I recently realized the MPee3 version of "Miami is Nice" that I had uploaded to the site was not the version off The Stenographer, but rather an early demo version. I just now replaced it with the correct album version. So a bunch of very lucky people got to hear a version of the song that was never supposed to see the light of day. VERY lucky.
The real version: Miami is Nice
It's also listed on the MPee3 page in a font that doesn't match the rest of the song titles. I don't know how to fix it.
This is your loving grandmother speaking. I have to once again address the keywords that you typed into the search engine that made you arrive at this site. Shame shame, everyone knows your name. How do you think that makes me feel, dear? It makes me feel sad and sick all over. It's like you kicked me in the face with a skinhead's steel-toed combat boot. What would your mother say? I don't understand this interweb stuff. What are all these inappropriate pictures of grandmothers doing on this small television screen? Oh dear me. You make sure to behave for now on, Billy.
So I know it's been a little quiet around here in EG land as of late, but that's going to change semi-soonish. I'm in the process of finishing up a new album which is scheduled for release in March 2010. There will be regional release shows around that there time to celebrate said album, which will be entitled Listening Party. I'll have more exciting and breathtaking details soon. So hold on to your glasses, Poindexter!
Ok, so as of December 2009 the monthly series "Single of the Month" has become "Pilots and Reruns." (I know the section says "Reruns and Pilots" right now, I told my webmaster Brent the wrong thing). But anyhoo, the idea here is to mix it up a little, and not end up with a series of demos (or "Pilots") that will ruin the concept of a future album release. It's interesting stuff, I know...
I just now was listening to my copy of Mike Jackson's Heal the World on 45, and it occurred to me how sad it is that this thing didn't work out.
Never in my life have I cared for Heavy Metal music, but I've always had a fascination with the genre, especially the super scary stuff. When I was young, my mom showed me this book about Satanism written from a Christian viewpoint that she had borrowed from the library. It scared the living shit out of me. There was a part of the book where this guy talked about eating pages of the Bible and puking them out for fun. There was also a part where the book's writer interviewed Slayer, and a part where a raving lunatic discussed mass suicide. Though I was terrified, I still couldn't help but have a morbid curiosity about the subject.
Fast forward to adulthood, where I find myself first in a Borders reading about Norwegian Black Metal in the sub-genre's notorious bible, Lords of Chaos. (Or it's NOT their bible, whatever, I don't want to be set on fire by Vikings). Once again I was scared shitless, and this is coming from a GG Allin fan (not really a "fan," more of an observer who wants to be protected by GG Allin from Black Metal dudes). Doesn't matter, I was scared and had to ride the bus alone at night thinking about churches being set on fire.
I recently watched a 2005 documentary film entitled Metal: A Headbanger's Journey, and it did not disappoint in addressing the scarededness of the Black Metal movement. It was a very comprehensive movie, stretching from the roots of metal in the 60s to the extra crummy metal of modern day. In between, it covered the creepiest side of the creepiest people who have ever been associated with music. The filmmaker spoke to two members of the band Mayhem, arguably the poster children of Black Metal, at a music festival in Germany. They were out of their minds, and it was frightening. See that above picture? Those are two original members of the band, and they're both dead. One killed himself and the other was murdered by a member of another Black Metal band. The guy who killed himself blew his head off, and the rest of the band made necklaces out of fragments of his skull. There IS a Bogeyman, and he's masturbating under your bed.
So how do we protect ourselves from Norwegian Black Metal? For one, stay the fuck out of Norway. For another, make sure to check all your locks and make sure your oven is turned off before you go to bed. There's really no clear cut solution to the problem, but we've got to try. All I know is that I am afraid, and I need some kind of buffer zone. GG Allin may very well be our only defense. Get 'em GG!
I really enjoy listening to the first three Rancid albums. They remind me of being a rabble rousing teenager with angst in my pants. But even as a teenager, cracks began to show for me during their ...And Out Come the Wolves album, when I heard Lars Fredrickson belt the stupidest lyric in of all time: "Little Sammy was a punk rocker!!!" It was then that I realized that me and these guys may not have a lot in common after all.
I've got nothing against being self aware with your punk-ness, but gimme a damn break. Little Sammy? It's completely based on nothing. If you've got nothing important to say, don't beat around the bush. I understand them wanting to be like The Clash, I really do. When I was younger I struggled with the fact that I couldn't be like Joe Strummer and have something really groundbreaking to say. Once I was honest with myself in realizing that I was just a silly nose-picking suburban punk, I became much more relaxed in the process of creating music. Now I'm getting too serious here...
The aforementioned Lars is a great example of what I'm trying to get at in regard to taking oneself too seriously. I once read an interview he did in Maxim, and I was embarrassed by what a stupid asshole he was. Whoever did the interview made a bunch of jokes in the sidebar about him being a humorless idiot, and I couldn't have agreed with them more. There's a time and a place for The Clash; as a matter of fact, they're my favorite band ever. But even Joe Strummer laughed and made jokes, and even interjected some humor into his music.
My point is this: Don't try to be like The Clash if you don't know where to begin. You'll end up like Rancid, and you'll put one of the guys from Good Charlotte in your music video and ask him to look scary. Yeah, they did that. It's because they're very confused people.
Leave these poor people alone. Their son flew away in a balloon, for fuck's sake. At least they thought he did. It turns out that the young boy had lied to them. He was hiding in the barn the whole time. It begs the question of why a seemingly normal young boy would suddenly do something so deceptive.
Things are generally more difficult for parents these days than they were in the 1950s, with the internet and all. Recent studies have shown that the internet can cause children to act out in anger. But angry at what, exactly? It can get pretty complex down there.
In conclusion, children need to be nicer to their parents. Parents usually try, but they sometimes fail. I don't really understand why, but who does? The children? Not in this lifetime. Some would argue that people do things just to get attention.
I saw this promo picture on Last FM this morning. So now The Killers are a 70's glam-band? I always hated these guys' fucking guts, but this has gone too far. Last album they were mustachioed hipsters. The album before that, they were electro-rock band from England. Why do I care? Because of the kids, man. The kids will see this popular band change with the times, and then decide it's ok to be trendy instead of creating their own identity. What a horrible influence.
I read about the lead singer of this band criticizing Green Day for being anti-American, and additionally stating that The Killers are a better musical representation of American music, culture, attitude, etc. All opinions of Green Day aside, that has got to be the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard. What kind of idiot says a thing like that? I'll tell you what kind of idiot - an American Idiot (zing!)
So anyway, fuck those guys, and fuck every other band like them. I'm taking a stand, and I won't fall. An it's a real original stand, too. Nobody has ever said anything so outrageous before. Let's see them try and stop me. They won't, because they can't. Who wants some?! Not you, because you know I'm the man who says things that you know you can, not, hear, sometimes.
