So after that last post I figured I put up something a little more uplifting. It’s not for you, it’s for me.
Sacramento is lucky to have almost always had an incredibly lively punk rock scene. There are tons of bands playing tons of shows at tons of venues… Well, tons of bars. Look at it this way; you could live in Santa Cruz, which at any given moment has only a handful of viable punk bands. Granted there are problems with the scene in Sac. A painful lack of venues where anyone under 21 can go see a show and the city’s seemingly complete unwillingness to support the creation of said venues. I guess they would rather have their kids doing drugs and fucking rather than going to see live music… and doing drugs and fucking. The other thing which I believe holds us back as a scene is the disparate sects within our scene. We’re all friends we all see each other at shows, buy each other drinks and talk about what’s going on and what’s coming up. However, there is an unspoken and nearly unacknowledged gap between all of us. Nobody hates each other… I don’t think… but it’s still there. I think part of that comes from a lack of a central venue for everyone to rally around… The other part… I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s that as musicians/artists a lot of us are socially inept creatures who (albeit unwittingly) make themselves somewhat unapproachable. I know that it’s something that I do and its something that I’m always working on.
Now, regarding The Wu-Tang Clan. Here is rap group which set the standard for hip-hop for years to come. They worked as a unit. However, they were still very much individuals. They had a game plan and it worked incredibly well for them. They “formed like Voltron” and once the group had established their popularity they were free (and encouraged) to work individually. Then there was The Killer Bees. Again , once Wu Tang was at the peak of there popularity they were able to help their friends up the ladder.

Now I’m not saying that we don’t help each other out I know that it happens. What I’m saying is we’re lacking focus in regard success of the scene itself…. Maybe I’m just saying I’M lacking focus… Just thinking aloud here.

Or

Who Invited God To The Party?

Warning! Parentheses heavy post.

I get older and I hate things more. That seems to be the general rule. I’ve always been a bit a bit on the “You and your friends can go fuck yourself” side of the fence. However, much to my surprise as I get older I seem to get more crotchety, more impatient and climb up way higher on my soapbox. Yet ironically I also seem to be far less willing to do anything to affect change in regard to the things that bother me so deeply. Ahhh, the sweet fucking stinging embrace of our lady of ironic justice.

Things that have climbed deep inside of my craw and laid festering eggs:

1) When the fuck did rock shows get so safe and therefore FUCKING BOOOORING!? Allow me to clarify. I am not talking about the various hardcore shows that go on at the uncountable bars in the area. I’m talking about all ages shows. The shows where kids are in attendance and get the opportunity to witness how visceral and dangerous rock and roll can really be. There was once a time when a punk rock show was NOT the kind of place where parents were comfortable dropping off their kids. It was this kind of environment which helped to ensure that the bulk of the attendees were tenacious little fucks who were going to see live music no matter what kind of bodily risk was involved.
2) Who invited god to the party? Cause it sure as shit wasn’t me. God does not rock. Christianity is not edgy. In fact, organized religion is as close as it comes to an antithesis to rock and roll. IF rock and roll had tenants (which it certainly doesn’t because it’s NOT an organized religion) one of the top on the list would be; “thou shall not worship ANY idols within the church of rock and roll (unless its Lemmy)”. Anytime religion becomes involved in rock and roll in ANY way it should be immediately recognized for what it is (a slick recruitment campaign) and dismissed.
3) Drummers who break down their drums on stage… Fuck me… Look douche bag, I know you’re desperate for attention and you need to milk that stage time so that every lonely insecure woman in the venue will have plenty of time to recognize that you the drummer (and a shitty one at that). But get your fucking shit off the stage. There are other bands here and all we want to do is set up, play, break down and go home so we can watch TV/read comic books/get high/play video games et. all.
4) Ok, here’s the deal; rock and roll has been milked fucking dry. There is nothing new for you to do so stop acting like the horrible little bands you listen to are part of something new. Stop trying to emulate all those shitty musical outfits you love who spend more time applying eyeliner than they do actually listening to (or even playing) music. Just because you have hair in your face does not make you entertaining or worth watching.

Oh, I could go on forever but its time to close up the shop, go home and watch TV/read comic books/get high/play video games et. all.

Discuss.

(addendumB)

I just reread this and… Wow! Thats a spicy meatball. I swear I’m not really that/this angry. I am not going to take this down or edit it in anyway (that would really make Kerouac mad). I wrote it so I must have meant it in some shape or form. However, I would like to make it clear that this was NOT intended to be an indictment  of ANY band in the area. The only bands that I actually see and hang out with I know and like. Otherwise I wouldnt be around them… That does not mean that their arent bands or venues in the area that fit the bill.

