that limit, but I rarely succeed. At the third drink, when you can feel the liquor kicking in good, strong, calling your ass home, there are choices to make. The problem is your brain isn't clear enough to make an informed choice. The choice, go home, get some rest OR stay out because you may run into a party. For me, 90% of the time, the choice was made the moment I called for drink number three. Feeling good, feeling alive, talking, telling jokes, stories, looking at girls, single, have a shot, another beer, what the hell, it's Friday and I've been hung over before and I will be hung over again. That argument makes complete sense at 11pm. It's always the same and I have never been able to find support for the going home team, which is this: "Ok, self, your working over 50 hours a week, you leave your house at 6:30 am, just to get to work on time, three days a week you don't even get home from work until 10pm, 16 hour days, and you're sleeping, on average, less than six hours a night if you're lucky. Go home tiger, get nine hours of sleep and give them hell on Friday, you're the motherfucking man." Makes sense, sound argument, yes. Yes it is and if I had a brain I would listen, but the fear wins. I fear turning into one of those people. Soon, staying home Thursday becomes Friday, and then Saturday and it's over baby. Yeah it is. Good times, good times are replaced with movie night, dinner, quiet time, and god dammit I hate quiet time, be quiet, quiet time, fuck off. Soon, getting crazy is going to a friends house warming party and having a gin and tonic and talking about the kids. Soon, New Years Eve actually becomes the night to go out and you're just another drunken amateur on a night owned by those who should just stay home. Soon, going out once a month seems reasonable. Soon, you forget that saying the word reasonable makes you sound like Ward Cleaver. And soon, these same people are thinking about fucking someone else because that cock or pussy seems boring, old,comfortable, like an old couch and the old girl needs some fun. Real fun. I fear ending up like that. So after 8 beers and a shot I go home alone, smiling and happy that I have put off the fear for another day. I can hear it behind me, chasing me, hounding me, it wants me, it's calling my ass out, but I am not going to buckle, not now. "Don't look back something might be gaining on you", wise words from a wise man and he was right. The past is irrevocable which causes some to stay in that place and to keep on living it. It's history, it's yours and no one can take that away, it's forever. The future is ours and we can make it, every moment, something special, which can add to that irrevocable past. I don't know if anything special happened last night, except feeling like hell today, but if I wouldn't have walked out my front door I might have missed that something special and I cannot afford that. I can afford a hangover. I can live with being tired. I don't want to miss a thing. Maybe that's what's gaining on me, my irrevocable past. When I get old and it's time to die the stories I tell will not be about staying at home and watching tv or a movie. No one tells stories like that, they talk of crazy fun, living, excitement, no one says, "Remember when we stayed home and watched Friends? Kids, that was when staying home and watching tv was watching tv." Ok, maybe people do tell those stories, but nobody listens or cares. Many times I seem miserable because things don't go the way I like and it gets me down. I get way down, dirty, but I realize that the easy way isn't for me and I have only one chance to live my life. I make huge, glaring, obnoxious mistakes. I often regret those mistakes, briefly, but I wouldn't change them if I could because they are a part of that concrete past. In a way, I am living for the memories and when that day comes and I review my life it's important that I don't say "I wish I would have, or I should have." My time is now and if feeling lousy on Friday morning is the price I have to pay I think I'm pretty lucky.
Dumb and dumber.
Dumb and dumber.