Last night, my wife and I watched a movie called Junior, which detailed a story about a pregnant man and his experiences. The man became pregnant by Danny Devito, who injected his abdomen with fertilized egg called "Junior." He got the egg from a woman who didn't know about it. It started off as an experiment, but the pregnant man decided that he wanted to have a baby. The baby grew inside the man who did not have a uterus.
As the pregnant man went further along into the pregnancy, he started crying and talking more sensitively than he previously had. He went to this place where pregnant women stayed, and he decided to wear a pink dress and a wig. Eventually an evil doctor decided to exploit the pregnant man for his own gain, but the pregnant man escaped with Danny Devito to the hospital. The pregnant man then gave birth to a healthy baby. The evil doctor was fired, because his boss thought he was crazy, because they never saw the pregnant man.
At the end of the movie, the pregnant man was playing with his baby on the beach, and his girlfriend was now pregnant. Danny Devito was also there with his girlfriend. We're led to believe that Danny Devito would be the next man who becomes pregnant. This movie was not so great.
Ok, so here's the deal. Putting out a rough demo of a new song every month is going to ruin the concept of releasing an album, which is something I'm not prepared to do. I'd like to hold on to the general concept, so maybe I'll put up an older song every month, or put up a demo every once in a while? I don't know, but I can feel you trembling at the anticipation of finding out what I'll do next. I know I'm being a wuss, but it just may not the best idea to put out a ton of new stuff until it can be mastered by someone competent. I'm aiming for March(ish) 2010 for a new album release. I'm going to release it out of my butt.
But never fear, I put up one last new one for now. It's called She's Trouble!, and it's about my wife/live projectionist Mary Alice! (The exclamation point is part of her stage name). Click it, get it, suck it, fuck it.
One summer while I was visiting my cousin in Washington DC, I found this strange homemade cassette tape near his television that read BUFFER ZONE. I asked him what it was, and he said it was his friend's band in which he was the drummer. I remember looking at the song titles on the tape, but the only one I recall was called "Pagan Prayer." I remember this being a bit disconcerting, as the only thing I knew about Pagans was the goat-dancing virgin-sacrificing deviants from Dragnet '87. Ya know, People Against Goodness And Normalcy. P.A.G.A.N. (Very good Joe). Nevertheless, I was both impressed and intrigued by the fact that his friend's band had put together an actual tape of their music (see above for the visual approximation of what it looked like).
My cousin additionally informed me that there were several other bands that were active in his high school. According to popular opinion, the best band at his school were called Mushrooms. (Pretty stupid, eh? I prefer BUFFER ZONE). While on my visit, my cousin and I happened to hitch a ride with the girlfriend of one of the members of the aforementioned Mushrooms. At one point while she drove, she turned to my cousin and another passenger and asked, "Do you guys want to listen to Mushrooms?", to which my cousin and the other passenger genuinely replied "YEAH!" I don't remember too much about the music, but I think I recall the band to be somewhat Bon Jovi-ish. (That may be unfair, because I really don't remember that well). During one of the songs, the girl screeched "Oh my God, my boyfriend's part is coming up," and then subsequently "Eeek! That's my boyfriend!," to a shredding guitar solo blaring from the tape deck. The girl had curly blonde hair and wore a lot of hairspray. Great stuff.
But anyway, back to BUFFER ZONE. I thought of the mysterious band (which I never actually heard) the other day, so I google'd "Buffer Zone DC Band." Wouldn't you know, I found an archived listed of old DC bands here, with BUFFER ZONE listed. There's no additional information listed besides the name of the band, but ain't that something? I didn't make the whole thing up. There's no listing for Mushrooms though, so they really must have sucked after all.
Everyone knows that I have obnoxious bathroom habits; I use too much soap, I blow my nose really loud, and I do that thing where you grab the door handle with a towel so you don't get germs on your hand. And you know what? You can smell my balls in hell, cause I don't give a fuck. When I go to the bathroom it's MY time, and no one's gonna tell me what to do with it.
You can trace this behavior back to when I was in Kindergarten. For the first couple of months of the school year, I would pull my pants all the way down to my ankles when using the urinal. It never occurred to me that something was wrong with that, even though all the other boys around me would pee "normally" by simply unzipping their flies. One time while I was going, this one boy walked up and smacked me in the bare ass. He laughed at me, but I didn't care. It feels good when your ass gets smacked by a bully. There, I said it.
Word got around the school, too. One day while walking in the hallway, this older boy pointed to me excitedly and said, "Hey, it's that kid who pulls his pants all the way down to go to the bathroom!" It ultimately became a phenomenon. Boys would crowd around me and laugh while I was going, staring and taunting my pale naked rear. I eventually grew weary of the laughter, so I decided to train myself to go in the "right" way. After a while I got the hang of it, but my sullied reputation lingered.
One school day, some older boys followed me into a bathroom stall to watch the impending butt show. They were alarmed when I went by simply lowering my shorts, but they were also proud of me in a strange way. They laughed and applauded (literally) my efforts, as my era as "that kid" had come to an end. It was my greatest triumph since I wiped my butt by myself in nursery school.
There's this one kid, who has a bunch of horror shit in his room. He goes and scares his naked older sister in the shower with a rubber knife. Weird for two reasons:
1) It's his own sister. She was washing her soapy breasts in the shower.
2) The sister looks like she's about 12 years old. She looks older later in the movie, but in this scene it seems pretty messed up.
So the older sister goes on a date with this hunky early 80's guy, along with a nerdy guy and his blonde girlfriend. They go to the traveling carnival, and not the movies. The little brother sneaks out of his bedroom to also go to the carnival.
The main character girl (the sister) and her friends make a point to smoke weed and make fun of the carnies and their antics. Their obnoxious attitudes piss of the carnies, especially the fortune teller, who says "fuck" and throws them out of her tent. There's a variety of old-timey carnival stuff in the movie, such as a girlie show and a fun house. Let me tell you about the fun house; they decide to stay inside the fun house overnight, which was their first mistake.
Their second mistake was witnessing the fortune teller get strangled by a guy in a Frankenstein mask. But as it turns out, the guy in the Frankenstein mask is a deformed freak, the son of the carnival barker. It also turns out that he is the antagonist, terrorizing the teens throughout the night. The nerdy guy goes first, he gets hung and then accidentally axed in the head by the hunky guy. Then the blonde girl falls through a trap door, and tries to convince the freak that she loves him in order to get away, but to no avail. The freak kills her, and then we don't see him for a while.
So then a bunch of other stuff happens, and at the end of the movie the main girl knocks the freak into some gears at the fun house, crushing him to death. It was a really fun movie, and not as laughably stupid as I thought it would be. I'd see it if I were you, it's not too long or anything. It also has that homey early-80's feel that you just can't get from movies nowadays. Good to go.
It's pretty funny to look on Amazon and see your own shit being sold used for 19 cents.
I suppose if I was a big shot national like Black Moth Super Rainbow you'd pay $8.42 for the honor. Pssshaw.
Let's check some other Columbus locals!
Church of the Red Museum: $1.22 - Not too shabby.
