For the many thousands of you who entered the "$10 Bonsai Pool" back in January, we now find ourselves at the three month mark and an update on my progress seems only proper.
There were a handful of un-believers who's wagers had me killing-off the tree within the first few months--or weeks, in some cases. I won't mention any names, but your lack of faith in me did not go unmarked!
Rest assured, YOU WILL NEVER SEE THAT $10 BILL!
And as if to rub it in, the Treasury Department has just issued new tens-- and they're very smart looking!
It is with great pleasure (and no small amount of pride) that I report the bonsai tree is ALIVE and THRIVING!
For those of you who would have any doubts, you may go to my profile page and look at pictures section. There you will find an image of the tree looking quite robust and holding a copy of this past Sunday's STAR TRIBUNE.
(By the way, my bonsai wanted me to mention that he found the Strib's coverage of the University of Minnesota Stadium debate pandering and short-sighted. It seems he would much rather see the money spent on an arboretum. I tried to explain to him that, "politics is the allocation of scarce resources." He told me to, "shut the fuck up" and get him another beer.)
Semper Fi Bonsai!
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
A SHORTY AND SOME SHOWS... (FROM APRIL 21, 2006)
A very short work of fiction, "SATURDAY NIGHT." by Brian David Shuey
"What was THAT all about?"
"What?"
"The look that women gave you?"
"She gave me a look?"
"Yeah, that red-head that just walked by." "Do you know her?"
"Ummmm..."
"Well she certainly seems to know YOU."
"I still don't know who you're talking about."
"That RED-HEADED SLUT that just breezed by us!" "She gave ME a look, too."
"What kind of look?"
"I don't know, a red-headed slut kind of look. Like she knew something."
"Knew something about WHAT?"
"That's what I'd like YOU to tell ME!"
"Listen, it's crowded as fuck in here, I can't even figure out who it is you're talking about."
"You're not a very good liar, you know that?"
"Oh Jesus, not this again?"
"Not WHAT again?"
"Listen, I'm going to the bar to get a drink."
"Say hello to your little red-headed friend!"
"You know what, FUCK YOU!"
DIE ELECTRIC! SHOWS NEXT WEEK:
THURSDAY, APRIL 27: UNIVERSITY OF WISCONSIN, STOUT (w/ THE CARDINAL SIN)
FRIDAY, APRIL 28: THE TURF CLUB, ST. PAUL (for THUNDER IN THE VALLEY'S CD RELEASE)
SATURDAY, APRIL 29: THE VARSITY THEATER, MPLS, MN (FOR THE "EYES AND HANDS" FESTIVAL)
"What was THAT all about?"
"What?"
"The look that women gave you?"
"She gave me a look?"
"Yeah, that red-head that just walked by." "Do you know her?"
"Ummmm..."
"Well she certainly seems to know YOU."
"I still don't know who you're talking about."
"That RED-HEADED SLUT that just breezed by us!" "She gave ME a look, too."
"What kind of look?"
"I don't know, a red-headed slut kind of look. Like she knew something."
"Knew something about WHAT?"
"That's what I'd like YOU to tell ME!"
"Listen, it's crowded as fuck in here, I can't even figure out who it is you're talking about."
"You're not a very good liar, you know that?"
"Oh Jesus, not this again?"
"Not WHAT again?"
"Listen, I'm going to the bar to get a drink."
"Say hello to your little red-headed friend!"
"You know what, FUCK YOU!"
DIE ELECTRIC! SHOWS NEXT WEEK:
THURSDAY, APRIL 27: UNIVERSITY OF WISCONSIN, STOUT (w/ THE CARDINAL SIN)
FRIDAY, APRIL 28: THE TURF CLUB, ST. PAUL (for THUNDER IN THE VALLEY'S CD RELEASE)
SATURDAY, APRIL 29: THE VARSITY THEATER, MPLS, MN (FOR THE "EYES AND HANDS" FESTIVAL)
FUNNY THING... (FROM APRIL 19, 2006)
So I'm sitting on my front steps waiting for a ride the other night when a dude comes up and asks if he can join me.
"Why not?" I say.
Now, nothing he would do in the next five minutes would in any way bother me, but in light of his parting comment I couldn't help finding the whole interaction rather amusing. In that brief span of time he would:
-ask me for a money (misdemeanor- panhandling)
-enjoy an alcoholic beverage on a public street (misdemeanor- open container)
-attempt to sell me marijuana (misdemeanor- drug offense)
-attempt to sell three passersby marijuana (3 more drug offenses)
-loiter (misdemeanor)
-litter (misdemeanor)
- Attempt to sell three passersby memory cards for their cell phones. (Possession and attempted sale of stolen goods)
(To be fair, perhaps I should give him the benefit of the doubt on the last one. I don't know what an "authorized" independent late-night cellular phone memory card street vendor looks like-- or even if such a thing exists-- but then, if they do I don't imagine they carry open cans of malt liquor.)
As I said, I didn't really give a shit about any of it, but when the police seemed to have ceased their runs on Nicollet, he took his leave, saying, "Thanks for letting me duck-down here. Those motherfuckers got nothing better to do than drive up and down the street hassling innocent people!"
At that, it took some restraint on my part not to bust-out laughing.
People like that really make my day.
"Why not?" I say.
Now, nothing he would do in the next five minutes would in any way bother me, but in light of his parting comment I couldn't help finding the whole interaction rather amusing. In that brief span of time he would:
-ask me for a money (misdemeanor- panhandling)
-enjoy an alcoholic beverage on a public street (misdemeanor- open container)
-attempt to sell me marijuana (misdemeanor- drug offense)
-attempt to sell three passersby marijuana (3 more drug offenses)
-loiter (misdemeanor)
-litter (misdemeanor)
- Attempt to sell three passersby memory cards for their cell phones. (Possession and attempted sale of stolen goods)
(To be fair, perhaps I should give him the benefit of the doubt on the last one. I don't know what an "authorized" independent late-night cellular phone memory card street vendor looks like-- or even if such a thing exists-- but then, if they do I don't imagine they carry open cans of malt liquor.)
As I said, I didn't really give a shit about any of it, but when the police seemed to have ceased their runs on Nicollet, he took his leave, saying, "Thanks for letting me duck-down here. Those motherfuckers got nothing better to do than drive up and down the street hassling innocent people!"
At that, it took some restraint on my part not to bust-out laughing.
People like that really make my day.
"SHALL MAKE NO LAW..." SEEMS PRETTY CLEAR TO ME (FROM APRIL 17, 2006)
Hey, citizens!The 2006 THOMAS JEFFERSON, "MUZZLE AWARDS" HAVE BEEN ANNOUNCED!
The Thomas Jefferson Center for the Protection of Free Expression yearly awards the dubious "Muzzle"s to persons or groups who WOULD ABRIDGE THE RIGHT OF FREE EXPRESSION for any number of reasons-- from the evil to the benign to the well-intentioned (if misguided.)
"YOU KNOW WHO," (shhh.. he could be listening) topped the list for his charmingly retro, Nixonesque warrentless wiretaps.
The rest of these swine comprise a diverse rogue's gallery that serve to remind that there are folks all over the political spectrum that think they know what's best for us.
to view the "MUZZLES," go here:http://www.tjcenter.org/muzzles.html
Need a brush-up on our Constitution? Go here:http://www.usconstitution.net/const.html
Too lazy for all that shit? Here's the amendment that all the kids are talking about:
"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."
Pretty neat, Huh?
The Thomas Jefferson Center for the Protection of Free Expression yearly awards the dubious "Muzzle"s to persons or groups who WOULD ABRIDGE THE RIGHT OF FREE EXPRESSION for any number of reasons-- from the evil to the benign to the well-intentioned (if misguided.)
"YOU KNOW WHO," (shhh.. he could be listening) topped the list for his charmingly retro, Nixonesque warrentless wiretaps.
The rest of these swine comprise a diverse rogue's gallery that serve to remind that there are folks all over the political spectrum that think they know what's best for us.
to view the "MUZZLES," go here:http://www.tjcenter.org/muzzles.html
Need a brush-up on our Constitution? Go here:http://www.usconstitution.net/const.html
Too lazy for all that shit? Here's the amendment that all the kids are talking about:
"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."
Pretty neat, Huh?
ZOMBIES AND KNIFE-WIELDING LUNATICS (FROM APRIL 12, 2006)
For years now, even if I am not in the mood to put away ALL the dishes, I will at least put any large kitchen knives back in the drawer. I do this because if a lunatic were to break into my apartment, I don't want anything big and sharp to be handy. I mean, if he's going to kill me with my own knife I would really rather he had to root around in the drawer for it.