Loverboy was right. I was wrong. I was feeble. I was arrogant and I have lost. I am tired of being a martyr for a cause no one gives a flying fuck about. I am sick of being the poster boy for sacrifice. What is sacrifice? Most people do not know. Simply, you give up something that is incredibly important, something that will drastically alter your life, in the hope that the other choice will result in higher reward, further glory. The defining point is that the choice does not have a guarantee. Hence, the sacrifice has no concrete payoff, that's the sacrifice, you may lose twice. I have, no doubt, I gambled and lost. My choice, my responsibility, my fault, it's all me. For most of my adult life I have put everything else on the backburner, family, girlfriends, career, for music. I did go back to school at one point, otherwise, every thing else came second or third, or last. Playing, music, art was number 1. Actually that's bullshit. Music was a means to an end. The end was being famous, or popular, or getting recognition or attention for something I am good at. On a minor level that has occurred, but the price I have paid for this "reward" is massive and it's left a gaping, bloody hole in my chest. I spent countless hours blowing off other obligations to promote any band I was in. That meant going to bars, hanging out, going to shows, just being seen. "Hey, that's the guy in..." It was fun, I can't lie. I liked it and it was easy for me. Working on making some fucking money would have been fun and easy also, say what you will. However, in retrospect, the danger signs were there, but I am stubborn and I refused to heed the warnings and I drove the god damned car right off the cliff. For a long time I was angry with the other members of my bands. Angry that they weren't putting their worlds on hold for my pathetic little pipe dream. Angry that relationships, dates, dinners, family, came before the quest to finally get a record or publishing deal and realize my dream. Yeah, it was my dream and I was stupid to ever think anyone else would share in that dream. Stupid, because by the age of 16 I was absolutely convinced that I was a star. Being a regular person was never an option. The thought seemed silly and perverse. It disgusted me. I didn't like the regular people and I did not identify with them. I was better than them. It was my destiny. I went to college to be in a band. I knew I was doing the right thing. For the next, well until today, my entire life has been secondary to this goal. Girls take my time, family takes my time, career takes my time, and I need that time to promote myself and reach the pinnacle of the mountain, certain glory. God damn I am a silly boy. Not everyone has the same goals as I. This ain't a solo act. Not everyone has the same priorities. I assumed we were on the same page and I was wrong. Actions speak louder than words and the actions of the band said the band was never number one. And so fucking what! Why should it be, the odds of having a career in music are about the same as winning the lotto. But it's a lot fucking harder than winning the lottery. It takes time and the rest of your life has to be put on hold. No commitments, no nothing, because you have to be ready to leave at anytime the great call goes out. No money, because you cannot commit to a job. You either prepare for life or you get left behind, dumbass. While every one else was preparing I was preparing to live in my fantasy world where it would all be ok. Preparing myself to fail in this society. Defining myself as a loser instead of a winner. It's win or lose and I lost. Along the way I was hard on the other guys. I tried to control them and make them do things the way I wanted them done. I started to see the old band resent me and I can feel the new band beginning to resent me. I love them, but at times I feel like they want me and my high ideals to go away, just disappear.I have a habit of making myself the martyr. I do more with less, a lot fucking less. Less money, less sleep, less sex. less time and I am going to make fucking sure that they know it. All these things are my choice and I have become bitter, weak and tired of playing this role. It's not a good feeling knowing your friends secretly wish you would disappear. It's my fault and I chose to act in this annoying manner. No more. I'm done. It's going to be hard to change and even harder to act in a different way. This behavior is ingrained in my skull and I don't know any other way except balls out. I have little desire to live my life in a gray area, non-descript and mediocre. Therefore, I need to point my gigantic ego in another direction that leads away from sacrifice and into a guaranteed payoff. Whether it be a relationship, my job, something that has a tangible result. I have to admit that music is a hobby and that's how it should be treated, like a hobby. Like any other weekend enthusiast I have all the top line equipment and clothes and I take my hobby seriously, but not serious enough to sacrifice the important parts of my life. I think the trick is compartmentalizing your life. Each part has it's place, it's box, and they are stacked in levels of importance. My "fantasy box" was always on top. What an asshole I have been, so silly. As a hobbyist I am top of the food chain, but as a serious artist I have failed miserably. I think the difference, the pain, is from admitting this was my goal and I have failed. Not even a blip on the map. The others guys always knew, they did, and if they tried to tell me I wouldn't have listened anyway, because I did not want to hear it. The signs were there and easy to see. No tours and when I tried to schedule a tour everyone had jobs to hold down. I worked for my dad, easy to quit or leave. I sucked at the job so he would have been relieved to have me go on tour. I was the only one who would go because they all knew it was stupid and dumb and a tour would not make us a profitable band. I think they get mad when I say these things. I'm not sure why, I think they believe I am trying to say I am cooler than they are. I am not cool. I am immature. But I lost. They were right and I was wrong. If I wanted a fucking hobby I should have played dungeons and dragons, not music. I try to believe that I am strong, that I didn't lose twice because of this sacrifice. I think about all the friends I have made. I think of the fun I have had, the shows I have played. But every one else has those same memories and a helluva lot more to go with the memories. I wonder if people laugh behind my back thinking, grow up dickhead, you're not 23 anymore. So, it's time to stop caring and do what's right. Do what's right for me. No more sacrifice. I will do what I can with minimal effort because a hobby should be fun. I like fun. I am 34. I have no savings. No retirement fund, cashed it in last year to pay rent while I was in graduate school for a degree that gets ultimate respect and barely pays minimum wage. In other words, society treats me like scurvy sewer waste. The muffler fell off my car. I owe $1100 in taxes to the government. I have massive credit card debt. I am sure my friends resent me for my dogmatic behavior. I am single. All of this is my choice and I deserve this. I was wrong and when you are wrong, make a bad choice, you must pay. I am paying. You better get those priorities in order boy, yes sir, I will. Right now I feel like I am going to vomit, or cry. I'm lucky to be alive, but when the last 12 years of your life have amounted to a hobby, it makes you sick. But what the hell, I can change it, I can. If I count on anyone else it will only disappoint me and let me down. It happens that way every time. Trying to control others has been an abysmal failure and I have to be a cocky motherfucker to think that the majority will follow me because I say so. I am the minority on this one. Yeah, if I keep repeating it over and over like the retard I am, maybe I'll believe it. Mike Reno is right, "Everybody's working for the weekend, everybody needs a second chance."