Hotel Eden: $4.59 - Way to go!
Kyle Sowashes: 98 cents - Sorry buddy, at least it's not 19.
Greenlawn Abbey: 59 cents - Givin' me a run!
The Receiver: 72 cents - Cup o' coffee.
Flotation Walls: $21.27?!?!? - Out of print maybe? Geez!
Rosehips: $47.25?!?!?!?!?!!?!?! - Japanese Import or something?! This is getting weird.
Take No Damage: $6.49 - My boys, all right!
Paper Airplane: 1 cent! - Yes!!! My former label mates bailed me out!!!
And that concludes your tour of used music from Columbus bands. Have a good one.
Balloon boy came home! Me and Carol want to thank you for all you prayers, love and support.
He was just in Grandad's barn across the way, no biggie. You should have seen the look on our faces when he walked out of the barn and shouted, "YO SPIKE, I GOT THE MOTT'S!" Classic. Me and Larry are just glad he's alive.
But are we alive? Who knows who lived through this.
We miss you, balloon boy. Please come home soon. We don't know why you got into that balloon, but know that we care. We care for you. And we want you to take care when you're up in the balloon, chasing your dream.
We don't know why you like balloons. But we don't like balloons, because they took you away from us. I'll never forget how I felt when I saw you grab the balloon string, and the balloon lifted you up, up and away. Stop it, balloon boy. Stop flying away with the balloons.
Oh shit, the balloon fell. Balloon boy must have been the balloon. But he did not die in vain, because he was one of those weird balloon fetish people. In fact, balloon boy often told me of his erotic-balloon-snuff fantasies. I didn't think it was so cool, but he chose to die how he wanted to live, engulfed in flames with a balloon.
And now a musical tribute:
Oh balloon boy, don't make it bad
Take a sad song, and make it better
Remember to let her into your heart
And you like balloons a lot
Remember to let her into your heart
And you like balloons a lot
I did a write-up/review of the trip my wife and I took to Chicago to attend Riot Fest '09 for my good friend Brian's blog Broken Headphones. It was a totally great time, and you should totally read about it, or you're gonna be so totaled by my fist.
If I lose my temper you're totaled, man.
Thanks to Brian for letting me invade his space!
Bonus: Second review from 2010
The scene. The obnoxious scenes that we created as teenagers. Oh, oh, the scene.
I flashed back to the scene over the weekend while we were out at the Columbus Gallery Hop gettin' snooty with the art. This group of 14-15 year olds shrieked and made a scene while crossing the street, and stared impatiently at a line of stupid adults waiting for ice cream. They waited for our collective mortified reaction, and moved on when they didn't get one. I turned to my wife and mentioned how they impressed me with their shrieking. I flashed back in time...
The year was 1994, and I was wackily riding the merry-go-round with friends at the now defunct amusement park, Geauga Lake. I was wallowing in my wild and free invincibility, straddling the ironic paint-chipped horse of rebellion. While on the mighty steed, I was heard to say, "FUCK YOU MOTHERFUCKER!," or something of equal astuteness. A dad with a young child turned and scolded me, angrily reminding me that it was a ride full of 5-year old kids. I believe that I giggled, and ran away into the night, unbound by the chains of parental oppression.
A friend of mine recently remarked that it embarrassed him to think that we were ever like the kids that we see today in the scene. Believe it. I wish we could go back in time and tell ourselves what assholes we were being. The story I told here was a tame one too, I did way worse shit than that.
Fuck you, motherfucker.
P.S. I don't know what the hell the above picture has to do with anything. I don't think those are really kids. The girl appears to be drinking champagne.
In or around 1999, I discovered the ability to look up people by their phone number via Yahoo!, and assorted services of the like. I tried looking up a few famous people, but got no usable results. I did find a number supposedly listed for J Mascis of Dinosaur Jr., but the number was disconnected upon calling. I tried looking up a few minor celebrities, and finally hit pay dirt with Leanna Creel, best known for playing Tori Scott on Saved By the Bell.
I called the listed number, and got a voice answering service. It was the number of an agent who represented several unrecognizable names, along with Leanna Creel. I pressed the appropriate number to leave a message for Leanna, and stated that I would really like to speak with her about an exciting opportunity. A few days passed with no response. I tried calling again, and this time left a message saying that I had work for her. A few more days went by with no word from Leanna. I was content by this time with my efforts, and I was willing to consider the project a success.
One morning approximately a week after the second call, I'm awoken very early to my phone ringing off the hook. I answer groggily to a woman with a think British accent; Leanna's agent. Keep in mind that I had just woken up, and this was ten years ago, so this transcript is essentially an estimation of how it went:
The Agent: "Yes, I'm calling on behalf of Leanna Creel about a job opportunity?"
Me: (panicked) "Oh, yes, hello."
The Agent: "So what was it exactly that you're offering?"
Me: (caught in headlights) "Um. I just wanted to talk to Leanna, because I'm a big Saved By the Bell fan. I really liked her work on the show. "
The Agent: (laughs) "That was not exactly the impression that I was given. I had reason to believe that you had an opportunity for her."
Me: "Oh. I'm sorry. Can I talk to her?"
The Agent: (still laughing) "No, I'm afraid that's not possible."
Me: "Oh, ok."
The Agent: (Something along the lines of "Please don't do this again," or "Leave us alone.")
And that about covers it. I was pretty irritated by the whole thing. Tori was too busy to talk to me, or "unable to?!" I'm so sure. That was probably the most action she got in years. She went on to be pretty cool, I suppose, even though she treated me (through her agent) like garbage. She produced But I'm a Cheerleader, while not a great movie, had a very positive pro-gay message. She also was able to marry her partner when California legalized same-sex marriage. That's pretty good for someone who at one time pursued Zack "The Jerk" Morris. (Her words, not mine).
On a related subject, Wikipedia has a great section on minor Saved By the Bell characters. They even talk about Mancuso. I definitely recommend the reading, they end almost every entry with, "They were never seen again." Good stuff. Even if I haven't written a SBTB song in years, it's still a show I'm a fanatic for. Fuck Dustin Diamond though, he's a dick.
...if she saw what you Google'd to get here?
That's right, I know the keyphrases you searched for when stumbling across this site. Let's just say that using the word "Grandmother" and a variety of profanity makes for a somewhat interesting website audience. You people are sick. Shame on you. Double shame.
You blew it, Jandek. Here's how you blew it.
For those unfamiliar with Jandek, he's an "outsider" musician in the truest sense of the word. He exists on the outside of society, or at lease he did up until recently. From 1978-2004, a mysterious man from Houston released countless bizarre records in near anonymity, save one radio interview and a secret meeting with a local newspaper writer. For many familiar with Jandek's music, his intriguing persona is/was the entire appeal. The first time one hears a Jandek song, they may find it interesting - a clangy, echoing guitar mixed with strange lyrics of despair. Then they discover that the hundreds of songs in his catalog are exactly the same. It's like listening to the late great Wesley Willis, but without being entertained. The music is unlistenable in an unconventional way. It's not like listening to Michael Bolton or Poison, where the brain tells you something is off right away - it's more like musical Chinese Water Torture, in that it slowly wears at you until you go berserk. All lack of musical enjoyment aside, I found myself very fascinated with Jandek when I discovered him early in the 00's. Who was this man? Why all the secrecy? And will we ever find out what dense mystery lies behind the mysterious curtain of Jandek?