In fact, I would prefer he bring his own weapon, because I would hate for my last thoughts to be, "You asshole! Why did you have to buy such a good knife?"
"'TOP OF THE LINE-- SHARP AND STURDY,' it said on the box!"
"This prick can stab you all night with this thing and it will never dull or break!"
Then that got me thinking about how a few years ago I took to practicing getting my keys out of my pocket and into the door as quickly as possible. I did this because I figured that if I were being chased by zombies (and they weren't slow, like in the movies) it would be a handy skill to develop. I know that no locked door can keep the zombies out forever, but at least it would provide anyone who happened to be watching with a more dramatic narrative.
Zombies are also the reason that for years I was a bit nervous about not really having the hang of "driving stick." I was convinced that in an attempt to escape the zombies unquenchable lust for brains, I would no doubt find myself behind the wheel of a car with a standard transmission. As I stalled repeatedly I would think, "You asshole! Why didn't get around to learning to drive a stick-shift?" ("And why did you leave your good kitchen knife at home in a drawer?")
So now I can drive a stick with the best of them, am quick with the keys, and all my dangerous cutlery is securely stowed away.
(And yet, I still have trouble sleeping at night...)
In fact, I would prefer he bring his own weapon, because I would hate for my last thoughts to be, "You asshole! Why did you have to buy such a good knife?"
"'TOP OF THE LINE-- SHARP AND STURDY,' it said on the box!"
"This prick can stab you all night with this thing and it will never dull or break!"
Then that got me thinking about how a few years ago I took to practicing getting my keys out of my pocket and into the door as quickly as possible. I did this because I figured that if I were being chased by zombies (and they weren't slow, like in the movies) it would be a handy skill to develop. I know that no locked door can keep the zombies out forever, but at least it would provide anyone who happened to be watching with a more dramatic narrative.
Zombies are also the reason that for years I was a bit nervous about not really having the hang of "driving stick." I was convinced that in an attempt to escape the zombies unquenchable lust for brains, I would no doubt find myself behind the wheel of a car with a standard transmission. As I stalled repeatedly I would think, "You asshole! Why didn't get around to learning to drive a stick-shift?" ("And why did you leave your good kitchen knife at home in a drawer?")
So now I can drive a stick with the best of them, am quick with the keys, and all my dangerous cutlery is securely stowed away.
(And yet, I still have trouble sleeping at night...)
I SHOULD NOT BE ALLOWED TO WATCH THE SCI-FI CHANNEL ANYMORE
Alright kids, tell me if you think this indicates a problem...I opened a post yesterday marked "CHAINMAIL" because I immediately thought the subject must relate to:"chain mail"(noun) Flexible armor made of joined metal links or scalesa)
It never occured to me that they meant the "other" kind of chain mail.
Why was I instantly drawn-in by the subject of medieval armor? I honestly had a moment where I struck my own forehead and thought, "Oh, you dork, they meant a chain letter!"
(On the same subject and only slightly less disturbing: We have a show Friday night and I keep thinking about how sound check will cause me to miss a new episode of, "Doctor Who"
Is that fucked up?
It never occured to me that they meant the "other" kind of chain mail.
Why was I instantly drawn-in by the subject of medieval armor? I honestly had a moment where I struck my own forehead and thought, "Oh, you dork, they meant a chain letter!"
(On the same subject and only slightly less disturbing: We have a show Friday night and I keep thinking about how sound check will cause me to miss a new episode of, "Doctor Who"
Is that fucked up?
TO ANYONE WHO HAD TO PUT UP WITH ME LAST NIGHT (THANKS!) (FROM MARCH, 19 2006)
Oyez! Oyez! Citoyen! (That's FRENCH, chumps! The language of international diplomacy.)
So here goes: It's 11:03 Sunday morning and I think I am still sort of drunk. The McLaughlin Group is on, but my head can't take all that yelling. I blame Andy. (Or thank Andy, I'm not sure which is more appropriate.) Andy, I am NOT funnier than you, I'm just funnier than you. Dig?
Last night I went down to the Dragon for Amanda Johnson (ne: Becker's) birthday. I saw a great many people who I really don't encounter as much as I used to. If you are among those people than I will say again that it was a joy to be with all of you. (I can only assume I said it repeatedly last night.)
I made one innocent observation: "You know, Andy. Vodka is the most popular spirit in the United States, yet how often do you see people drinking it straight?"
It was that off-hand comment that would be my undoing. I had three (possibly four) double shots of Stoli and that was three (possibly four) more than I needed. Those of you who know me well know that a few years back when the doctor told me I had an ulcer I sort of swore off liquor and resigned myself to a "beer only" consumption regimen. That has worked pretty well, but occasionally I throw caution to the wind and the results are… well, you saw them last night.
I take some comfort in the fact that I am not a "mean" drunk, but rather a silly, sentimental one. And--as I am slowly sobering as I write this-- I can assure you the sentiment is genuine. The group of people who I had the pleasure of keeping company with last night are of late rarely assembled outside of a wedding or similarly officious occasion. I won't say that it is unfortunate. It's just the way life goes. But goddamn if it wasn't nice to see all of you. And with the exception of those who answered the siren call of SXSW, just about all of my favorite people were in one place last night. And it was a hell of a thing.
OBSERVATIONS MOST RANDOM:
a) I bought my ticket for the Bob Pollard show yesterday. Mark said he hasn't sold that many yet. Who's going with me?
b) Japan beat Korea in the WBC semifinal last night. In light of their shared history, I was kind of pulling for Korea. Also, Ichiro continues to blow my mind. He had what I can only describe as a "drag single" to second base that he beat-out by a fraction of a step. Is anyone not named Nick Thalhuber faster? That said, they highlighted a quote from Ichiro on his desire to demonstrate Japanese dominance--in baseball-- over Korea and Chinese Taipei that was eerily reminiscent of "Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere" rhetoric of the late-nineteenth-early twentieth century . It was fucking creepy.
c) Still On Baseball: Harold Reynolds should kill Tim McCarver and feast on his corpse. Reynolds calls a game like a thing of beauty, yet some asshole somewhere gives all the big games to McCarver. (Dave G. and I have discussed this at some length.) What is to be done?
d) STILL On Baseball: GODDAMN I can't wait to start playing baseball again.
e) On Rock and Roll: While I was watching the game last night I was listening to a live recording of Fred Sonic Smith's Ascension in Detroit, 1973. GODDAMN DO I LOVE ROCK AND ROLL.
f) On Apple Pie: GODDAMN do I love apple pie. What's more, I love MY MOM'S apple pie. Seriously, it's amazing. Is it possible I am the truest example of the red-blooded American to currently tread the earth? FUCK YOU, BILL O"REILLY! FUCK YOU IN THE MOUTH WITH A RUBBER DICK!* (*borrowed from George Carlin, another great American.)
g) Kid Mankato and I are going to Punch Pizza for lunch. Any takers?
h) If any of you actually read this to the end…. Thanks.
So here goes: It's 11:03 Sunday morning and I think I am still sort of drunk. The McLaughlin Group is on, but my head can't take all that yelling. I blame Andy. (Or thank Andy, I'm not sure which is more appropriate.) Andy, I am NOT funnier than you, I'm just funnier than you. Dig?
Last night I went down to the Dragon for Amanda Johnson (ne: Becker's) birthday. I saw a great many people who I really don't encounter as much as I used to. If you are among those people than I will say again that it was a joy to be with all of you. (I can only assume I said it repeatedly last night.)
I made one innocent observation: "You know, Andy. Vodka is the most popular spirit in the United States, yet how often do you see people drinking it straight?"
It was that off-hand comment that would be my undoing. I had three (possibly four) double shots of Stoli and that was three (possibly four) more than I needed. Those of you who know me well know that a few years back when the doctor told me I had an ulcer I sort of swore off liquor and resigned myself to a "beer only" consumption regimen. That has worked pretty well, but occasionally I throw caution to the wind and the results are… well, you saw them last night.
I take some comfort in the fact that I am not a "mean" drunk, but rather a silly, sentimental one. And--as I am slowly sobering as I write this-- I can assure you the sentiment is genuine. The group of people who I had the pleasure of keeping company with last night are of late rarely assembled outside of a wedding or similarly officious occasion. I won't say that it is unfortunate. It's just the way life goes. But goddamn if it wasn't nice to see all of you. And with the exception of those who answered the siren call of SXSW, just about all of my favorite people were in one place last night. And it was a hell of a thing.