I kill people. It’s how I make my money. It’s not a malicious endeavor and it never has been. It wasn’t the first time when I was fifteen years old and the girl next door paid me fifty dollars to smother her father in his sleep and it wasn’t yesterday when I was paid five hundred thousand dollars string up a 64 year old rotary member and leave him to bleed to death while he watched his intestines change color on the floor. Some folks just have to get their message across with precise and intense flavor. Most of my clients are burning with blind rage but lack the intestinal fortitude to get the job done and the grey matter required to keep from getting caught. Most of my marks are completely oblivious to the fact that they have done anything wrong let alone something so heinous as to drive a perceived loved one to pay to have them killed.

“I had no idea she cared that I routinely and savagely penetrated our daughter while she slept in the next room”.

This type of vocation has the tendency to in every way dictate how you lead your life. You may or may not be surprised to find that most women are somewhat turned off when they find that you have ruthlessly beaten over fifteen men about the head and neck until they vacated our plane of existence. Needless to say killing people can put a slight damper on your social life. Woman and men alike have a propensity to make character judgments based on your chosen profession. I personally find the concept ludicrous. Ones choice of employment is entirely inconsequential in my eyes and has no bearing on their personality. I cannot make any appraisal of a woman who works as a secretary that I cannot about a woman who performs abortions for a living. They are both just doing their jobs so that can get home and get on with the things they truly love like crocheting and sewing garments from human flesh. It’s a crazy world filled with crazy people and I’m trying to kill some of them.

I push the accelerator down toward the floor as the engine of my Chrysler hums in front of me. I slide into the corners low and fast. I instruct the interface to begin playing Highway To Hell at eighty-eight decibels. That’s high speed, life risking drive volume. Rattles the bones and awakens the senses. The car silently does as it is instructed, which is nice. The first thing I do when ever I am going to be in any extended contact with most modern interfaces is to disable to the voice response unit. Whatever asshole thought computers should have the holier than thou condescending tone that they all do should be castrated in Madison Square Garden and left as a warning. The opening chords to Highway To Hell slam into my cochlear nerve as I accelerate into a turn. No stop signs, speed limit.

The highway opens up into the coast curving along its rocky edge. I watch the moonlight reflected in the pacific ocean as I asses the concept of being Shot Down In Flames. By the time Richard Ramirez’s favorite track begins I’m pulling up to the gates of one of the largest homes in California’s wine country. This is home of Elvin McCarthy. It is nauseatingly massive and gratuitous. McCarthy is one of the the richest men in the world which invariably means he will be paying me to kill some other inordinately rich gentleman. The rule of thumb seems to be that rich assholes tend to kill other rich assholes, which doesn’t bother me in the slightest.

I get out of the car and make my way to the biometrics scanner. I will have to stand here in front of a computer that costs more than most people will make in a year and endure a litany of tests before the com is even turned on and McCarthy is alerted to my presence. God I hate the twenty-first century. Voice recognition, an infrared scan of the vein structure in my hands, retinal scan and finally a facial thermo gram. I’m not sure what bothers me more, that I have to stand here and deal with this shit while McCarthy is undoubtedly serviced by an army of fleshless sex dwarves or that he has all the data to check these scans against. Regardless I pass with flying colors and the com crackles to life.

“Evans! Glad you’re here. Come on up.”

I walk into the foyer of McCarthy’s home and fight the urge to turn on my heels and walk right back out the door. The man has massive amounts of money and loves to flaunt it. Like my father told me before I watched him gut and skin a stray cat on our back porch; “Nobody likes a show off”.

McCarthy’s deep raspy voice echoes off the Italian marble floor as he makes his way down the curved staircase.

“Evan’s I’m so glad you could take time out of you’re busy day to meet with me.”

“What can I say Mr. McCarthy, I love helping people.”

“Don’t give me that shit. You love money. And please, call me Elvin.”

McCarthy steps down onto the ground floor and shakes my hand in his meaty paw.

“Let us adjourn to the study.”

The walls of McCarthy’s study are adorned with priceless paintings. Paintings which I had thought were on display in places like the Louvre. How foolish of me to think that when I was looking at a Da Vinci painting I was really looking at a Da Vinci painting.

“You’re a whiskey man right Evans?”

“Yes sir I am.”

McCarthy pours us each a drink and sits down across from me.

“How’s business Evans?”

“Well fortunately for me people still have hatred burning in their dark little hearts.”

Despite the fact that this is some of the finest whiskey to ever cross my pallet I am growing increasingly impatient. There’s nothing I hate more than when these rich fuckbags try to act as if we are anything more than business associates. Sometimes I wish we didn’t even have that connection. Unfortunately the money in killing for the middle class is not enough to even begin cover my cocaine habit.

“What’s the job McCarthy?”

McCarthy dips into his chest pocket, withdraws a photo and slides it across the mahogany table.

“Jesus McCarthy you don’t fuck around. Bishop is a big fucking fish. This is not going to be cheap.”

McCarthy reaches behind the chair which supports his wiry frame and produces what looks to be a deflated and wet red beach ball. He throws it on the table and it lands with a nauseating plop. I feel moisture spatter across the tops of my hands.