SNEED UPDATE
Run Toby Run
The process of weeding out. If you have a guess please tell me what the hell it is, because I don't. Ok, that's not true. I refuse to settle and when I do settle, I am going to make sure it's right. I'm ok with that. Settling for something better, makes sense to me. Answer these questions, do you cheat on your wife, husband or girlfriend or boyfriend? Do you hate your job? If you answered yes to any of these questions you have settled for less than you deserve. That's pathetic. Quit being a pussy and looking at me, I've made the right choice, the hard choice, not the safest choice. I have taken the high road for my own long-term happiness. Most of the time the hard road is better, you can't go on the cheap, easy route and expect to be happy with your purchase, especially in the realms of employment or love. It's not fast food. Take it back, that tarnished product you never wanted, quit lying to yourself, stop being selfish. All anyone cares about is their feelings at the end of th e day. Forget about the ancillary bullshit and try be honest with yourself and your life. Come on baby, use a little muscle. It's hard, it's tough and 99% of the people you encounter are incredibly uncomfortable with this kind of honesty. I know because I spend a lot of time making other people uncomfortable. I never knew why, but now I think I understand.
In defense of speed. Adults, at least 99% of adults, have an idealized paradigm of their youth. Tall tales, exciting stories of a carefree past flow from the mouths of friends when they get together to speak about days gone by and the fun they once had. It all seems so wonderful and grand. It might have been, but we all have a tendency to glorify our pasts and make them seem more exciting than they actually were. It's called selective memory. Soon the selections are distorted and what actually happened 15 years ago has no resemblance to the life the story teller is living. But what the hell, drinking beer and getting fat with your buddies deserves this kind of perversion. It's better than looking at the stagnated life or routine that you now live. There are no new stories, lots of talk about the kids and the exaggeration is usually reduced to the waistline. What happened? It's partly biological. When couples meet their bodies produce a hormone that makes them attractive to one another. We are chemically induced to fuck, breed, mate, and during those first lovesick years people mate like rats. The hormones are pumping and so are the hips, umm baby, no need to tell stories now, this is living. Or it was, because between 2 and 4 years into the relationship the body stops creating the lovedrug. If you think about your past relationships you will notice that many of these ended at either the 2 or 4 year mark. That's because we are animals. At this point you are stuck with each other, naked, flaws and it all ..........................slows...............................down. The majority of us bail, and why not, our vision isn't clouded by vicious chemicals and lust. After a few of these nightmare journeys many decide to get off the roller coaster and stick. This is true love. You stay with someone because you truly love them, want them, need them. The body is smart, by slowing down, shutting down the hormonal factory, the natural tendency is to stay home, raise your family, avoid reckless, dangerous behavior and act responsibly. Until you see that fine, young chippy shaking her ass, wearing a belly shirt and talking about the weekend when she and her friends get drunk and fuck. The mid-life crisis is here, so start working out, going out, acting out, crazy, those hormones weren't dead, they were just on hiatus. Some advice, don't. In two years you will be bored with your new husband or wife. You will, so next time make a better choice and don't let your wanting little pussy or your straining cock hook you up for life. It's ok, have a couple of one nighters and feel your way through this God damned mess. But what about the speed? I can't speak for every one, thank God, but I can certainly think for myself. I need it. I crave it. I don't know how to live without it. I am the King of the failed relationship. I suck. Lifetime 0-13. Stay away. I love the drama, the build-up, hell, I even love the break-up. I love the one night stand, can't lie. It's both pathetic and exciting waking up and not knowing where I am or who I am with. Just run, no good-byes or responsibility. That doesn't happen these days because I am too angry, or smart, to kiss a woman's ass for 5 hours just to get in her pants. I don't have the time, or energy, and if I was rejected, well fuck that, rejection by someone I might not respect is not an option. After all, I should be pursued. My ego is massive and it will not allow for the chasing of the snatch. I remember the band was playing in