OBSERVATIONS MOST RANDOM:
a) I bought my ticket for the Bob Pollard show yesterday. Mark said he hasn't sold that many yet. Who's going with me?
b) Japan beat Korea in the WBC semifinal last night. In light of their shared history, I was kind of pulling for Korea. Also, Ichiro continues to blow my mind. He had what I can only describe as a "drag single" to second base that he beat-out by a fraction of a step. Is anyone not named Nick Thalhuber faster? That said, they highlighted a quote from Ichiro on his desire to demonstrate Japanese dominance--in baseball-- over Korea and Chinese Taipei that was eerily reminiscent of "Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere" rhetoric of the late-nineteenth-early twentieth century . It was fucking creepy.
c) Still On Baseball: Harold Reynolds should kill Tim McCarver and feast on his corpse. Reynolds calls a game like a thing of beauty, yet some asshole somewhere gives all the big games to McCarver. (Dave G. and I have discussed this at some length.) What is to be done?
d) STILL On Baseball: GODDAMN I can't wait to start playing baseball again.
e) On Rock and Roll: While I was watching the game last night I was listening to a live recording of Fred Sonic Smith's Ascension in Detroit, 1973. GODDAMN DO I LOVE ROCK AND ROLL.
f) On Apple Pie: GODDAMN do I love apple pie. What's more, I love MY MOM'S apple pie. Seriously, it's amazing. Is it possible I am the truest example of the red-blooded American to currently tread the earth? FUCK YOU, BILL O"REILLY! FUCK YOU IN THE MOUTH WITH A RUBBER DICK!* (*borrowed from George Carlin, another great American.)
g) Kid Mankato and I are going to Punch Pizza for lunch. Any takers?
h) If any of you actually read this to the end…. Thanks.
MAKING YOUR CLOTHES FROM OLD ARMY TENTS WILL DO NOTHING TO STOP THE WAR
The anti-war protesters who were working the intersections in Uptown today were remarkably sorry-assed-looking bunch. Is there a special level of earnestness that prevents one from examining oneself in a mirror? As far as I can tell, avoiding wearing pants that actually "fit" and clothes that have been "laundered" has little if any effect on expansionist U.S. foreign policy.
It's an odd thing, because while I agree with their sentiments, part of me kind of didn't want to. Then it hit me, if you look at film from old civil rights protests the people looked GOOD. Crisp, clean white shirts. Pants were pressed. They had dignity. (Perhaps it was because it was dignity that they were marching for.) Either way, an observer would be hard-pressed to argue that they didn't deserve to be taken seriously.
The people I saw today just looked like a bunch of fucking clowns. Sorry, but its true.
It's an odd thing, because while I agree with their sentiments, part of me kind of didn't want to. Then it hit me, if you look at film from old civil rights protests the people looked GOOD. Crisp, clean white shirts. Pants were pressed. They had dignity. (Perhaps it was because it was dignity that they were marching for.) Either way, an observer would be hard-pressed to argue that they didn't deserve to be taken seriously.
The people I saw today just looked like a bunch of fucking clowns. Sorry, but its true.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
THAT'S RIGHT! WE'RE BIG TIME! (AND I'VE COMPOSED A "RIDER" TO PROVE IT!)
DIE ELECTRIC! PERFORMANCE CONTRACT AND ARTIST RIDER
1) PAYMENT: DIE ELECTRIC! (Hereafter referred to as ARTIST) demand no less than $25.00 per performance. This amount MUST BE DIVIDED EXACTLY THREE WAYS. As that comes to $8.33333333333... per band member, MANAGEMENT (Hereafter referred to as BABYSITTER) recommends you start dividing pennies well in advance of settling.(A few years ago would have been a good time to have started.)
2) TRANSPORTATION TO THE PERFORMANCE VENUE: (Hereafter referred to as VENUE or SHITHOLE) Transportation shall be the responsibility of ARTIST. SHITHOLE must provide nearby (within 23 blocks) parking. SHITHOLE will also be responsible for providing ARTIST with a clean 3-foot(91.5cm)length of RUBBER HOSE for siphoning fuel from nearby vehicles. SHITHOLE will also be responsible for providing one (1) bottle of Original Listerine. NO SUBSTITUTIONS ACCEPTABLE!!!
3) ARRIVAL AT THE VENUE: ARTIST will arrive at VENUE no more than 1/2 hour after the performance was scheduled to begin. VENUE STAFF (Hereafter referred to as THOSE DAMNED TO WALK THE EARTH IN ETERNAL MISERY or THE ONES WHO DREAM OF THE 4 A.M. FROZEN PIZZA/PLAYSTATION 2 ORGY or simply, THE DAMNED) should treat ARTIST in as surly a manner as possible. BABYSITTER will then impotently attempt to intervene, while ARTIST will smoke, drag feet maddeningly and become distracted by any bright, shiny object(s) or female(s) exhibiting secondary sex characteristics. ARTIST will then stupidly ask if there will be a SOUND CHECK. The SOUND MAN (hereafter referred to as HE WHO IS THE MOST DAMNED OF ALL) will be expected to clench fists, shake head and walk away before losing his cool.
4)BACKSTAGE/DRESSING ROOM REQUIREMENTS: The backstage area (hereafter referred to as THE UTILITY CLOSET or IMPOSSIBLY CRAMPED BASEMENT or HALLWAY NEXT TO/BEHIND STAGE or BUSTED OUT PORTION OF WALL TO SHOVE COATS INTO or simply, HOLE IN THE SHITHOLE) should conform to the following requirements:
a) CLEANLINESS: Only trace amounts of vomit, blood, urine or feces should be detectable. Any of these contaminants that are sufficiently desiccated to have been left there over a week prior will be tolerated. However, THE DAMNED should make all reasonable attempts to hose-off any fluids (vomit, particularly) left behind by the all-ages band that played SHITHOLE only hours before and snuck a bottle(s) of JIM BEAM in with predictable results.
b) CLIMATE CONTROL: Regardless of season, HOLE IN THE SHITHOLE should be either UNBEARABLY HOT or IMPOSSIBLY COLD. No "new" air should have been allowed to circulate into the room since the Reagan Administration.
c) SUNDRIES: To ensure the best possible performance from ARTIST, the following items should be provided: (NO SUBSTITUTIONS!!!!!)
-(4) Cases of canned domestic beer
-(1) 1 lt. bottle of olive oil
-(1) tub of CLEAN ice (for olive oil)
-(1) box of kitchen matches.
-(1) .45 caliber automatic
-(2) boxes of ammunition
-(4) days concentrated emergency rations
-(1) drug issue: (containing: antibiotics, morphine, vitamin pills, pep pills, sleeping pills, tranquilizer pills)
-(1) miniature combination Russian phrase book and Bible
-(100) dollars in Rubles
-(100) dollars in gold
-(9) packs of chewing gum
-(1) issue of prophylactics
-(3) lipsticks
-(3) pairs of nylon stockings
5) BABYSITTER'S OFFICE: Must be directly adjacent to ARTIST'S dressing room. Should be at least 3'x 4'. MUST CONTAIN A CLEAN GARBAGE CAN.
MUST BE ADEQUATLY SOUND-PROOFED TO:
a) Prevent BABYSITTER from having to endure ARTIST set.
b) Prevent ARTIST from hearing BABYSITTER'S pathetic, mournful whimpering as he contemplates the many missteps that landed him in his current, unbearable position. (And any ensuing gunshots.)
6) SETTLING: At the close of the evening, VENUE will present BABYSITTER with three (3) clean, white envelopes containing the aforementioned payment. UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOULD PAYMENT BE GIVEN TO ARTIST!!!!! (You have been warned!!!!)
NOTE: NON-COMPLIANCE WITH ANY OF THE ABOVE MENTIONED CONDITIONS WILL CONSTITUTE BREACH OF CONTRACT!!!!!!!!!
______ (initial)
______ (date)
1) PAYMENT: DIE ELECTRIC! (Hereafter referred to as ARTIST) demand no less than $25.00 per performance. This amount MUST BE DIVIDED EXACTLY THREE WAYS. As that comes to $8.33333333333... per band member, MANAGEMENT (Hereafter referred to as BABYSITTER) recommends you start dividing pennies well in advance of settling.(A few years ago would have been a good time to have started.)
2) TRANSPORTATION TO THE PERFORMANCE VENUE: (Hereafter referred to as VENUE or SHITHOLE) Transportation shall be the responsibility of ARTIST. SHITHOLE must provide nearby (within 23 blocks) parking. SHITHOLE will also be responsible for providing ARTIST with a clean 3-foot(91.5cm)length of RUBBER HOSE for siphoning fuel from nearby vehicles. SHITHOLE will also be responsible for providing one (1) bottle of Original Listerine. NO SUBSTITUTIONS ACCEPTABLE!!!