Then, he decided to start performing.
I was crushed, it totally ruined the fantasy. It was like being interrupted by a phone call from a family member during role-play sex. I was so aggravated at the development that I contacted Seth Tisue, who is the foremost expert in the world on Jandek. I asked him if Jandek suddenly deciding to destroy his anonymity colored his opinion at all, and he said it did not. He seemed to be quite excited at the prospect of seeing Jandek perform. I suppose I should have been happy for Seth, but I couldn't help be agitated on behalf of all the casual observers. What a crock.
I found it funny how after Jandek revealed himself, some people kept/keep trying to hold on. Some people have said things like, "Well, do we know if it's him?" We know it's him because it's him, stupid. Some people continually refer to him as, "The representative from Corwood," his record label. FUCK you, it's Jandek. I don't understand how a guy who kept it up for 26 years suddenly couldn't take it anymore, then abruptly felt the need to shine like a Broadway baby. It makes you wonder how real any of it was. It's funny too, because I've seen some footage from backstage after Jandek performances, and he doesn't act like some weird alien. You see people congratulating him, and he's all, "Thanks Bill, I really appreciate it! Wanna go get some water?!"
Look, I don't know the guy, and I don't know his reasons for going public. Maybe he hit 60-something and didn't feel like staying in his garage anymore. I just hate it when illusions get shattered and fun gets ruined.
Yeah, keep grinning you dope.
My wife watches a new show on A & E called Hoarders, and I can't watch it because it hits too close to home. Granted, I don't enjoy keeping rotten vegetables and cat piss as souvenirs, but I have a long history of holding on to a lot of stuff that I'll never look at or think about again. I don't hold on to things because I'm cheap, I hold on to things because of the weird emotional attachments I develop towards them. This is one of several mental conditions where I'm just teetering on the brink waiting to topple, but somehow manage to hold on to the railing.
A prime example of my hoarding was a Craig-brand CD/Tape Deck that I held onto for years even after it barely worked, all because I'd had it for so long. Plus, it said "Craig" on the front, and I couldn't get rid of something with an identity. I finally gave it to Goodwill a few months back, because I couldn't bear to throw it in the garbage; never mind that it was probably completely broken by then.
I also have a tough time getting rid of gifts I get from people. I think about how they really must have put thought into what they gave me, and how they would feel if they knew I threw their gift away. I've gotten a little better about this, as I've become increasingly resentful about people giving me crap for crap's sake. I've come to realize that the gift giver probably didn't put as much thought into giving me the garden ornament as I had originally thought.
I'm not the only one in the family like this, which doesn't help. My wife and I went through our basement a little while back to get rid of our excess belongings, partly inspired by the horror of Hoarders. We set out to purge ourselves of most everything we didn't think we needed any longer, and it was a massive failure. Granted we were able to unload a lot of books, but we nearly shit ourselves due to massive anxiety during the process. It was ridiculous and very discouraging, and we were both in weird moods for the rest of the day.
What separates me from the people on TV is that I'm just sentimental, and not someone who enjoys having rotting pumpkins on their floor. Although, the nut didn't fall too far from that tree when I used to live on my own about 8-12 years ago...holy mother of God. Let's just say that I'm one of only a few Americans that has thrown bacon grease into a swimming pool. Never mind that there was already rotting food in that pool, not to mention a motorcycle and a couch. But that's a story for another time. I just wish I'd taken a picture to go with it.
The first time I ever watched Total Recall was at a friend's house not too long after the video release. While watching the movie, I ate this weird wholesale club hot dog that my friend gave to me, easily the weirdest hot dog I ever ate. It came with a built in bun that essentially surrounded the wiener, which was simultaneously rough and soggy from microwave preparation. I ate it toward the beginning of the movie, during a scene where Arnold's face (see above) is contorting from the lack of atmosphere on Mars. I remember being grossed out, because Arnold's inflated tongue closely resembled the bizarre set of cow entrails and rubber that I was devouring. It's still gross to think about.
The part near the end of the movie where Arnold drills the guy in the tank is funny, because he yells "Screw You!" while doing it. It's very appropriate, as he uses a screw-like device to drill the guy. There's a woman with three breasts in the movie, and they shoot her. I can't believe they fucking shot her, right in the back. I imagine that the bullets might have then exited through her front, subsequently mangling at least one of the boobs.
There's an evil dictator on Mars that is keeping the oxygen to himself, because he wants to control the population. The rebel forces on Mars are led by a guy who has a little guy growing out of his stomach. The bad guys at one point shoot the stomach guy in the head, and it's fucking weird. Total Recall is pretty good, but not as good as Kindergarten Cop.
EG opening for Jeffrey Lewis - Friday @ Cafe Bourbon Street
Friday, September 18th
Cafe Bourbon Street
10 PM Start
Kanye West interrupted the 2009 MTV VMAs. OMG. He was right to do it. He wanted to disrupt the shallow, vacant, corporate sleaze-fest that at one time had the nerve to consider itself cutting edge. I have to believe this is what he was trying to do.
Remember when we all watched Alice in Chains videos in 1992, and we thought we were rebellious in doing so? It's interesting to look back on that now, and it makes me think of a quote from a cool little movie I saw recently about the No Wave scene in NYC c. 70s-80s. The quote from a member of the band DNA was along the lines of (regarding the new wave of hip rock bands), "I don't know what that's like now for the kids, I never had rebellion sold back to me." I thought his statement was very poignant and telling, with my being a member of the first Generation (X) that had rebellion sold back to them is such a severe and overblown manner.
The Gen-X revolution was televised, but at least it felt sort of real. The rebel youth of the 1965-1980 births had a certain angsty-pride that I don't think will ever be seen again. There was a real "us against them" mentality, a sense of community amongst each other, mixed with a newfound sense of social tolerance for those previously ostracized by the larger population. In contrast, Generation Y has a detached "It's all good" mentality, selfish individualism, and a dwindling interest in, well, most everything. Granted, I appreciate the modern "it's all good" mentality as a performer; in 1994, people would throw shit on stage and spit at you without batting an eye. However, with the "all good" attitude comes a culture of thoughtlessness and genuine lack of opinion. I think about this 17 year old kid I worked with when I was 23, whose dad served in the first Iraq war. He said he like Full Metal Jacket, and I asked him if the anti-war message behind the movie bothered him as a veteran's son. He laughed and looked at me like I was crazy, and honestly did not understand the motivation behind my question.