Indianapolis and I woke up on a floor. I had no concept of where I was at. I saw a naked girl, had no idea who she was, confused. I found my cell phone and called our manager and I had to ask her where the hell I was. She laughed and said, "Indianapolis." Thank you Sprint PCS. Going there on Saturday, it's a boring town, but I can make my own action. Maybe I'm slowing down. I feel like I have no time, or I make no time. Monday-Wednesday, I get on the 65 bus at 6:43am. I get off the Chicago bus at 10:10pm and I walk home. Ok, 16 hour days, no time. I get home at 7 pm on Thursday, do laundry, no time. When to write, when to practice my bass playing. I work on Saturday. So that leaves Friday night to play bass, write and clean up my cluttered house. No time for dating, no time for anything except the one night stand. Ok, I usually drink and party my ass off on Friday and Saturday. I need some fun and I spend most of Sunday trying to see straight, shopping for groceries. Maybe I'm not slowing down, but it feels like I don't get enough done. Looks like I am caught in this cycle. The speed, without it I'm bored and lifeless. I don't want to sit around and tell tales of yore. I want new adventures and new stories, better stories. I don't need to go back into my retractable past to dig up the good times. Fuck all that, I'm living it now, it hurts, but I am packing as much as I can into every moment. I know it's not going to last.
Bring the hate. I must like it, because I spend a lot of time feeling that way. I am sick of wanting. Wanting to look a certain way, wanting a certain body image, because no matter how hard I work, vomit and bleed, there is always a friend telling me it's not enough. Still fat, need some work, too big, too small, too soft, too ugly, too bald, the reasons are infinite and I hear and remember each one. I remember every word that is said about me. In summary, no matter how hard I try it will never be enough. I don't ever want to eat again. I want to get so thin my body eats itself, eats the muscle, devouring flesh. "Is this good enough? Am in shape now? Am I still obese to you, does this satisfy the criterion? Do you think I'm pretty now?" No woman will want me, repulsive and I don't want them. Stay away from the scary man, boooo, gotta get friendlier, say the right things, act the right way, enjoy the frivolous bullshit and dinners and movies. I don't want that, at all. Somebody fucking challenge me and borrow a set of balls and step up. But be ready, because if you're not I'll rip your heart out and piss on everything you are. I hate being this way, thinking this way. It doesn't matter. I can't fake it, or change it and I see it all just slipping away, little by little. Everyone is changing and I try to move, but the traffic around me is slowing. It's not working. Time to grow up. But I can't. I was attracted to punk rock, music in general, because of the rebellion. The idea that you don't have to be one of them. The adults, the boring, silly adults, stuck in a way of life, living by rules they never thought about, just accepted, and along the way became the keepers of those rules. Once you become the keeper it's over. Free thought is dead. New ideas are naught. The keeper likes to keep the balance, status quo, the homeostasis of life. The keeper will keep you down. Always. I don't want to be kept. I don't. And I won't. I have control of my mind. I can starve my body. I can starve my heart and let no one touch my body, my soul, because it's too pure and innocent for any one to even fathom. No one can see it and if they did they wouldn't understand. Whenever I let someone see me, the real me, they crush me. They never see what their words do, how they rip my insides apart, and I won't let them, but it's true. Oh I am so good at the presentation, but the product is feeble and weak. So I will remain alone, isolated, starving, controlled, without feeling. I will stay the same. Safe. The only time I feel alive is when I am writing or playing with the band, but I don't know how much longer I can do it. Writing hurts, like a razor blade draw slowly across my palm, deeper it sinks, cuts a tendon, rips in a thin bloody line and I bleed. The band is slipping away from me, almost gone, separate paths, soon. You want it, you got it, now you're are truly alone. What am I going to do now, have a kid? Sure, that will fulfill, it's so clear. What was I thinking. Someone to love me, depend on me, who needs me. I need a baby, it's all so crystal clear. Jesus, I'm an idiot, no one is going to let me adopt a child and I sure as hell have no desire to mate with someone. That's my nightmare, married, stuck, baby. I think I'd rather hate myself and starve. I should shut up because no one wants to read this shit, not even me. What's the point of any of this nonsense. By this afternoon it won't mean a thing.