3) ARRIVAL AT THE VENUE: ARTIST will arrive at VENUE no more than 1/2 hour after the performance was scheduled to begin. VENUE STAFF (Hereafter referred to as THOSE DAMNED TO WALK THE EARTH IN ETERNAL MISERY or THE ONES WHO DREAM OF THE 4 A.M. FROZEN PIZZA/PLAYSTATION 2 ORGY or simply, THE DAMNED) should treat ARTIST in as surly a manner as possible. BABYSITTER will then impotently attempt to intervene, while ARTIST will smoke, drag feet maddeningly and become distracted by any bright, shiny object(s) or female(s) exhibiting secondary sex characteristics. ARTIST will then stupidly ask if there will be a SOUND CHECK. The SOUND MAN (hereafter referred to as HE WHO IS THE MOST DAMNED OF ALL) will be expected to clench fists, shake head and walk away before losing his cool.
4)BACKSTAGE/DRESSING ROOM REQUIREMENTS: The backstage area (hereafter referred to as THE UTILITY CLOSET or IMPOSSIBLY CRAMPED BASEMENT or HALLWAY NEXT TO/BEHIND STAGE or BUSTED OUT PORTION OF WALL TO SHOVE COATS INTO or simply, HOLE IN THE SHITHOLE) should conform to the following requirements:
a) CLEANLINESS: Only trace amounts of vomit, blood, urine or feces should be detectable. Any of these contaminants that are sufficiently desiccated to have been left there over a week prior will be tolerated. However, THE DAMNED should make all reasonable attempts to hose-off any fluids (vomit, particularly) left behind by the all-ages band that played SHITHOLE only hours before and snuck a bottle(s) of JIM BEAM in with predictable results.
b) CLIMATE CONTROL: Regardless of season, HOLE IN THE SHITHOLE should be either UNBEARABLY HOT or IMPOSSIBLY COLD. No "new" air should have been allowed to circulate into the room since the Reagan Administration.
c) SUNDRIES: To ensure the best possible performance from ARTIST, the following items should be provided: (NO SUBSTITUTIONS!!!!!)
-(4) Cases of canned domestic beer
-(1) 1 lt. bottle of olive oil
-(1) tub of CLEAN ice (for olive oil)
-(1) box of kitchen matches.
-(1) .45 caliber automatic
-(2) boxes of ammunition
-(4) days concentrated emergency rations
-(1) drug issue: (containing: antibiotics, morphine, vitamin pills, pep pills, sleeping pills, tranquilizer pills)
-(1) miniature combination Russian phrase book and Bible
-(100) dollars in Rubles
-(100) dollars in gold
-(9) packs of chewing gum
-(1) issue of prophylactics
-(3) lipsticks
-(3) pairs of nylon stockings
5) BABYSITTER'S OFFICE: Must be directly adjacent to ARTIST'S dressing room. Should be at least 3'x 4'. MUST CONTAIN A CLEAN GARBAGE CAN.
MUST BE ADEQUATLY SOUND-PROOFED TO:
a) Prevent BABYSITTER from having to endure ARTIST set.
b) Prevent ARTIST from hearing BABYSITTER'S pathetic, mournful whimpering as he contemplates the many missteps that landed him in his current, unbearable position. (And any ensuing gunshots.)
6) SETTLING: At the close of the evening, VENUE will present BABYSITTER with three (3) clean, white envelopes containing the aforementioned payment. UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES SHOULD PAYMENT BE GIVEN TO ARTIST!!!!! (You have been warned!!!!)
NOTE: NON-COMPLIANCE WITH ANY OF THE ABOVE MENTIONED CONDITIONS WILL CONSTITUTE BREACH OF CONTRACT!!!!!!!!!
______ (initial)
______ (date)
Monday, March 13, 2006
DEAR GOD, SOMETHING IS KILLING ALL OF OUR HILLBILLIES!
So CNN's Paula Zahn is on TV right now feigning concern over the fate of young, dumb white kids engaged in the "epidemic" of back-yard wrestling.
"What could possess these young people to participate in an activity that could cripple or even KILL them?"
I don't know, bitch. Have you ever BEEN to West Virginia?
Looks to me like a hell of a lot more fun than chewing Skoal and playing grab-ass in the parking lot of the local Hardee's. (Although that does sound fun right about now…)
What gets me is that the tenor of the piece is very much like the one's exposing the rural meth "epidemic." By that I mean the subtext suggests that, "Yeah, these are just white-trash briar-hoppers, but before you know it they'll be doing it in Prince George's County, and our best and brightest will be at risk!"
"Talk to your kids today, Yuppie! BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE!"
Fuck you, Paula Zahn.
"What could possess these young people to participate in an activity that could cripple or even KILL them?"
I don't know, bitch. Have you ever BEEN to West Virginia?
Looks to me like a hell of a lot more fun than chewing Skoal and playing grab-ass in the parking lot of the local Hardee's. (Although that does sound fun right about now…)
What gets me is that the tenor of the piece is very much like the one's exposing the rural meth "epidemic." By that I mean the subtext suggests that, "Yeah, these are just white-trash briar-hoppers, but before you know it they'll be doing it in Prince George's County, and our best and brightest will be at risk!"
"Talk to your kids today, Yuppie! BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE!"
Fuck you, Paula Zahn.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
MY AUTHORIZED BIOGRAPHY OF THE EVENING RIG
Note: Much of the following information was taken from court documents that, by Minnesota State law, should have remained permanently sealed. The method by which I obtained them and their source is a secret I shall take with me to my grave. Unless of course I am threatened with prosecution, in which case I will no doubt quickly turn rat to save my own skin. Like all writers, I am a contemptible little coward. (BDS)
A standard biography of a band like THE EVENING RIG would probably dwell on the obvious. Former and current bands (THE CRUSH, THE CARDINAL SIN, APRIL EPIDEMIC, CADILLAC BLINDSIDE) or the impossibly dull subject of influences (Johnny Cash, The Wedding Present, Bryan Adams, The Replacements, Drive-By-Truckers, The blah-blah-blahs.) But really, who cares about that shit.
It’s the story of how these three musicians met that I think will prove most illuminating.
Jason Miller, Jake Jarpey and Becky Hanten first crossed paths at the Minnesota River Valley Juvenile Detention Center in New Ulm, Minnesota. The year was 1992.
Miller was the "white collar" criminal of the bunch. He was taken down in a scheme to pocket fundraiser candy bar money. Using his prodigious charms --one’s a court-appointed psychologist would later describe as "typical of a sociopathic personality"-- Miller recruited a cadre of "special needs" girls from his school to sell an allotment of 12 Hershey’s 52-ct Variety Packs. He planned to collect the money from the girls and then frame them for the candy’s disappearance. The plan would have netted him a cool six hundred dollars and change, money he planned on using to buy a second-hand Gibson Les Paul. Unfortunately for Miller, a swim coach witnessed him in the locker room planting evidence among the girls’ belongings (half-eaten candy, wrappers and a few stray bills.) After quickly pulling on his Speedo, the coach apprehended Miller and dragged him before authorities. Oddly, just what this 46-year-old male swim coach was doing in the girl’s locker room somehow seemed to pass without comment.
At his trial, Ansel P. Winkleman, the presiding judge in the case described Miller‘s scheme as, "the most heinously cynical act ever perpetrated by a 14-year-old."
So Miller was shipped off to juvy where he was quickly tagged with the nicknames, "Fresh Meat" and "Dimples." He was an obvious target for those elements inclined to "use him as one would a woman." Always a shrewd one, he paid one of the older kids $11and a carton of KOOL cigarettes for his protection. That kids name was Jake Jarpey. Unfortunately, since Jarpey was monitored closely and expressly forbidden from having matches or a lighter he ended up squeezing the tobacco from its paper tubes and eating it. He used the $11 to buy stomach medicine.
Nevertheless, a bond was formed.
Jarpey, you see, was what cops call a "Firebug."
He had started small, incinerating armies of plastic soldiers deployed in the woods behind his house using home-brewed napalm he created with ordinary gasoline and his older sister’s "L.A. Looks" hair gel. (She bought the stuff by the tub.)
It escalated from there; old Christmas trees left out at the curb, a neighbor’s woodpile, the cardboard dumpster behind the local Pizza Hut.
His coup de gras was burning the name of the band METALLICA into the turf of the school’s football field. Unfortunately, the "lightning bolt" portion of the "A" came too close the field house and adjoining bleachers. From there it spread to a maintenance shed that housed lawn tractors and the gasoline to fuel them. The shed’s explosion rained fiery debris down on the school itself, which having had all of its asbestos removed, quickly burned to the ground. (But not before the blaze inexplicably took the Dunkin’ Donuts across the street with it.) This strange occurrence lent credence to a long-held belief among the students that an underground passageway linked the basement faculty lounge to the Dunkin Donuts. Thus allowing teachers to, "totally duck-out and get donuts and coffee and shit!"