The "all good" attitude is very visible in modern music culture. Granted, it almost becomes moot with the global reach of the internet, but it still gets my goat at how kids these days are so ready and willing to license out their music, their art and soul, to shows like The Real World and Laguna Beach. Darn kids. If you're going to license your music, why can't you license it for a nice nature program, with lions?
Before this gets too long, I just want to say that Generation X rules, and Generation Y drools. This did not end up being about Kanye West.
I know it's not terribly original to make fun of Friday the 13th Part VIII: Jason Takes Manhattan, but I couldn't see if for the first time and not say anything.
Here is what I and countless others take issue with the most: MOST OF THE DAMN MOVIE DOESN'T TAKE PLACE IN MANHATTAN! And on top of it, most of the filming in "Manhattan" actually takes place in Vancouver. The acting is worse than the previous Friday the 13th installments, and there is approximately zero sympathetic characters. And yes, Jason Voorhies actually punches a guy's head off in one of the later scenes. Jason Voorhies is the father of Lark Voorhies.
The krusty dude that plays the lead girl's uncle reminds me of the mean girlfriend from the movie Hobgoblins. If you've never seen either, you don't know what I'm talking about, but I don't feel like explaining that further. There's a scene where Jason knocks over this boombox blaring rap music that belongs to a group of punk rockers, and then Jason scares the punks by showing them his deformed face. That's another huge problem I have with this movie; I was under the impression that Jason didn't care who he killed. Yet when Jason is in "Manhattan," he's hellbent on only killing two specific teenagers, while just killing and/or bullying auxiliary characters along the way. Also, there's something very uncreepy about removing Jason from Crystal Lake and having him occupy a boat/big city to a late 80's musical backdrop that's embarrassing even for the late 80's.
I also don't remember Jason laughing in the other movies, just grunting. He laughed several times in this movie. I still like it better than Freddy vs. Jason. At the end when Jason walks out of the lake carrying Freddy's head, and the head knowingly winks at the camera, I was furious.
I'm no horror movie connoisseur, because scary movies scare me. I prefer unscary movies where a dude's head gets punched off.
*Originally written in 2006. Edited in 2009 for coherency. Sorry to Gavin for using his name.
When I was about, oh, let's say 7 years old (this would make it 1985), I went to my friend Gavin's house one summer afternoon only to discover that he, his brother, and a few friends were playing basketball with the drummer from the 80's mega group The Jets. I immediately bolted home to tell my older sister; she didn't seem to care, so I ran back to Gavin's house by myself.
For those a bit too young, The Jets at one time ruled the Universe. Actually, they are best known for doing Nancy Reagan-esque anti-drug commercials, and I'm pretty sure they did the song Crush on You. It doesn't matter... (Updated note: They did indeed do the song, and it DOES matter. Also, they probably weren't "best known" for the commercials. What the hell was my problem?)
If you're wondering how the hell this occurred, I'll tell you. The Jets were performing in the city (Cleveland), and were trying to stay out of sight. They just happened to be staying in my little suburban town, in a rented house right next door to Gavin. The drummer of The Jets then just happened to venture next door, introduced himself, and the rest is basketball.
The drummer was a big surf-tan dynamo, strutting around in all his glory. He was very friendly, answering everyone's questions as they played, including a question about his hair, "Yeah, my hair is a little longer in videos." I remember trying to muster up the nerve to sing a few bars from, Be Smart, Don't Start (don't ask) to impress him, but I just couldn't do it. The next best thing would be to try to touch him, so my plan was to "accidentally" brush my arm against his. I tried moving towards him in every which way. I never got close enough, physically or spiritually. I'm not sure what else happened that afternoon, but I remember being so star-struck, and I wanted to hold his essence so badly. Gavin ended up briefly playing semi-pro tennis as an adult.
This is about when I almost touched the drummer from The Jets. It was a subject of an old song of mine.
Holy shit, is it that time again already? That's right everyone, time again for the Single of the Month! If you're new to this game, get with the damn program! Lucky for us, all the Singles of the Month are archived. Phew.
This month's single is called My Neighbors. If you've seen an EG show recently, you'll recognize it. If you haven't, you better just recognize.
You can now follow my idiotic thoughts on Twitter. I resisted for so long, but my dick fell off, so I had to join. Click the pic:
The very first concert I went to was "Endfest '94," a festival in Cleveland sponsored by the local alternative radio station, the now defunct 107.9 "The End." Some the bands that played included Violent Femmes, L7, and (trust me, we left early) headliners Candlebox.
The entire day was plague by rain, which led to clusters of sweaty teens huddling together in merch tents during many of the performances. At one point in the day, I was huddled with a friend under a tent that was selling hippie trinkets and bracelets. I bought a turquoise-ish hippie bracelet to commemorate my first concert, even though I had zero intention of actually wearing it. The hippie man and woman who were running the tent were surly and stoned out of their minds. They were passing a joint back and forth (and got quite upset when I attempted to grab it, as I had presumed at one point that they were passing it to me).
Standing in the tent next to my friend and I was a girl and her boyfriend, who was wearing a Little Mermaid T-shirt. The man happened to notice the boy's shirt, and began to laugh hysterically. "Hey man, scuba! Scuba!," he repeated over and over. The boy stared at the man, both disgusted and hurt. "SCUBA!" the man taunted, while he and woman cackled loudly. "Hey man, scuba!"
Now, I have to put this in perspective. Back in 1994, us boys did things like wear Little Mermaid T-shirts ironically, as we wanted to be sensitive Kurt Cobain-types. But even back then, I remember thinking that the boy brought this hippie freak out on himself. If you're gonna wear a T-Shirt like that, ya gotta be able to take it when a hippie starts yelling "SCUBA!" in your face. Ya just gotta.
It's an interesting concept for a movie, bringing three guitar legends together to talk, discuss technique, and create their own musical project of sorts.
But on the other hand, FUUUUUUUUUCK YOU, ya know? It's a movie about three jerkoffs, who are getting together to jerk off while watching each other jerk off. I have a good friend who will be the first in line to jerk off to this movie.
It's cool, I can appreciate technique. The previews are making me mad, though. They all arrive in limousines to the "Guitar God" room to meet for the first time (maybe, I dunno), and "Who knows what may happen?!?!" Spare me. Then they show Jack White on his fucking farm or whatever, wearing his steampunk clothing and looking all rustic. Puhhhhhlease.
I haven't seen it, so I shouldn't pass judgment. But c'mon now. C'mon.
I was a pretty gullible kid, especially when it came to dealing with my older cousin. One summer afternoon he and I were talking about movies we had seen, and he told me about a movie called Attack of The Killer Water Buffaloes.