Cancer is the king. Ok, it's not that easy, which disease do you get? How can you have control over the big boys, HIV, cancer, heart disease, you can't, can you. Well I decided to try and I went for the lottery of sympathy diseases AIDS. For the last 6 months have been having unprotected anal sex with every man and woman I can get my hands on. Gay men, infected women, junkies, whatever I could find. Sex, sex, sex, anal sex, a cornholing machine. Of course protection was ignored in the hope that I would catch this quirky virus and start down my path of pity and destruction. Well, I got my blood test back yesterday, nothing, clean. News Flash, it ain't 1991 anymore. While AIDS is still an imposing illness, it is not the tragic asskicker it once was. AIDS got soft. For example, Magic Johnson has single handedly kicked it's ass. Christ, since contracting the virus he has played pro basketball, starred in his own horrible talk show, made millions with his cinema chain. Sure he takes a cocktail of drugs, but it can't slow Magic down. Someone shave his head, we may have found our anti-christ. Death by disease of choice is going to be harder than I thought. So I sat down and thought about it. And then it hit, the king of all diseases, the ultimate, going old school on your ass now, cancer. No doubt, still number one in your fears and in our hearts. Cancer is a son-of-a-bitch. Unlike AIDS, cancer has not gone soft, still the top motherfucker. The medical community has been battling cancer for 100 years and have had their asses collectively kicked. The best treatment so far, chemotherapy, essentially, radiate the hell out of someone in the hope that more cancer cells die than healthy cells. Seems barbaric, but you have to treat cancer barbarically, aggressively, because that's all it understands. My God, this is one tough motherfucker. Liver cancer,dead, brain cancer, dead, and if you don't die it goes into remission. Not away, but remission, always there, waiting for a weakness, a sign, and then swooping in to finish your pansy ass off. How could I have forgotten the King. This cancer can result in more free sympathy, pity, dinners, make a wish foundation bullshit than all the others combined. Who can forget cancer boy, a truly tragic figure. I figure I am already bald so the shit must be calling my ass out. This week I have started smoking, narrowing my odds. If I am going to get cancer I want to get an asskicking strain, not some pussy form like skin or testicular cancer. Nope, I want the balls out onslaught. I am now smoking 5 packs of Lucky Strikes a day. It's a lot of work, smoking, it is. It's smelly, expensive, cold, lonely, dirty, it sucks. But if I get lucky this is the start of controlling my own destiny, choosing my way out and getting back at that bitch who dumped me in the 4th grade. That's right, this is about revenge. What the fuck is Beth Beverly going to do when Cancer Boy's last wish is to see her smiling face and then say, "Thanks for killing me Beth, it hurts, ouch, it hurts like the fall day in the fourth grade when you dumped me for John Popp." I win, you lose Beth, too bad it took 20 years and a bad smoking habit to get here. So hat's off to cancer, I think it's gonna be here for a while.
Supporting the baby fuckers. Which brings me to the next reason I hate the Catholic church. I love women, the catholic church does not. In a society struggling for equality, these old fuckers will do anything to shut it down. Stay home, raise babies and let the men take care of business. I support AA, adopt and abort. Too many kids having babies. Too many pro-lifers screaming about baby killing before they have adopted one of the thousands of unwanted minority babies in our country. Do we need anymore kids who are unloved and uncared for? Let go of the guilt, do the right thing for once and admit you cannot properly care for that child. Don't hide behind the ugly veil of religion. Take a little responsibility for your fucking and don't ruin a child because you are unable to stop partying and taking drugs. Quit being selfish, do us all a favor and kill the bastard. Ouch that hurt. Ok, settle down, I don't support baby killing, unless you think abortion is baby killing, then I guess I do. Adoption is a fine option, the preferable option, just make a responsible choice and don't blame me. I like people who are gay, the Catholic church condemns homosexuality. Look you cocks, I condemn kid raping, but it's not stopping you crusty father figures from cornholing every altar boy in America. So back off. Gay men don't participate in this reprehensible behavior, priests do!! Take your kids out of the Catholic church, please, it teaches hate, fear, racism, homophobia and guilt. Here's the point. There is no cure for pedophilia, none, save castration or isolation. What is a pedophile?? Ok, the victim has to be 13 years old or younger(prepubescent), the perpetrator is at least 16, or five years older than the child or children. The gray area is when a 17 year old is involved with a 12 year old, that's a tough call. But the gray goes black and white when the man is 51 and the child is 12, that's clear cut pedophilia. I find it humorous that the church has supported and coddled these predators for years in the name of God. Holy shit indeed! I have no respect for the Catholic church. It's a sham. It makes me sick. I'm not sure how anyone can support an institution, give money, to an organization that supports and trains, aids and abets child pornographers, pedophiles and men who prey upon children. But every week they go to church, give the money and support these men who do evil. Jesus, why not write a check to Osama Bin laden while you're at it. In the name of God of course. I gotta say, I am one of the good guys. I like adult pornography. I like sex. I like to drink, get drunk, fuck and I have taken my share of illegal drugs. I like to stay out all night and I love rock n roll. But I have never given a dime of my money to support pedophilia nor child pornography, ever. If you go to a Catholic church you are supporting these men. Sorry, but you are helping grown men fuck babies. But you are right, abortion is wrong, more babies, more baby fuckin! Yahoooo. Not only are you funding them, but when they get caught you are helping the church hide them. Disgusting. One choice, join a Muslim church, Baptist church, any other church and castrate these sleazy, sordid, subhuman baby killers. I guess the kids who went to the Catholic high school aren't feeling so cool now. Nice uniforms dickheads.
