When I was a kid and would hear "Simply Irresistible" by Robert Palmer on the radio, the line where he says "She's so fine, there's no telling where the money went," I would think "She's so fine, there's no telling where Mahoney went," as in Mahoney from Police Academy, because he disappeared after the 4th movie.
5th and 9th grade were both difficult years for me. I was entering middle school and high school respectively, and I was the smallest person the kids in higher grades had ever seen. A lot of times you hear stories of people going from school to school, going from oldest to youngest, and lamenting the fact that they were "no longer cool." That wasn't even the case for me. Being an older kid in 4th and 8th grade just made things more manageable. It went from "below average" to "hell on Earth."
5th grade was tough, but 9th grade fucking sucked, because all the raging hormones were now circulating throughout the boys. Older guys who I previously knew as "Okay" were now vicious monsters. On my first day, this boy who I used to sit next to and talk with on the bus shoved me and called me a faggot as he charged like a bull through the cafeteria. I was already emotionally exhausted by my middle school years, and now it was becoming plainly obvious that I had leapt out of the frying pan into the fire. Meanwhile, my parents were wondering why I just couldn't perform better in school, because I was such a smart boy.
One 9th grade afternoon while waiting in the foyer for the school bus, this older boy (oh, let's call him "Gertrude,") squeezed my neck in a faux-massage, but did it with such force as to obviously hurt me, and I swung back with my hand and hit his face. He then grabbed my neck and drove me to the ground, and slammed my head into the wall. Moments later, he seemed to calm down and he apologized, much to my bewilderment. After getting on the bus, a helpful friend remarked that my neck had two huge red marks on it.
Later that year in the lunchroom, a boy I knew asked me to get him a plate of pickle slices to eat while I was up walking around. As I gathered up and plated a big pile of pickles, a lunchroom attendant remarked to me, "Those pickles better not end up on the floor." I then dropped the plate in front of the boy, and some of the pickle juice splashed up and hit Gertrude, who was sitting next to him, in the face. Gertrude then stood up and grabbed the plate, told me "come here for a second," approached me and then proceeded to dump the pickles over my head in front of the entire lunchroom. The attendant witnessed it all and ordered him to pick up the pickles, and Gertrude readily complied, as if it was most certainly worth the effort.
So who were my friends? Shitty 9th grade boys. They weren't going to jump to my defense. They were going to smirk and make jokes later. I remember one of them immediately suggesting they nickname me "pickle juice." The other helpful friend from the bus noted to me that it would have been much worse, had I not partially blocked the plate of pickles in self-defense.
After lunch, I went upstairs and saw Gertrude getting a half-lecture from a bewildered contemporary. "He just dumped pickles on a kid half his size!" he remarked to someone nearby, as Gertrude proceeded to (inaudibly to me) defend himself. I realize in retrospect that Gertrude was a total loser, and dumping pickles on a little kid's head is something that any girls watching probably wouldn't dig. I did my best to avoid Gertrude from then on, but he was just one example of the type of person I would endure throughout my freshman year. By my sophomore year I started to grow, so then I grew my hair, and became a Kurt Cobain clone. I failed my sophomore year, and dropped out of school at 17. These things happen.
I suppose in Trump's America, I'd be equally to blame for Picklegate, what with the splashing pickle juice and all. That makes me sad for the kids. Hope you parents look out for them. They must have it really fucking tough nowadays. And Christ, we didn't have guns back then. Lucky for Gertrude.
Many years ago, a mime ridiculed me at Sea World. In front of a large audience for the sea lion show, he followed closely behind me while I was walking to my seat, and did a "I'm a sourpuss teenager" impression.
You always have ideas for how you'd react when a mime makes fun of you, but when it actually happens, you freeze up. I hate that son of a bitch.
It was the Summer of 1994, and I was working as a dishwasher at Mama Rosa's restaurant at Sea World. I had gotten to know my co-workers pretty well, and had even gotten high for the first time with my supervisor's younger brother. I had also gotten drunk for the first time at a party thrown by one of my co-workers, and that was not counting the time I got buzzed in the back of the dishwashing area on the beers I stole from the restaurant fridge. My hair was dyed a purplish-red, and I was picking up where the recently deceased Kurt Cobain had left off fashion-wise. I was finally getting the taste of freedom away from my oppressive home-life, and my family was fighting it tooth and nail.