The movie and very intriguing and bewildering plot. It was about a pack of mutant water buffaloes that terrorized a farming community. When I asked him if anyone got killed in the movie (I was a very sensitive little guy), he said that they most certainly did. He described a scene where a man got gored in the head by a buffalo horn, and another where a man got electrocuted by an electrical fence. However, he reassured me that the movie was rated PG-13, and that it was something I could probably handle. I then claimed to have seen a preview for the movie, complete with my own version of the narrated voice over, "See Attack of The Killer Water Buffaloes!" It took a few years, but it eventually dawned on me that he had made the whole thing up.
I probably deserved to be duped, considering the amount of "movies" I had made up as a kid. The one that sticks out most in my mind was a movie that I made up called Pee Pee Canon. The plot was simple enough; the entire movie was about army tanks that shot poop and pee back and forth, mostly at each other. Not as sophisticated as Water Buffaloes, but effective nonetheless. I'm looking at you, Spielberg.
In middle school, this kid told me this amazing story about something he saw when he was over at his friend's house one day. While in his house, he happened to peer through a slightly open door and saw his friend's dad lifting weights naked, while growling over and over, "I'M THE BEST! I'M THE BEST!"
Growing up, my two friends (see: Open House) had a thick layer of woods in their backyard that housed many of our youthful adventures, many of which had to with our being ninjas (BEFORE it was cool). There was an initial cluster of woods with open defined paths, followed by a second cluster of woods that were more dense with swampier footing. In the first cluster of woods, there was a creepy abandoned well that supposedly went 9-feet deep. We never got that close (especially me), until my friends' dad decided to fill the well with leaves and mud. After that, we could jump inside the well and dance around. It was neat.
One of our favorite pastimes in the woods was to set small controlled-fires, to burn toys or whatever was nearest to us. Despite our being stupid to do this in the first place, we were always very careful to put out any fire that we started. One day, my two friends and I were doing the usual, and we abandoned a fire that was mostly out. I say mostly, because I do recall seeing a small ash flickering on a piece of wood.Â This wasn't unusual, because we had previously let countless other "flickers" like these burn out on their own.
A short time after leaving this particular fire, we were playing ninja in a cattail swamp near their woods, when one of the friends (the older of two brothers) pointed out smoke billowing over top of the trees. We rushed back over to the woods, and saw a blazing ring-of-fire about 20 feet wide, already burning out of control.
What happened next is a bit blurry; I somehow ended back in my own front yard, watching the two friends bolt back and forth from a nearby lake, carrying buckets of water. The fire department had been called, and there was at least two fire engines in front of their house. I remember my dad yelling at me to not even get on the sidewalk(?) I guess he didn't want me to catch on fire (3 houses down, other side of the street, behind the house, etc).
From what I can remember, the fire got put out relatively quickly, no harm no foul. Strangely enough, there was very little questioning from any adults. My dad asked me how the fire started, and I think I told him that it was "dry back there," or something. I don't think he bought it, but there was no damage done from the fire, so it was dropped pretty quickly.
What pissed me off though, was that the older of the two brothers blamed the fire on me; not to any authority figures, but to kids at school. It may have been my fault, but it was just as much theirs. Thankfully, due to the relatively small size of the fire, it never spread that far (get it?), and I was only "The kid who started a forest fire" for a little while. It was kind of funny being branded as a raving psycho here and there. As a result of my new notoriety, this one older boy asked me if I was the same kid who he saw running around near some high security something-or-other. I told him no. I should have just told him that it was me.
When I was about 6, I drew a picture of Mike Jackson (complete with biography) and showed it to my mom. I wrote on the picture that Mike was "about 40." My mom told me that he was actually 26. BUT, had I been right, here's what he would have looked like. This is an actual page from a 1985 issue of Ebony magazine.
Growing up, my friends across the street had a garage door they would always leave open, and inside was a door that lead inside their house, which was left unlocked about 80% of the time. Everything was left wide open, whether anyone was home or not.
My other friends and I had many adventures entering their house when nobody was home. One of my friends said that he went in once, made himself a sandwich and utilized their restroom facilities for an ol' #2. I never risked spending THAT much time in there, but I would sometimes go in and use their restroom (regular) and watch TV for a little bit. Sometimes I would hear a car pull in the garage while I was hanging out inside, and I would bolt out through the back door, often as someone was simultaneously walking in through the garage door. I often wondered what the hell they thought as they walked in, and no doubt heard the back door slam shut. Even after multiple instances of this happening, they continued to leave everything wide open for business.
One day I was home sick from school, and I decided to walk over to their house to get a porno movie I knew was in a drawer next to their TV. I entered without a problem (of course), and took the movie home for my viewing pleasure. A few months later a friend I were in the house, and we took that same porno movie and played it on their VCR, intentionally leaving it playing when we left. The idea of course being that they would at some point come home (parents and all), and a triple-X movie would be on their TV screen. Just as we were about to exit the garage, I had a change of heart. I went back in the house and got the movie. It would have been way too mean (even at 15 years old), and besides, they at long last might have put 2 and 2 together.
Much like being a DJ at a college radio station, it's just something you can't appreciate enough right when it's happening.
What makes me even more angry than the sight of these peckerheads protesting at town halls, is the fact that the left couldn't organize a sock drawer, let alone moronic sheep-like protests like these. Meanwhile, Fox News and other far-right media outlets say "Mobilize," and within a few days every fucking stupid redneck pig is interrupting a town hall meeting. There's just no way to win.
So all right you fuckfaces, you actually believe that you're going to lose your "quality" health care and the elderly are going to be left to die under the iron fist of Socialism? Fine, the majority of America that doesn't believe that shit and actually wants health care reform should get it, and you can continue to pay insurance companies out the ass. Then, when you come crying to us healthy American majority because you're broke from paying insurance companies, we can laugh and scream empty protests in your faces. Bring the insurance companies while you're at it, so they can be shot in the street.
Somebody needs to do something, because I'm not going to stop them. I'm also a peckerhead, but for a different reason. The left can't organize due in part to people like me. Too many others on the left make me crazy with their shit, and I can't get along with them. And they're hippies, while I'm punk rock to the bone, know what I mean?
So I'm pleased with myself, wallowing in my homeostasis. Time for lunch.
My wife and I spontaneously decided to go to the Ohio State Fair last Sunday, on it's final day of functioning for the year. We had been meaning to go for a long time since we've lived in Columbus, and we didn't want another year to slip by. We even bought Coke products at our local supermarket so that we could get $3 tickets by 3 PM. We made it there right at 3:00 on the dot, and we were happily on our way.
As soon as we entered the fairgrounds, we saw absolutely nothing. To our right, we saw a set up for some kind of Christian-weightlifting show, but there was nobody there. To our left, we saw a NASA "Future of tomorrow" trailer, but then realized it was a port-a-john. Straight ahead, we only saw stands selling greasy fair food, which we were trying to avoid. We entered a side building near the entrance that advertised arts & crafts, but it was just a bunch of hillbillies selling wax candles and novelty signs made of rusted metal.