Live fast, love hard God do I hate the silly things. Happy people, pretty people, thin people, fat people, confident people and the reason's always they same. They possess some quality I don't have or at least feel I can't obtain. People ask me, say to me, "why?" They may see these good qualities in me, confidence, looks, but if I think I'm a fucking mess there is no point. All I think is that they will never understand. But these thoughts are fleeting and twelve minutes later I think I'm God and I will piss on anyone or anything that gets in my way. I am trying to trim it all down. It starts in earnest next week. I gotta cut out the fat. Cut it off everything that exists around me or in me. Anything extra leaves me open. Anything someone else can grab onto can hurt me. So I cut it off. The weight of my body, gone, no fat. I want to be rock hard without any extra skin hanging off my body, a machine that doesn't hurt. When I go to the gym I work so hard I almost throw up, but that's not hard enough. I want to throw up. I want them to see the vomit dribbling down my face, how I don't stop to clean it up, how pretty I look as the filth falls from my mouth, breathing heavily I work harder. The looks can't hurt me because there's nothing to look at. Nothing to grab hold of. Nothing that can be hurt. The financial fat. I gotta cut it off. The credit cards, the bills. No debt. I want to owe no one for anything. No banks, clean. Nothing new because all debt does is create another bitch in a long line of followers and cheap whores. I don't need to own a home because that fucker will be a lead weight around my waist. I cannot afford a home. If I have debt I can never leave my job. I don't ever want to be tied to a job. I will define my life, not an asshole job. If I want to quit tomorrow I will quit. I can quit, go where I want to go and do what I want to do as long as the albatross of debt and comfort responsibility don't poison my soul.. That financial bullshit, save your money, buy a home, fuck that fat. I will rent because that gives me the freedom to do what I want when I want. That's the trade, security or freedom. Owning is just another trap to suck you into monotony. Same house, same job, same life, over and over and over. I'm not putting that life down, it's just not for everyone and I am starting to see it's not for me. I have to cut the fat off my relationships. I cannot be bound, responsible for someone else's feelings. I want to live fast and love hard, even it's just for a moment, but I don't ever want to fake it. I want to keep the people I care about close to me and I want to protect them, cherish them, defend them and kill anyone who would try to hurt them. I want to love like I don't care if I get hurt and fuck like I do. Someone who can accept me for who I am and can live with the fact that I can never be the person they grew hearing I was supposed to be, because I'm not. I want to cut the fat off my mind and stop ruminating about all the mindless garbage, become focused, fast, stainless and efficient. I want to play music I care about and crush the throats of those who stare and don't understand it. They never will and their feet are glued to the floor of false pretense; the bullshit dreams of their parents. So I'm cutting off the fat. getting harder, doing more with a lot less. Loving more and caring less about the mindless drivel that goes along with it. I can do this, I just have to focus on the important things, people, tasks and bulldoze whatever gets in my way.