One night my parents were going to be out of town, and my co-workers had wanted to gather someplace to play basketball at night. My parents had predictably said "no" for whatever reason; I don't recall whether I had already been in trouble with the police yet that Summer, but my trust with them was beginning to wear thin. My older sister, who I do love, was a total NARC back then, so I couldn't sway her favor either. Out of frustration, I decided to go walk around the neighborhood and smoke cigarettes after my sister was asleep.
I had ventured from my house in Aurora over to the nearby city of Twinsburg. I was walking and smoking with a soured expression on my face, when I heard a girl's voice call out "Hey kid!," or something to that effect. I walked over to an open garage, and it was this girl I knew from Twinsburg named Becky, along with this hippie girl who I had never met. "Oh hey, it's Pete," Becky said as I entered into the garage light. Becky was this blonde cutie with a nose-ring who I had met through this girl from their neighborhood named Desiree, whom I fancied.
The first time I met Desiree was at the marina down my street that essentially acted as the dividing line between Aurora and Twinsburg. She was with her friends in the back of a pickup truck drinking beers. I was with my friend Kenny when we met, and they gave us beers which we both delicately sipped. The neighborhood kids from Twinsburg seemed to grow up a little faster than us. They were more urbane, and the boys were generally larger than guys like myself and Kenny were. I got to know Desiree a little bit from there, we would occasionally see each other at the marina. I would talk to her on the phone, and hang out in her backyard. Despite my cool facade, I was still and awkward kid, and so I'm not really sure how she saw me.
One day we were hanging out in a group at the marina, and this guy from my school named Doug was there. I was no match for Doug. He was a tough guy, and had recently transitioned from a metalhead to a Jim Morrison wannabe. He was much bigger and a year older, probably better looking than me at the time, and had all the confidence I lacked. If we had been on the beach at the marina, he'd of kicked sand in my face. He was sitting on a bench with Desiree, grabbing at her fingers and laughing. And then he started kissing her. I was crushed. I casually asked her later if she liked him, and she said "I don't know." I think I might have kept trying for a little while thereafter, but resigned myself eventually.
Back in the garage, the ladies and I were hanging out and having a nice time chatting. They complained how they were "Jonesing" for drugs, a word a figured out using context clues to mean "craving." The hippie gal (whose name has long escaped me) spoke in a wistful manner about wanting to do "line after line" of cocaine, and they were both digging around Becky's purse trying to find specks of marijuana that might be floating around at the bottom of the bag. They eventually founds some tiny little bits, and Becky put them in a bowl and took a lame hit that produced a tiny amount of smoke. The hippie gal was playfully incensed.
At about 1:30 AM, they asked me if I wanted to go to the Dunkin' Donuts in Solon with them. I knew if my sister woke up and found me missing it'd be my ass, but I decided I ultimately didn't care, and so I hopped in a car and took off with them. On the way to Dunkin' we listened to Green Day, and I was instantly smitten. "Dookie" had come out a few months before, but I was only familiar with the singles at that point. I had taped "Longview" off the radio, and listened to it incessantly. I remember hearing the song "Pulling Teeth," and I thought it was the best thing I'd ever heard.
I had been to Dunkin' Donuts before with some of my friends from Aurora, but I wasn't quite the regular there that I'd eventually become. They ordered coffees, and encouraged me to do the same. I was hesitant, but they told me to load it with cream and sugar, and it totally worked for me. We hung out and talked until about 5 AM, and then they drove me back to my house. They wished me luck with not getting in trouble, and I think the hippie gal called me "sweetie." I snuck back to the house, successfully undetected.
Later on when I saw Desiree, I told her about hanging out with Becky and the hippie girl. "Yeah, they were both really 'Jonesing'," I said, brimming with confidence.
Religion should be taught to children at a young age, because there's nothing more beneficial to a person than telling them "You're going to live forever" during the early stages of their cognitive development.