Becky "The Kid" Hanten was the last to arrive. She grew up in Rapid City, SD and had been by all accounts a model young person. She was a fine student and a youth golfer of some regard. However, a breathtakingly commonplace act of bullying would eventually reveal Hanten’s terrifyingly violent nature.
Becky had a "My Pretty Pony" lunch box. It was quite dear to her. (More dear to her than anyone could have imagined.) One fateful day at third period lunch some rough-necked brown baggers took it upon themselves to snatch it away. A humiliating game of "keep away" ensued, with the usually composed Hanten growing, as one witness described it, "all funny and scary and stuff."
Finally, driven to the point of madness, she savagely blinded one of her tormentors using only the straw from her Capri Sun juice bag. They say the blood flowed like spring rain that day. Hanten was about to take a trip up the river. Another result of the gory scene, V8 and Hawaiian Punch were pulled from the cafeteria’s menu, never to return again.
Family connections saw to it that she would serve her time away from South Dakota in the relatively "soft" juvenile rehabilitation system of Minnesota. Once there, it wouldn’t take long before she fell-in with the likes of Miller and Jarpey.
Their exploits at MRVJDC would become the stuff of legend. But that story will have to wait for another time…
It’s time to look to the future. And the future is, THE EVENING RIG.
Brian David Shuey March 2006
A standard biography of a band like THE EVENING RIG would probably dwell on the obvious. Former and current bands (THE CRUSH, THE CARDINAL SIN, APRIL EPIDEMIC, CADILLAC BLINDSIDE) or the impossibly dull subject of influences (Johnny Cash, The Wedding Present, Bryan Adams, The Replacements, Drive-By-Truckers, The blah-blah-blahs.) But really, who cares about that shit.
It’s the story of how these three musicians met that I think will prove most illuminating.
Jason Miller, Jake Jarpey and Becky Hanten first crossed paths at the Minnesota River Valley Juvenile Detention Center in New Ulm, Minnesota. The year was 1992.
Miller was the "white collar" criminal of the bunch. He was taken down in a scheme to pocket fundraiser candy bar money. Using his prodigious charms --one’s a court-appointed psychologist would later describe as "typical of a sociopathic personality"-- Miller recruited a cadre of "special needs" girls from his school to sell an allotment of 12 Hershey’s 52-ct Variety Packs. He planned to collect the money from the girls and then frame them for the candy’s disappearance. The plan would have netted him a cool six hundred dollars and change, money he planned on using to buy a second-hand Gibson Les Paul. Unfortunately for Miller, a swim coach witnessed him in the locker room planting evidence among the girls’ belongings (half-eaten candy, wrappers and a few stray bills.) After quickly pulling on his Speedo, the coach apprehended Miller and dragged him before authorities. Oddly, just what this 46-year-old male swim coach was doing in the girl’s locker room somehow seemed to pass without comment.
At his trial, Ansel P. Winkleman, the presiding judge in the case described Miller‘s scheme as, "the most heinously cynical act ever perpetrated by a 14-year-old."
So Miller was shipped off to juvy where he was quickly tagged with the nicknames, "Fresh Meat" and "Dimples." He was an obvious target for those elements inclined to "use him as one would a woman." Always a shrewd one, he paid one of the older kids $11and a carton of KOOL cigarettes for his protection. That kids name was Jake Jarpey. Unfortunately, since Jarpey was monitored closely and expressly forbidden from having matches or a lighter he ended up squeezing the tobacco from its paper tubes and eating it. He used the $11 to buy stomach medicine.
Nevertheless, a bond was formed.
Jarpey, you see, was what cops call a "Firebug."
He had started small, incinerating armies of plastic soldiers deployed in the woods behind his house using home-brewed napalm he created with ordinary gasoline and his older sister’s "L.A. Looks" hair gel. (She bought the stuff by the tub.)
It escalated from there; old Christmas trees left out at the curb, a neighbor’s woodpile, the cardboard dumpster behind the local Pizza Hut.
His coup de gras was burning the name of the band METALLICA into the turf of the school’s football field. Unfortunately, the "lightning bolt" portion of the "A" came too close the field house and adjoining bleachers. From there it spread to a maintenance shed that housed lawn tractors and the gasoline to fuel them. The shed’s explosion rained fiery debris down on the school itself, which having had all of its asbestos removed, quickly burned to the ground. (But not before the blaze inexplicably took the Dunkin’ Donuts across the street with it.) This strange occurrence lent credence to a long-held belief among the students that an underground passageway linked the basement faculty lounge to the Dunkin Donuts. Thus allowing teachers to, "totally duck-out and get donuts and coffee and shit!"
Becky "The Kid" Hanten was the last to arrive. She grew up in Rapid City, SD and had been by all accounts a model young person. She was a fine student and a youth golfer of some regard. However, a breathtakingly commonplace act of bullying would eventually reveal Hanten’s terrifyingly violent nature.
Becky had a "My Pretty Pony" lunch box. It was quite dear to her. (More dear to her than anyone could have imagined.) One fateful day at third period lunch some rough-necked brown baggers took it upon themselves to snatch it away. A humiliating game of "keep away" ensued, with the usually composed Hanten growing, as one witness described it, "all funny and scary and stuff."
Finally, driven to the point of madness, she savagely blinded one of her tormentors using only the straw from her Capri Sun juice bag. They say the blood flowed like spring rain that day. Hanten was about to take a trip up the river. Another result of the gory scene, V8 and Hawaiian Punch were pulled from the cafeteria’s menu, never to return again.
Family connections saw to it that she would serve her time away from South Dakota in the relatively "soft" juvenile rehabilitation system of Minnesota. Once there, it wouldn’t take long before she fell-in with the likes of Miller and Jarpey.
Their exploits at MRVJDC would become the stuff of legend. But that story will have to wait for another time…
It’s time to look to the future. And the future is, THE EVENING RIG.
Brian David Shuey March 2006
Thursday, February 23, 2006
MY LETTER TO THE MINNESOTA SWARM
So some marketing monkey at the Minnesota Swarm Lacrosse team is trolling MySpace trying to get bands to participate in an "Extreme Battle of the Bands" at the Xcel Energy Center. They sent a message to the Die Electric! page. What follows is my response:
Jora Deziel
Account Service Executive Minnesota Wild Hockey Club
Minnesota Swarm Lacrosse
Jora,
A "Battle of the Bands," you say?
That could be fun. And may I add that your use of the word “extreme” sure makes it sound exciting! Can I assume Mountain Dew be served?
We in the band, Die Electric! would love to know more! For instance; what kind of weapons will be allowed? In past battle of the bands we have fought, only one’s chosen instrument could be wielded. That’s fine by us, but since it’s “EXTREME,” we were kind of wondering if we could use samurai and/or broad swords? I’m guessing the answer is “no,“ but then it never hurts to ask.
If swords are proscribed, I will be sure to bring my, “hitting people” guitar, rather than my “guitar playing” guitar.
Before I forget, are blows to the head allowed? At the Hopkins Area High School battle of the bands a few years back, I was disqualified for striking a teenage keyboard player in a Cars cover band “above the neck.” (As far as I know, he still accepts all sustenance through a complicated apparatus of pumps and tubes.)
(They may have said, “no heads” before we started, but I sure don’t remember hearing it!)
And what about the classic, “Drum Stick Eye Gouge?” This maneuver was perfected by Rick Buckler of The Jam at the “City of Manchester Community Centre Battle of the Bands” in April of 1976. It has fallen out of favor with many of the kids today, but our drummer, Josh, is a masterful practitioner of the move. He would like to know if it is accepted in your rules.
On a similar note, are nylon-tipped sticks allowed? While not the best for actually playing the drums, they are particularly well-suited to the eye gouge because the tips themselves easily detach and become lodged behind the Sclera, thus exerting pressure on the optic nerve and rendering the opponent temporarily without sight.
Or, permanently. Either way.
Our bass player, Dave, is primarily concerned with what he calls, “the electrocution question.” Possessed of astonishing wiring and electronics skills, he has developed a method of channeling electrical output from his SUNN COLUSEIUM amp through the body of his bass (he has quite ingeniously come up with a way to keep himself fully “grounded”) whereupon the current travels to the tip of the headstock and can then be discharged into an opponents chest, usually stopping their very heart from beating.
Boy, it’s something to see! (Lots of twitching, if you know what I mean?)
So yes, more specific information on the rules and how to register would be most welcome.