To Sir With Love Interestingly enough, I was the one who stopped the relationship, dead on the water. I was the one who made the choice. And I was the one feeling out of control, possessive and angry because of my 13 year old behavior. It was hard, but I wanted to ask her who she had slept with. Were they as good me? I guess I assume, every one does, that I am good in bed? I wanted details, why, fucking hell, I was getting pissed off, but I did a nice job of hiding how I felt. She had no idea these feelings were coursing through my veins, moving like my blood, hopping mad to get out and become their own person. That almost happened, almost, but I was sober and I stopped the little fuckers, my feelings, from becoming my undoing. Pathetically, this had everything to do with me, little with her and mostly concerned my massive ego. I felt shitty, cheap and weak. Her actions had affected me, even hurt me and I'm not sure if it was out of an unknown love for her, or a supreme hate and disgust for myself. Shallow little ego, so Alanis Morrisette of me. You know this quest for happiness is getting pretty tiresome and at times the fights not in me. Maybe I should settle down, relax, have big meals, get fat and call it a night. I could have done this several times, this is just another example, a definition, the paradigm of what I have become. Destroy it from the inside and then turn it around so it seems as if everything is against me and I am rolling the log uphill. Maybe it's the fight that attracts me, the battle and without the battle and the conquest there is not much left for me. Maybe I'm a lot like those crusty old generals I hate. An indie rock Ollie North, without a war there's no reason to fight, and with no fight there isn't much living going on. But you have to weigh your options and old prize-fighters start to lose and soon become Ali-like. I don't know, maybe I'm getting punch drunk. That's wrong, I do know. I know I'll end up doing it all again and again and again. What the fuck, if it feels good I just don't care. If I didn't like it I wouldn't set it up the same way every fucking time. So she kicked my ass, 2-0. I don't think I can catch her even if it goes into extra innings. Girls aren't that easy, or so they say and guys just are.
Welcome Back Tipton I finally have proof that I am superhuman, or at least better than the vast majority of people I encounter. I always knew it deep in my bones, but now, the unattainable proof has been obtained. In the last month I have lived my life at a breakneck speed that almost did me in. Speed Racer I am not, but like a white trash NASCAR shit kicker, I can put the pedal to the metal when need be. What was the need?? The two biggest rock shows of the year and my professional licensure exam, all in one weekend. April 12th and 13th. Admittedly, most therapists, and the therapeutic community in general, would frown upon me using this weekends success to say I am better than other people. But fuck them, because I am better than those sniveling cry babies and I don't care what they think. Ok, that's not entirely true, but I cannot slow myself with that thought. Let's review. Friday night, April 12th, Rock Star Club takes the stage at The Note and plays an incredible show. My God, we were brilliant. We practiced hard, played hard, great show. Since early March I have done three things, every night. One, studied for my licensure exam, two, practiced with Rock Star Club, three, learned Neil Diamond songs for my sexy new band, Love on the Rocks. Back to Friday and the origins of the conclusive proof I am better than them. Why do I have to set my entire life up as an us against them dichotomy? I played, I drank, a lot, and I had to get up at 7am to take my exam, which started at 8:30am. At 5:30am I decided sleep was pointless and I just got up. A low grade headache, likely the result of dehydration, pounding in the back of my skull, an annoying rat running across the ceiling of the night. Back and forth, the little patter of rat feet, the pounding, can't sleep, gotta kill that fucker. Anyway, for the first time in a month I went back to the juice, yeah I buckled. As I picked up the bottle, the weight of it felt eerily familiar, seeing an old friend ten years later, slightly changed, but mostly the same. As I unscrewed the cap I could not, nor did I want, to turn back. After being up 28 hours, slightly drunk, the biggest professional challenge of my life looming large, I welcomed my old friend back into my arms, actually mouth. I took the trucker speed. By the time I walked into Northeastern Illinois University to sit for my exam I was on afterburners baby. Christ, get your motor running, god damn, I was on fire. Unfortunately, my brain was mush. I think I answered 41 of 200 questions correctly. The other 159 seemed out of focus, skewed, 20/80 vision man. I was fucked, mentally staggered, all that fucking work for nothing!!! Dead on wheels, I had failed. Maybe not, although my peers looked bright eyed, rested, and I was hung over, in the same clothes I wore at the previous nights show, I failed to consider one major point. I am Mr. Tipton, El Tiptone, The Buckler and the one thing these various alter egos share is that they never fail, never. Ok, I am pushing the limits on this one, a pattern in my life, but if I do succeed, the proof is there. It's irrefutable. I am super human and that makes me just a little better than the rest. Like Extra Strength Aspirin, stronger than regular. And if I fail, I'm still better. On that same night I took the stage of The Note, after 1.5 hours of sleep, in two days, and absolutely owned the world while playing with my Neil Diamond tribute band, Love on the Rocks. Holy Fuck, women crying, people singing, smiling. The band in sleazy sparkle shirts, fake 70's, Burt Reynolds mustaches, it was magic. I never thought about it, but Burt Reynolds was hot in "Smoky and the Bandit." That gorgeous stache. Ok, he had to drive around in his ass-kicking 1979 Trans Am with the annoying Sally Field, but that's a story for another day. So there it is. I'm back. But being back is costing money and money is the one commodity I do not have. My band charges money for the web space I use. Look, between three kids, a Korean boy I just adopted and my hot dating schedule, I really don't have the extra scratch. Reach deep, help out, feel good. Come on, if you'd like to see Random Thoughts continue send your checks, money orders, cash, coupons to: C.Tipton, 1809 West Grand, Chicago, Il. 60622. And if any of you pathetic stalkers think about harassing me in my compound, step back and think. I will beat you dead if you fuck with me or my compound. I'm back, good times, good times. Now pay up. All hyperbole aside, I missed writing, a lot. It was like quitting drinking, tough to stop. Once the addiction goes from a social addiction to a personal addiction, you're fucked. So I'm fucked because this is definitely a personal addiction. In the meantime, it's time to finish my book and accomplish something with this vastly overrated talent I think I have. Jesus, what self-serving crap.