We thought it would be a good idea for me to win a prize from one of the "Guess Your Age/Weight/Birth Month" guys, since I've always had a bit of a baby face and could maybe trick them into thinking I was at least 3 years younger than I am. The guy guessed that I was one year older than I was. Later, we tried another guess-guy, who guessed that I was 10 pounds heavier than I was. This was after I sucked in my stomach. We paid $6 to find out that I was fat and old. At least we got a prize from the weight guy. In between these instances of humiliation, I played a balloon dart game. I hit the balloon directly with a dart, which bounced off and fell harmlessly to the ground. Another $5. It was after this that I decided that our game fun should end.
We didn't realize it was 94 degrees outside; we just didn't know. The heat hit us like a fucking tidal wave. We slowly began to fade, and I knew the further we walked into the fairgrounds, the further we would have to walk back to the car when we inevitably decided to leave. At one point we stopped in the shade for a cigarette, and I suggested that we leave. The lovely red-face girl opted that we should try and forge on for a little while longer, despite our having absolutely zero fun. I was ready to give up, but she was still in Clark Griswold "quest for fun" mode.
We looked for something moderately healthy to eat, but to no avail. We were both hungry, tired, and a bit dehydrated. We couldn't figure out why every other person at the fair was faring so much better than us in this hellish inferno. The red-faced girls' face was getting redder, and finally she could stand no more. She turned to me and said those wonderful words: "Let's just go."
By now, we were what seemed like miles away from our car. We lumbered in agonizing pain toward the entrance, dodging enormous teddy bears and confederate flags being used as capes along the way. Upon finally reaching the car, it occurred to us that the entire experience lasted only an hour and fifteen minutes. While maneuvering out of our cramped parking space, the red-faced girl hit a parked car, so we got the hell out of Dodge, complete with spinning tires and flying gravel. We decided to get dinner out, but when we got to the restaurant of our choice, it was closed.
It's wasn't the fair we had hoped for, but at least it was closure. We're never leaving the house again.
I just caught the end of E! True Hollywood Story on Rachel Ray. I didn't know she had her own talk show (?)
Anyway, they interviewed a woman who started an anti-Rachel Ray site called RRSux.com. It was pretty damn pathetic. I understand when websites are created as a consumer complaint platform (paypalsucks.com), but to create a website railing against someone for being annoying? That's pretty fucking stupid. I mean, if someone created melgibsonsucks.com, I would at least think that was worthwhile. The fact that a piece of shit like him still holds so much sway boggles my mind. But Rachel Ray?
So I decided to check out RRSux.com, and apparently the site "Decided to shut its virtual doors" in February of this year. The woman goes on to say, "I've become a much happier person now that I no longer dwell on someone who irritates the shit out of me. Life is too short to be so negative and mean-spirited." Well, no-fucking-shit-Sherlock. She still has to live down these recent years where she decided to be a petty fucking idiot, so hopefully that's punishment enough. In the immortal words of Henry Rollins, "Don't hate people, hate things. When you hate someone, you're giving them too much of yourself."
I hate the woman that created RRSux.com.
Holy Moses, it's the Single of the Month! That's right folks, that's the name of the game. In addition to keeping the tradition of releasing albums, I will be offering for your pleasure a brand spanking new single on the 1st of every fucking month.
The first "Single of the Month" for August 2009 is called England-Man American, which is the consensus first single off my who-knows-when upcoming album called For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge. I hope you like my ways.
I watched it for the first time last night. What the hell, dude. I haven't seen that much unsettling/creepy nudity since I hacked Gary Glitter's laptop.
What was up with the "others" on the other side of the island? The racist portrayal of whoever they were was predictable; but in 6 years (I guess?) they didn't stumble across these dopey kids and sacrifice them to the Easter Island God-Head thing?
Brooke Shields was 14 years old in this movie, and the goofy blond kid was 18. Yet for some reason, she wanted to ravage him while he didn't even know what a boner was.
I'm sure this has all been said before.
Building an incredible island house is one thing, I can buy that, but I still don't know how they figured out how to have sex.
Why don't you wash your hands after using the urinal, friend? Do you like tasting your penis and/or the penises of others when you eat? Why do you like that? Is it less dirty?
Why don't you (especially) wash your hands after using the toilet, friend? Do you realize you had your hand up your butt? I repeat, you had your hand in your dirty butt, and now you're going to eat with it?
I'm sorry to be gross, but this is more real than real.
Ok, I know I promised no more Jacko, but I gotta tell ya, I'm astounded at the amount of people who have told me recently that they have never seen this masterpiece.
I first watched this mini-series in 1992 when it was first aired. I loved it then, and I love it now. In one fell swoop, the 240 minutes goes by in a flash, and I normally dislike sitting and watching anything for more than 90 minutes.
The Jacksons: An American Dream covers a lot of ground, chronicling from when Joe and Katherine Jackson first met, to the Jackson 5 reunion at the 25th Anniversary Special for Motown Records. When Joe Jackson first met Katherine in Chicago, we was a handsome man with a dream of going to Hollywood and being an actor, or a boxer, or something important. Those dreams were derailed when Katherine became pregnant with their first child/money-maker, Jackie. Many more kids follow, and Joe and Katherine ends up in Gary, Indiana, and becomes a total cock because he has to work in a steel mill to support 73 kids.
Joe eventually gets his 52 sons together to form the Jackson 5. He beats his sons for messing up the dance routines before they even play their first gig. The Jacksons of course end up being a worldwide smash, and the beatings pay off. Tito and Jermaine play instruments, while Marlon and Jackie act as pretty useless back up singers. Mike Jackson is the vocalist, the obvious star from day one.
In this new post-Mike Jackson world, it is important to note that Mike as a kid (at least in the movie) he really enjoyed this stuff. Sure, he eventually ended up a warped adult, but I think it's a stretch when people say he had "NO childhood." He had a pretty bitchin' childhood that he enjoyed, his dad just happened to be a raving lunatic that loved handin' out beatings. I'm not saying that it probably wasn't hard for the kid, but keep in mind he rarely strayed from the spotlight as a grown man. It was simultaneously what he wanted and a curse that could never be escaped. Not bad for a poor kid from Gary.
The mini-series is easily the best and only mini-series I've ever watched. It is constant, edge-of-your-seat entertainment with hardly a lull in action. There is special place in hell for Joe Jackson, and a special place in Heaven for Tito.
The Pixies are just ok, at best. Just looking at this picture makes me want to punch all of them in the face. They're so smarmy. I think they can be given credit for inventing pretentious indie-rock in the modern era. It's the subtle kind of pretentious, not the BJM-psycho kind.
I watched this movie recently while having spirits with my wife. This movie was made in 2002, whereby it was made in a post-9/11 world. Makes you think. Boat Trip is quite mind blowing, but it's not the worst movie ever made. The Garbage Pail Kids Movie is the worst movie ever made.
The movie is about two buddies (Cuba Gooding Jr. and Horatio Sanz) who unknowingly get booked on a gay cruise (as if you didn't know). Plenty of gay jokes and innuendo ensue throughout. As homophobic as the movie seemed at times, there also existed an ass-backwards message of tolerance. Or maybe I was just drunk, I don't know.