We would very much like to help you promote an exciting activity like Professional Indoor Lacrosse! Let’s face it, a “sport” practiced almost exclusively by well-to-do white kids at prep schools and eastern universities --and UNDERGROUND ROCK MUSIC, largely played by people who grew-up wanting to rid the world of such people-- just seems like a perfect combination!
(Note: Whoever signed-off on this in your Marketing Department deserves a raise!)
Yours Most Sincerely,
Brian David Shuey Die Electric!
Jora Deziel
Account Service Executive Minnesota Wild Hockey Club
Minnesota Swarm Lacrosse
Jora,
A "Battle of the Bands," you say?
That could be fun. And may I add that your use of the word “extreme” sure makes it sound exciting! Can I assume Mountain Dew be served?
We in the band, Die Electric! would love to know more! For instance; what kind of weapons will be allowed? In past battle of the bands we have fought, only one’s chosen instrument could be wielded. That’s fine by us, but since it’s “EXTREME,” we were kind of wondering if we could use samurai and/or broad swords? I’m guessing the answer is “no,“ but then it never hurts to ask.
If swords are proscribed, I will be sure to bring my, “hitting people” guitar, rather than my “guitar playing” guitar.
Before I forget, are blows to the head allowed? At the Hopkins Area High School battle of the bands a few years back, I was disqualified for striking a teenage keyboard player in a Cars cover band “above the neck.” (As far as I know, he still accepts all sustenance through a complicated apparatus of pumps and tubes.)
(They may have said, “no heads” before we started, but I sure don’t remember hearing it!)
And what about the classic, “Drum Stick Eye Gouge?” This maneuver was perfected by Rick Buckler of The Jam at the “City of Manchester Community Centre Battle of the Bands” in April of 1976. It has fallen out of favor with many of the kids today, but our drummer, Josh, is a masterful practitioner of the move. He would like to know if it is accepted in your rules.
On a similar note, are nylon-tipped sticks allowed? While not the best for actually playing the drums, they are particularly well-suited to the eye gouge because the tips themselves easily detach and become lodged behind the Sclera, thus exerting pressure on the optic nerve and rendering the opponent temporarily without sight.
Or, permanently. Either way.
Our bass player, Dave, is primarily concerned with what he calls, “the electrocution question.” Possessed of astonishing wiring and electronics skills, he has developed a method of channeling electrical output from his SUNN COLUSEIUM amp through the body of his bass (he has quite ingeniously come up with a way to keep himself fully “grounded”) whereupon the current travels to the tip of the headstock and can then be discharged into an opponents chest, usually stopping their very heart from beating.
Boy, it’s something to see! (Lots of twitching, if you know what I mean?)
So yes, more specific information on the rules and how to register would be most welcome.
We would very much like to help you promote an exciting activity like Professional Indoor Lacrosse! Let’s face it, a “sport” practiced almost exclusively by well-to-do white kids at prep schools and eastern universities --and UNDERGROUND ROCK MUSIC, largely played by people who grew-up wanting to rid the world of such people-- just seems like a perfect combination!
(Note: Whoever signed-off on this in your Marketing Department deserves a raise!)
Yours Most Sincerely,
Brian David Shuey Die Electric!
Thursday, February 16, 2006
MY LETTER TO THE ALUMNI DIRECTORY
I recently received a mailing indicating that a company in Virginia is compiling an Alumni Directory for my old high school, Central Dauphin (which is in fact, in Pennsylvania.) They included an address in Norfolk or, for my convenience, a toll-free telephone number to reach them. It seems they would really rather not print the directory without my current biographical information. I agree that that would be unfortunate. My immediate response is "urgently requested." What follows is the letter I sent them:
Alvin J. Himmelman
xxxx Nicollet Ave S. #xx
Minneapolis, MN 55404
To Whom It May Concern,
My name is Alvin Himmelman. I am writing you regarding your recent attempts to contact Brian Shuey for the purposes of including him in the Central Dauphin High School Alumni Directory. While Mr. Shuey did at one time reside at the address in your records (he was my roommate) he left Minneapolis for a life on the high seas over six months ago.
The last time anyone heard from him, he was working on a tramp steamer that sailed out of Jakarta. Two months ago the "Lady Macbeth" was reported attacked and boarded by pirates 20 miles out of Medan in the Straits of Malacca. It has not been heard from since.
So it is with regrets that I inform you that Brian Shuey (Personal ID#: JZK0018671-LB) is currently listed by the U.S. State Department as, "whereabouts unknown."
Anyone who knew Brian would tell you that he was a cheap hustler and something of a swine. However, in honor of his memory I have little doubt that he would like to be listed in your directory as, "Whereabouts Unknown. Presumed Lost At Sea." (It would befit his overly dramatic nature.)
At the present time I have no more detailed information than this. However, if you should somehow manage to track him down, please inform him of the following:
-Your dog, "King Vitamin" is dead. It was not my fault. Not surprisingly, it was his fondness for chasing the #18 that finally did him in.
-I never returned those movies to Nicollet Village Video like I said I would.
-Stuff with me and Becky just sort of happened. Neither one of us planned it. Don't be too mad.
-Needless to say, you have been fired from your job.
-Your Mom keeps calling. I just let the machine get it. She sounds worried.
-I broke one of the controllers on your PlayStation. It was the one that kind of stuck anyway.
-You owe me a lot of money for bills. In light of the Becky thing, I'm willing to call it even.
Thank you for your time and attention to these matters. You may feel free to contact me by mail with any further questions.
Best Regards,
Alvin J. Himmelman
Alvin J. Himmelman
xxxx Nicollet Ave S. #xx
Minneapolis, MN 55404
To Whom It May Concern,
My name is Alvin Himmelman. I am writing you regarding your recent attempts to contact Brian Shuey for the purposes of including him in the Central Dauphin High School Alumni Directory. While Mr. Shuey did at one time reside at the address in your records (he was my roommate) he left Minneapolis for a life on the high seas over six months ago.
The last time anyone heard from him, he was working on a tramp steamer that sailed out of Jakarta. Two months ago the "Lady Macbeth" was reported attacked and boarded by pirates 20 miles out of Medan in the Straits of Malacca. It has not been heard from since.
So it is with regrets that I inform you that Brian Shuey (Personal ID#: JZK0018671-LB) is currently listed by the U.S. State Department as, "whereabouts unknown."
Anyone who knew Brian would tell you that he was a cheap hustler and something of a swine. However, in honor of his memory I have little doubt that he would like to be listed in your directory as, "Whereabouts Unknown. Presumed Lost At Sea." (It would befit his overly dramatic nature.)
At the present time I have no more detailed information than this. However, if you should somehow manage to track him down, please inform him of the following:
-Your dog, "King Vitamin" is dead. It was not my fault. Not surprisingly, it was his fondness for chasing the #18 that finally did him in.
-I never returned those movies to Nicollet Village Video like I said I would.
-Stuff with me and Becky just sort of happened. Neither one of us planned it. Don't be too mad.
-Needless to say, you have been fired from your job.
-Your Mom keeps calling. I just let the machine get it. She sounds worried.
-I broke one of the controllers on your PlayStation. It was the one that kind of stuck anyway.
-You owe me a lot of money for bills. In light of the Becky thing, I'm willing to call it even.
Thank you for your time and attention to these matters. You may feel free to contact me by mail with any further questions.
Best Regards,
Alvin J. Himmelman
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Is It Okay If I Have A Cigarette AFTER I Fuck Your Wife?
Those of you who know me are aware that I AM A SMOKER. You will also know that I am quite unapologetic about it. I am an adult. It is a legal product. I, in no way consider myself to be a social deviant. What's more, I kind of resent anyone who regards me as such.
Bearing this in mind, I have of late noticed a very odd trend running through the "sex classifieds" in the back of our local alternative weekly. Offers of, and requests for the most puerile, freaky and dare I say, unwholesome sexual acts are punctuated by the stipulation that the participant be a NON-SMOKER! (Emphasis theirs.)
Am I the only one-- smoker or otherwise-- who finds something perplexing in this. To wit:
WILD TIMES: ISO hot 18-30 guy. Fuck my ass until I scream! Come on my chest! N/S
Let me get this straight, "WILD TIMES." You are in no way concerned about my height, weight, personal hygiene, or political affiliations? As long as I don't smoke I am welcome to make your hind quarters the very gardens of my delight? You don't think that maybe your concerns ought to lay somewhere else?
Here's one that appeared recently:
BISEXUAL THREE WAYS: I am a bisexual male, 5'7", 140lbs, nice-looking, late 30's looking for others who enjoy Male-Male-Female three ways. Nonsmoker preferred (He will be "providing" the Female.)