“What the fuck, may I ask is this?”

“This, my son is the stomach of an infant white rhino.”

I had heard of and seen many pieces of evidence which supported the claim that McCarthy was one of those morbidly wealthy rich men you read so much about on the internets. I was not aware however of the extent of his sick fuckery and penchant for meaningless and horrific displays such as this one.

“Get this thing the fuck away from me.”

“Oh you are going to want to become quite familiar with this particular stomach my boy. Within the walls of these viscous and rotting innards lies your payment.”

I bolted up out of my seat and made for the door.

“You are one sick and twisted fuck McCarthy. I will have nothing to do with this. You and you’re disembodied endangered stomach had better stay the fuck away from me.”

“He has my daughter.”

I keep walking.

“Couldn’t give any less of a fuck.”

“Two-Million dollars Evans.”

I stop dead in my tracks, something I would later punch myself repeatedly in the groin for. I walk back over to McCarthy and do my best to shoot him a chilling glare however I’m sure it couldn’t have frozen ice. I snatch up the stomach and struggle to keep my gag reflex at bay as it squishes between my fingers. I spin on my heels and make for the door before some other sort of fuckery rears its ugly head.

“I don’t do recovery McCarthy. You want your girl back send one of you castrato goons to get her.”

I give him the finger over my shoulder just before I close the door behind me.

“I’ll show myself out fuckhead.”

It wasn’t really a bar per say. More of a box with booze in it. The walls were permeated with the stench of pathetic dying souls spending hours upon days staring into the bottom of a glass. Hope had left this area long ago. Hope cannot gain a foothold on floors which have been on the receiving end of blood and vomit so many times. In all reality I should not have been here. My heart told me to turn and leave. My soul clambered to escape from my asshole but my mind had other plans. Places like this always fascinated me in an entirely morbid way. What makes death, sorrow and failure stink the way it does? More importantly does my fascination come from the awareness that this is precisely the kind of place I will end up?

I slid onto a stool and lit a smoke. The bartender positioned herself in front of me. She was smoking as well. However I was not eight months pregnant. Her eyes were as dead the fetus which pushed against the inner wall of her womb. I ordered a well whiskey. Had I been in the Midwest I would have made it a rail whiskey. I’ve seen enough blank stares from bartenders in Baltimore to know that they don’t speak that left coast jive out there. She poured an ungodly amount of whiskey into a glass and narrowly avoided dropping her cigarette ash into my booze. I took my drink and sauntered over to the juke box. Horrible little bars like this particular shit hole inexplicably have the greatest juke boxes. If you’re going to drink yourself to death there might as well be some good tunes playing. At least that’s what my old man said to me the day before he gutted the mail man with a bread knife. I dropped in a few quarters and kicked back the rest of my drink. I could feel it burning a hole in my esophagus as it slid down to my stomach to do battle with my soft parts. D4, Got To Give It Up by Thin Lizzy. A6, Hot Blue And Righteous by ZZTop. B9, Whammer Jammer by The J. Geils band. Three bands whose legacy does not do justice to their true past. J. Geils being the best example. Before they sullied their name with the atrocious pop shit pile that was Centerfold they had self respect, they had balls. The J. Geils band played white boy blues based rock and roll harder and faster than the Stones with and endless supply of the best drugs. Yet for most folks they will forever be na na nuh-na na na. Fucking tragic. Shitty speakers cracked and buzzed to life as I walked back to my stool and ordered another whiskey from the walking death incubator.

Perhaps it was the effect of the shit booze I had been drinking all night. Whatever it was I didn’t hear him walk up behind me until it was too late. He had the shaft pushed up against my kidney. I casually turned to see the drunken mad man holding me at bay. His grizzled beard retained chunks of food which may have been there for hours even days.

“Don’t fucking move kid”

Even it I wanted to I don’t think I could have. I was paralyzed by the stunning stench leaking from his mangled maw. The smell said words his mouth couldn’t,

“I hide rat carcasses in my mouth so my mother can’t take them away from me again”.

I looked into his eyes and found the usual. Pain, desperation, a deep longing for rightfully illegal sexual acts. But what if anything did he want from me?

“What can I do for you old timer? There’s no reason to bring your piece into this.”

“I can’t help it kid. It talks to me. It wants me to do things. And I can’t FUCKING LEAVE IT AT HOME!”

I looked down to inspect the talking firearm and found something that in hindsight was none too surprising. There I found this crazy sweating old man’s discolored crooked cock pushed into my belly. I looked back up at the manic old man and I could see the palpable confusion and fear in his eyes. I turned back to the bartender and ordered another drink. It was going to be a long night.

Couple fights to name baby Metallica.

STOCKHOLM, Sweden - Metallica may be a cool name for a heavy metal band, but a Swedish couple is struggling to convince officials it is also suitable for a baby girl.

Those Swedes sure do love the metal.