The movie couldn't survive with just dudes, so in the middle they put in a stranded Swedish bikini team to be rescued and boarded. The bikini girls come with a no-nonsense muscular female instructor, and the writers couldn't decide whether was she was a lesbian or not. Horatio Sanz ends up accidentally going down on the instructor woman, if you can believe it. They both learn life lessons as a result, or something.
Ultimately, I think you should watch this movie. It's about a boat trip gone awry. There is a lot of outdated gay baiting. Cuba Gooding Jr. makes lots of surprised faces, and ends up wearing a dress at the end of the movie. Bottom line, if you want to see Horatio Sanz's boner through his shorts, see this movie.
Old Dan Fucker doesn't do much these days, aside from pulling his sled back and forth from his grandmother's house, located in southern Colorado.
Back and forth, pulling the sled while carrying a sack of broken umbrella parts. He might as well be in jail.
Ok, last one, promise.
Remember the kid from parts one and two, the main one with the Beat It jacket? Ok, so prior to his lip sync performance to Billie Jean, he and a friend did a lip sync performance to "The Girl is Mine" in the school library for the older kids. I just happened to be there because my mom often volunteered at the library, and I was there for one reason or another.
So the kid with the Beat It jacket was doing his thing as the Mike impersonator, and his friend (Paul McCartney) was wearing this regular yellow jacket, because that was the best they could do. They were both wearing sunglasses, but only one cool jacket. At the end of the performance, the kids in the library clapped and cheered. I had never before heard the song, and I recall (I'm being serious) thinking how that a single girl couldn't mathematically be both of theirs, and that the argument was inherently flawed.
I don't know, I think it's funny. They were in the library wearing sunglasses while lip synching to The Girl is Mine, and the one kid only had the stupid yellow jacket, and the kids cheered in the end, and all that? If only I could bottle and sell it.
Don't ever work with a record label or venue that asks you to SELL TICKETS FOR THEM. That's an instant sign that the person and/or their organization is full of shit. They're bullies, and they don't give a shit whether you live or die. If a venue/label is legit, they will treat you like an artist and not a door-to-door salesman. Assholes. (Them, not you).
One morning during my 3rd grade year, my teacher Mrs. Oberdorfer was trying to teach our class about food & fitness. She had written on the chalkboard for us to copy, "Food gives us energy. Why do we need energy?" My friend Chris instead wrote down, "Food gives us shit. Why do we need shit?" He showed it to me, and we both laughed up a storm. Our teacher then starting walking amongst the desks of the classroom, and Chris panicked and asked for my eraser. I refused to let him have it at first, just to be a jerk. He took his paper and hurriedly put it inside his desk as the teacher was passing. After she had moved past his desk, I let him use my eraser. It was pretty damn funny.
While on the playground during recess in 2nd grade, I had a conversation with this kid named Kenny Reece while crawling through those cement-tube things. I informed him that I was a churchgoer, to which he retorted, "Church sucks!" I asked him what he did on Sundays instead of going to church, and among the activities he listed was, "Do some science."
I always wondered what he meant by that. I always pictured him leafing through a science-book, surrounded by beakers and such.
I forgot to mention something in Part I.
That same kid with the Mike Jackson jacket got to MEET the man himself. I don't know how or where, but I saw the damn picture; the kid and his sister, sitting on the couch with Mike. Keep in mind that they didn't have Photoshop in 1984, so it was as real as real gets. The picture was inside of a card of sorts that Mike autographed.
I remember sitting on the bus, staring at the picture with my breath taken away. I couldn't believe what I was looking at. I touched where Mike had autographed the card, not believing that he had actually written where my hand now was. I also wondered to myself whether or not Mike had used the toilet wherever they were, and if he had left little pee droplets on the toilet seat after going.
I wish I could go back in time and get more answers as to why and how, but that's all I got. A memory of my little mind being blown.
Mike Jackson was the first pop icon I was ever enthralled with. It all started one summer afternoon in (what had to be) 1984. I was at some family gathering (somewhere that my shoulders got badly sunburnt), and my big sister and two older cousins were watching MTV inside (who-on-Earth-knows) house. The video for Billie Jean was on, and I was instantly taken by the sound and imagery. "Why does the sidewalk have lights when he walks?," I asked wide-eyed. "Because he's a star!," my sister replied matter-of-factly. Thus, the brief but impacting infatuation began.
That Autumn I began the 1st grade. It seemed like every morning, all we would talk about on the bus ride to school was Mike Jackson. While at church, we discussed in my Sunday School class for three consecutive weeks that while Mike Jackson the person was good, his music was wrong and evil. At school, this boy in my sister's grade had a Mike Jackson coat, the one from the Beat It video. I would just stare at it excitedly, wishing I could have a jacket like that. The boy, along with a friend, did a lip-sync/dance number to Billie Jean for a school talent contest that year. I thought it was the greatest thing I'd ever seen. Even before it happened, out of excitement I kept "casually" reading aloud the words Billie Jean from the program, so that my family and neighbors in the gymnasium audience would know how cool I was. The next day at school, the boy and his friend were walking past the 1st grade lockers when a girl in my class asked them, "Where'd ya get that coat?" They proceeded to laugh, while mimicking what she had just stupidly asked. I wanted to be them in the worst way.
I grew up in a Baptist household where my mom and dad did not approve of popular music. (They lightened up over the years, but it was BAD in the 80's - get it? BAD?) It was difficult to keep pretending that I didn't like Mike Jackson, but that's what I did, absurd as it sounds. Like, I made it a POINT to say I didn't like him, just to be safe. That Christmas, I wrote a secret list to Santa, in which I asked for the following:
1. Mikal Jacksen Cote
2. Micel Jakson Soks
3. Mickel Jaaxzan Gluve
(Bonus: I also remember picturing in my mind what it would be like to get the actual Mike Jackson, the person, wrapped in a large present).
To my horror, my mom found and read the list. To her credit, she didn't overreact, I think she was just confused by the whole thing.
Unlike Corey Feldman, my interest in Mike Jackson faded after a short time. But it's important for me to remember with his passing the influence he had over me as a child. Big ups, Jacko.
Go figure, right? With the demise of MySpace and crappy usability of Facebook music pages, I think it's time to bring back the old-fashioned website. I paid good fucking money for this thing, I might as well make it the primary source for news and information.Fucking social networking sites.
So yeah, you can try before you (don't) buy, as all the EG albums are available for free from Infinite Number of Sounds Recording Company. Especially if you don't know who I am, you can go here and preview some songs before you fill up your hard drive with album goodness.
COMFEST - Saturday, June 27th - 11:30 AM - Solar Stage
EG at 10:30! Derek Stewart art.
Saturday, March 14th
INFINITE NUMBER OF SOUNDS FINALE
All Go Signs
Infinite Number of Sounds
To Box With Man