So you would have no problem inviting a total stranger into your home to-- among other things-- WATCH HIM FUCK YOUR WIFE, but you'd really rather I didn't smoke? Because hey, lets face it. That would just be gross. (The smoking, I mean.)
Am I losing my mind? How did I end up getting kicked to society's margins by people who allow strangers to stick their fists in places ill-equipped to accept them while wearing S.S uniforms and listening to the original cast album from, "The Sound Of Music?"
In the interest of fostering openness and friendship, I would like to propose that we come to an understanding. I do not now and have never had a problem with the folks who place these ads. What grown-ups do with other grown-ups is nobody's business but theirs. Just don't be so damn snooty about the whole smoking thing. I'm starting to feel like an outcast. Remember how that feels?
Brian David Shuey
Confidential to swinging suburban couples: If she doesn't move too much I know for a fact that I can balance an ashtray on the small of her back. Are you hot yet? CALL ME!
Bearing this in mind, I have of late noticed a very odd trend running through the "sex classifieds" in the back of our local alternative weekly. Offers of, and requests for the most puerile, freaky and dare I say, unwholesome sexual acts are punctuated by the stipulation that the participant be a NON-SMOKER! (Emphasis theirs.)
Am I the only one-- smoker or otherwise-- who finds something perplexing in this. To wit:
WILD TIMES: ISO hot 18-30 guy. Fuck my ass until I scream! Come on my chest! N/S
Let me get this straight, "WILD TIMES." You are in no way concerned about my height, weight, personal hygiene, or political affiliations? As long as I don't smoke I am welcome to make your hind quarters the very gardens of my delight? You don't think that maybe your concerns ought to lay somewhere else?
Here's one that appeared recently:
BISEXUAL THREE WAYS: I am a bisexual male, 5'7", 140lbs, nice-looking, late 30's looking for others who enjoy Male-Male-Female three ways. Nonsmoker preferred (He will be "providing" the Female.)
So you would have no problem inviting a total stranger into your home to-- among other things-- WATCH HIM FUCK YOUR WIFE, but you'd really rather I didn't smoke? Because hey, lets face it. That would just be gross. (The smoking, I mean.)
Am I losing my mind? How did I end up getting kicked to society's margins by people who allow strangers to stick their fists in places ill-equipped to accept them while wearing S.S uniforms and listening to the original cast album from, "The Sound Of Music?"
In the interest of fostering openness and friendship, I would like to propose that we come to an understanding. I do not now and have never had a problem with the folks who place these ads. What grown-ups do with other grown-ups is nobody's business but theirs. Just don't be so damn snooty about the whole smoking thing. I'm starting to feel like an outcast. Remember how that feels?
Brian David Shuey
Confidential to swinging suburban couples: If she doesn't move too much I know for a fact that I can balance an ashtray on the small of her back. Are you hot yet? CALL ME!
Saturday, February 04, 2006
MY WORST NIGHTMARE REALIZED
So my previous "Worst Nightmare Realized" was being stuck between floors on an elevator with a half dozen teenage musical theater students.
You can't imagine what torture is until you are trapped in a 8'x5'* box and forced to witness a gang of 14-year-old drama kids go from practicing their lines to, "living-out a REAL LIFE drama!" (An actual quote from one.) When we finally got out (after five minutes) they all hugged and wanted to talk about how, "it had changed them." Jesus.
My experiences today were almost on par.
I found myself with a savage hangover being shoved this way and that in the opressivly narrow confines of The Unique Thrift Store. It's truly depressing to witness a person surrender what's left of their dignity to shove a fellow human being out of the way... just to get to a BROKEN LEMON-YELLOW BUTTER DISH!
The only person who actually said, "excuse me" did so as though I had just pissed on her coffee table. THEN she knocked me out of the way. (I think it was to get at a used VHS copy of "The Heavenly Kid")
I could possibly have handled it all, but for the fact that the entire time Billy Joel's, "Piano Man" was being pumped through every tinny loud speaker-- broken only by screeching employees paging countless parents to come claim their countless lost children. Most were still waiting unclaimed in a corral as I left. Free babysitting.
The only revenge I got-- if you can call it that-- was to set every mechanical alarm clock in the place to go off ten minutes after I had left. For my own sake I would like to imagine it caused more mayhem than it probably did... "OHH baby, lookie thar, an alarm clock! An' it ain't even broke! Let's git 'er!"Brian David Shuey
* 1.52 meters by 2.44 meters, for my metric savvy friends.
You can't imagine what torture is until you are trapped in a 8'x5'* box and forced to witness a gang of 14-year-old drama kids go from practicing their lines to, "living-out a REAL LIFE drama!" (An actual quote from one.) When we finally got out (after five minutes) they all hugged and wanted to talk about how, "it had changed them." Jesus.
My experiences today were almost on par.
I found myself with a savage hangover being shoved this way and that in the opressivly narrow confines of The Unique Thrift Store. It's truly depressing to witness a person surrender what's left of their dignity to shove a fellow human being out of the way... just to get to a BROKEN LEMON-YELLOW BUTTER DISH!
The only person who actually said, "excuse me" did so as though I had just pissed on her coffee table. THEN she knocked me out of the way. (I think it was to get at a used VHS copy of "The Heavenly Kid")
I could possibly have handled it all, but for the fact that the entire time Billy Joel's, "Piano Man" was being pumped through every tinny loud speaker-- broken only by screeching employees paging countless parents to come claim their countless lost children. Most were still waiting unclaimed in a corral as I left. Free babysitting.
The only revenge I got-- if you can call it that-- was to set every mechanical alarm clock in the place to go off ten minutes after I had left. For my own sake I would like to imagine it caused more mayhem than it probably did... "OHH baby, lookie thar, an alarm clock! An' it ain't even broke! Let's git 'er!"Brian David Shuey
* 1.52 meters by 2.44 meters, for my metric savvy friends.
Friday, January 27, 2006
STAND BACK, PEOPLE. I'M ABOUT TO GO METRIC!
In the course of recent home improvement projects it has become painfully clear to me that the “standard” system of weights and measures in common use in the United States is an outmoded, confounding pile of shit.
I remember as an elementary school student there was a brief flirtation with “converting” all of us to metric. This ended right around the time the well-meaning but criminally naïve Jimmy Carter was drummed out of office and Cowboy Ronny rode into town and declared, “Morning in America.” (I think they turned the thermostats back up, too.)
Following that it was just the odd math or science teacher (usually something of a hippy) that would fruitlessly waste his time proselytizing to us with the banner cry, “WE’RE FALLING BEHIND THE REST OF THE WORLD, PEOPLE!”
Oh how I wish I had heeded his call! (Well, they say it’s never too late.)
So before the Chinese take over the world and force the inevitable on all of us, I am RESOLVED TO CONVERT TO THE METRIC SYSTEM. I urge all of you to join me!
You can get the ball rolling with the following handy conversion tools:
http://www.texloc.com/closet/cl_conversion.html
http://ts.nist.gov/ts/htdocs/200/202/5425.htm
I know what you’re thinking. All that math is so dry and boring! But if you if you can work it into your daily life (and have some fun with it) you’ll be METRIC before you know it!
METRICS IN THE KITCHEN:
-The 9” FROZEN PIZZA I had for dinner was actually 23 CENTIMETERS!
-The GLAZED BLUEBERRY CAKE DOUGHNUT I had for dessert was not a scant 3 ½” in diameter… but 9 CENTIMETERS!
(When I am deft enough to calculate the spike my serum cholesterol levels took in metric units, I’ll let you know.)
-Oh, and the HEINEKIN I washed it all down with wasn’t 12ozs…but a refreshing 354 MILLILITERS!
METRIC IS EVERYWHERE! EVEN YOUR BODY IS METRIC:
-How long is YOUR index finger? Mine’s 8 CENTIMETERS! (Impressed?)
-The distance between my elbow and tip of my middle finger? 42 CENTIMETERS!
-The space between my nipples? (inside edge to inside edge) 20 WHOLE CENTIMETERS! (Wow! I never would have guessed!)
BEHOLD THE WONDERS OF THE METRIC MEDICINE CABINET:
The world of medicine has been on board with the METRIC SYSTEM for ages now. I know this because the pill I take every morning (the one that is supposed to stop me from doing things like measuring the distance between my nipples) is… 100 MILLIGRAMS!
So come on kids, climb on the METRIC BANDWAGON!
Uh oh, gotta go. My coffee’s ready.. all 350 MILLILITERS OF IT!