Lost in my main choice of Late-70’s NYC as my number one choice for “Music/Art/Cultural time and place where I’d most want to live and I’m probably not thinking this whole thing through” fantasy, is Los Angeles, 1980. But I want to see it through X’s eyes, before Darby died, and before the punk rock gangs and beach skinheads invaded the scene. I want to hang out with my wife in X’s apartment, writing, playing with their toys, smoking and drinking cheap liquor.
Man, that’s a small window of time.
Jesus, why hasn't anyone in DC opened a hardcore punk-themed vegan restaurant called "The Straight Vege?" I swear, I'm the only one with any goddamn sense around here.
I had a dream last night that I was standing in front of large crowd, verbally addressing them on a number of things, while holding my wife's hand. I only remember the last thing I told them, which was "And from this day forward, whenever someone asks me 'What time is it?,' I will as often as possible reply with 'Time to get a watch.'" We then both walked away hand in hand, as the crowd erupted in a voracious applause.
I think it's going to be a good day.
The upcoming Electric Grandmother album "Cancelled" will be 17 tracks, clocking in at just under 43 minutes, set for a September release. We scoured the globe looking for someone with all the goods, the guts, and the technology to master the album, and we found it in Benjamin Schurr, so blast all your invisible thoughts and prayers to him as he undertakes this mission, over and out for now, panda 🐼
While we all know that TV preachers are con-artists, I thought there were different levels of con-artistry. For example, I always thought someone like Pat Robertson at least believed his own bullshit. But when flipping through the channels the other day, I saw him saying that we must "pray for God to intervene and save Trump from all of this," so now I presume that after work he goes home and has sex with any number of things.
This movie takes place in the 50's, before there were the type of restaurants you'd go to. There was a man who knew about a great restaurant, where two brothers were making food in a way that he'd never know. He decided that he didn't want to sell metal shake parts anymore, and so he moved and became The Hamburger Man.
The brothers didn't like him, because he was making too much money, and they wanted him to leave. He decided that he was going to do it anyway, and so he opened a lot of restaurants. Then they got mad, because he wanted to do different milkshakes. He met the woman that told him to do it, and they got married. She was married to someone else.
In conclusion, the brothers eventually got money from The Hamburger Man, because he knew he had to do it. They were mad at him, because he took their name and made his, and then he didn't care. There were a lot of things that he did different that they didn't like.
In conclusion, The Hamburger Man made a lot of money that was never his, and then told them they couldn't have any more money, and the man almost died. The man came to see him with flowers, but then they were mad, because they didn't like it. The end of the movie said that he was rich.
On this day, which is our one year new album conceptionaversary, we'd are pleased to announce the impending arrival of The Electric Grandmother's "Cancelled," the harrowing story of man who descends into madness following the cancellation of his favorite cop-drama series. We conceived the idea on the way home from what we deemed a sub-standard performance by us in Philadelphia, deciding that we both needed some new direction and inspiration. It's one of those things where you usually wake up the next morning and say, "We're not going to REALLY going to do that, it's stupid," but we instead said "We're really going to do this BECAUSE it's stupid."
So here we are, one year later, and our monstrous creation is coming to fruition. We're filming some accompanying short films to coincide with the release, I'll let Donna Jo decide when she wants to explain all that. It's a bit of a 90-degree turn for us, both in theme and soon with performance, and we're both really excited about it. We hope you'll dig it, and if you don't, you can go to hell fuck.
One slight change of plans - we were originally going to unveil this for Columbus on August 5th at the Tree Bar as part of Weird Paul Appreciation Night, but we've ditched that idea, as we need more time to finish, and besides, it's Weird Paul Petroskey's night. Us and Catscan! are still planning to come up and do some WP covers at that gig, but the official Columbus album release show will be on Saturday, September 23rd at the Big Room Bar, with Catscan! and others TBA. And we made a point to:
a) Not schedule the same weekend as Riot Fest/Jawbreaker
b) Not schedule during what would potentially be a night game for OSU
So we don't want to hear your shit. More dates and cities TBA, love me and DJ, and all of us at Electric Grandmother International Corporation.
One of my favorite childhood memories is of watching the Muppet Show while putting tape on my eyes.
My first thought after waking up from my dream this morning: "It's too bad that when Godzilla suplexed King Kong onto the pile of explosives, it only blew up the front of the White House lawn."