The following entry is a REAL response to Random Thoughts. We thought it was quite genius.
I AM NOT THE ZUCKLER - vol. 1 no. 1
Dear Mr. Zuckler,
Dear CT,
This is the end.. Band leader, and self proclaimed, songwriting genius, Paul Kasprzak has stated that the band can no longer afford the web space for Random Thoughts. Fiscally, Random Thoughts does not bring in enough web traffic, hits per day, for Random Thoughts to stay on the site. As Paul said, "your fucking whiny, self serving crap has lost more money than Enron." Ouch. He went on to say my consistent butchering on the english language, poor grammar and boring stories are embarrassing to the rest of the band and make a mockery of the Rock Star Club legacy. He saidÊI had two choices, quit the band or quit random thoughts, and since I am very busy right now...... So dear readers this is it. It's been a crazy ride, from angry band member, almost rock star, to suicidal boyfriend, alcoholic, drug attack, grad student, sexual deviant, ahh, it's been strange. Well fuck, it's been my life and I was stupid enough to let the four of youÊread the sordid details, my anger, failures, broken heart, my quest for happiness and my triumphs. I'm not sure if I accomplished any thing, but it kept my alive. I'm still here and I'm not leaving. So, if you cared, thanks. Thanks for laughing with me, crying with me and if anyone secretly hoped I would make it and silently cheered for me, thank you. It helped. You have no idea how much. You have no idea how great it makes me feel when someone has read a couple of my writings and tells me they enjoyed it, hated it, but they read it. Love me, hate me,Ê you're not going to forget me. As pathetic as it sounds I am screaming to be heard every day and I have a feeling you will hear from me again, take care friend. Although Paul has pulled the plug, actually, the band voted to take me off the web. It was three against one (me). However, Paul will not leave you hanging and he has three, yes, three new columns starting this week.ÊPaul asked ifÊI would preview these columns in my final random thought, so here we go. I am a team player. The first column is titled, "Pill Popping with Paul." That's right, your favorite pharmacist and mine, lays down the smack on prescription drug addiction. From Elvis to Courtney Love, Paul tells you how to get high and stay high LEGALLY. In this weeks column Paul gives you tips on how to get an oxycotin prescription from your doctor, how to crush the pills and how to snort them. Also, Paul gives you readers the 411 on drinking and pill popping, together! For example, vicadin and 7 beers, what's the real story? Drink on says Paul. Stay tuned to RSC.com and find out. Next is "Living like a Lion" by Elias "the Lebanese Lion" Sabbagh. OnceÊ higher than fuck you'll need to learn how to live without money since you will lose your job to addiction.. The Lion can help! He will tell you how to work 3 to 4 months a year and have a seemingly limitless source of money. How to get a shit hot girlfriend while sleeping 15 to 16 hours a day. How to go out to eat, vacation, all without a job! This section will be incredibly popular and allÊI can say is "fuck off Tony Robbins",ÊI want to live like a lion. Hear my roar! Finally we have, "I am not the Zuckler" by Justin Zucker. Justin answers relationship and dating questions. He's got the 'a' list moves and he will share his dating success tips with you. Where to go for dinner, theatre, appropriate gift giving, sexual techniques, his specialty. I knowÊI have submitted several questions andÊI am waiting impatiently for my answers. Help me ex-zuckler, help. This article is dominated by Justin's personal motto and guidingÊprinciple phraseÊwhich will appear at the top of each addition. "It's really not about eating dinner at all. It's about sharing a special moment with a special person. Sharing, yes, sharing special moments." Hummm, I need to work on that. So folks, now that Random Thoughts isÊa goner, you'll have plenty of informative and exciting information to keep you busy. Pill popping, unemployment, relationships, all free and all on ONE website. That's quite a gift. Such is life, and my web life has expired, much like my love life, there's nothing more to say. Goodbye.
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