Your friend in metrics,
Brian David Shuey
I remember as an elementary school student there was a brief flirtation with “converting” all of us to metric. This ended right around the time the well-meaning but criminally naïve Jimmy Carter was drummed out of office and Cowboy Ronny rode into town and declared, “Morning in America.” (I think they turned the thermostats back up, too.)
Following that it was just the odd math or science teacher (usually something of a hippy) that would fruitlessly waste his time proselytizing to us with the banner cry, “WE’RE FALLING BEHIND THE REST OF THE WORLD, PEOPLE!”
Oh how I wish I had heeded his call! (Well, they say it’s never too late.)
So before the Chinese take over the world and force the inevitable on all of us, I am RESOLVED TO CONVERT TO THE METRIC SYSTEM. I urge all of you to join me!
You can get the ball rolling with the following handy conversion tools:
http://www.texloc.com/closet/cl_conversion.html
http://ts.nist.gov/ts/htdocs/200/202/5425.htm
I know what you’re thinking. All that math is so dry and boring! But if you if you can work it into your daily life (and have some fun with it) you’ll be METRIC before you know it!
METRICS IN THE KITCHEN:
-The 9” FROZEN PIZZA I had for dinner was actually 23 CENTIMETERS!
-The GLAZED BLUEBERRY CAKE DOUGHNUT I had for dessert was not a scant 3 ½” in diameter… but 9 CENTIMETERS!
(When I am deft enough to calculate the spike my serum cholesterol levels took in metric units, I’ll let you know.)
-Oh, and the HEINEKIN I washed it all down with wasn’t 12ozs…but a refreshing 354 MILLILITERS!
METRIC IS EVERYWHERE! EVEN YOUR BODY IS METRIC:
-How long is YOUR index finger? Mine’s 8 CENTIMETERS! (Impressed?)
-The distance between my elbow and tip of my middle finger? 42 CENTIMETERS!
-The space between my nipples? (inside edge to inside edge) 20 WHOLE CENTIMETERS! (Wow! I never would have guessed!)
BEHOLD THE WONDERS OF THE METRIC MEDICINE CABINET:
The world of medicine has been on board with the METRIC SYSTEM for ages now. I know this because the pill I take every morning (the one that is supposed to stop me from doing things like measuring the distance between my nipples) is… 100 MILLIGRAMS!
So come on kids, climb on the METRIC BANDWAGON!
Uh oh, gotta go. My coffee’s ready.. all 350 MILLILITERS OF IT!
Your friend in metrics,
Brian David Shuey
Saturday, January 21, 2006
ENTER THE AMAZING $10 BONSAI POOL! (NO KITTENS INVOLVED!)
So here's the deal:
I just bought a bonsai tree at Minneapolis Floral. (I'm probably more excited about it than I should be.) But yeah, it's really cool.
The question is: How long can I keep it alive?
So I'm taking bets on it. The winner will receive $10 from me. It will be in U.S. funds and you may spend it on whatever you like.
What you do is send me you "target date for demise" (example: "Brian, you will have killed your bonsai by April 16, 2006.")
I'll write all of them down and place the dates in a sealed envelope. The person who guesses closest to the date gets the prize. I promise there will be no monkey business. Dead is dead and I'll know it when I see it.
(Before you select your date you should know that my thumb is greener than one would imagine.)
Good Luck! And may God continue to bless this great nation of ours,
Mr. Shuey
I just bought a bonsai tree at Minneapolis Floral. (I'm probably more excited about it than I should be.) But yeah, it's really cool.
The question is: How long can I keep it alive?
So I'm taking bets on it. The winner will receive $10 from me. It will be in U.S. funds and you may spend it on whatever you like.
What you do is send me you "target date for demise" (example: "Brian, you will have killed your bonsai by April 16, 2006.")
I'll write all of them down and place the dates in a sealed envelope. The person who guesses closest to the date gets the prize. I promise there will be no monkey business. Dead is dead and I'll know it when I see it.
(Before you select your date you should know that my thumb is greener than one would imagine.)
Good Luck! And may God continue to bless this great nation of ours,
Mr. Shuey
Thursday, January 19, 2006
DEATH SENTENCE
DEATH SENTENCE
Occasionally I come across what I like to call a "death sentence." I name it thus because the very act of reading it makes me want to hunt down it's architect and KILL THE MOTHERFUCKER.
Here is one from today:
"A soap that multitasks, just like YOU!"
(It's a hand soap that is also an air freshener. The implications are truly revolutionary!)
I honestly don't know how a human being could construct such a sentence and not immediately vomit from self-loathing.
I'm going to find out, though. And I swear on the corpse of Henry Louis Mencken that this person will never see another peaceful night's sleep for what remains of their wretched, pointless little life.
Brian David Shuey
Confidential to Dr. K,
(My dosage may need adjusting. What do you think?)
Occasionally I come across what I like to call a "death sentence." I name it thus because the very act of reading it makes me want to hunt down it's architect and KILL THE MOTHERFUCKER.
Here is one from today:
"A soap that multitasks, just like YOU!"
(It's a hand soap that is also an air freshener. The implications are truly revolutionary!)
I honestly don't know how a human being could construct such a sentence and not immediately vomit from self-loathing.
I'm going to find out, though. And I swear on the corpse of Henry Louis Mencken that this person will never see another peaceful night's sleep for what remains of their wretched, pointless little life.
Brian David Shuey
Confidential to Dr. K,
(My dosage may need adjusting. What do you think?)
Friday, January 13, 2006
NEVER FORGET: YOU ARE THE LOWEST FORM OF LIFE ON THE PLANET
(Note: This is an excerpt from a much larger piece I’m writing on the manifold absurdities surrounding a grown man playing in rock and roll band. The title of the whole piece appears above. What follows is the second part of two-part section that deals with arranging for accommodations while on the road. It’s entitled, "Where You Guys Staying Tonight?" I do hope you enjoy it.) Brian David Shuey
It seems to be a widely held assumption that a band on the road is always looking for a party. This is not entirely true. What they ARE always looking for is a clean place to sleep. If they can manage both, all the better. But honestly, you are lucky if you manage one of the two. You may therefore have to choose. Ask yourself the following question: "Do you want to party?"
More to the point, ask yourself, "DO YOU WANT TO PARTY, MOTHERFUCKER!" Do it in just such a fashion, and you may realize is all you really want to do is sleep. But let’s assume you have chosen to party. There are exactly six types of parties you will encounter on tour. They are as follows:
THE PARTY THAT IS NOT A PARTY: This involves the following players
A) Your host.
B) One or more of his roommates who—if they had known there would be bands staying at the house every other week-- would never have signed the lease. *
C) The refrigerator. The refrigerator has exactly two beers in it. No more, no less.
Two minutes after you arrive, one of the roommates will poke his head out of his bedroom and with the most menacing look he can muster, shout, "I got work in the morning, shut the fuck up!"
The host will then whisper, "That’s my roommate Jim, He’s an asshole."
(Jim is, of course, not an asshole at all. He’s just a guy who has to work in the morning. Also, since you are a band on tour, he is keenly aware that YOU haven’t been to work in weeks. That does not put you much in his favor. And of course, don't forget our principal rule: YOU ARE THE LOWEST FORM OF LIFE ON THE PLANET. Put it all together and you may begin to see why he doesn’t want you there.)
After Jim's outburst the host will tiptoe into the kitchen to retrieve the two beers. He will take one for himself and give the other to you to split--possibly five ways. Fifteen minutes of uncomfortable whispering will then ensure as the host attempts to answer the age-old question, "How low can you play a Stooges album before it ceases to be a Stooges album and in fact becomes ‘silence.’"
You will then attempt to get a good night’s sleep on a hardwood floor knowing that not ten feet away a total stranger is burning with hatred for you.
* A word of advice: To avoid Jim’s fate, think real hard before you decide to live with a college radio DJ or self-styled "promoter."
THE PARTY THAT WAS ALMOST A PARTY:
Same scenario as above, add two more beers.
THE GOOD PARTY: The most rare of all, but they DO occasionally occur.
First of all, it’s not being held in the same place you will be staying. This is nice because it means you will not have to sleep in spilled malt liquor and cigarette butts. Also, when your host says, "It’s real close by, though." He isn’t bullshitting. This is key because it means you won’t get lost going from one place to the other.
The people at the "Good Party" are bright and charming. They have lots of booze and seem happy to share it with you. Some of them may have even seen you play earlier, and one or two will even say something complimentary.
Even though you are far from home, at the "Good Party" you will invariably encounter someone with whom you share a mutual friend. You will end up getting along famously with this person and laughing a great deal. They will remind you a lot of this mutual friend. You will instantly feel less homesick.
-No one will try to fight you.
-No one will throw up on your stuff.
-Your van will not be broken into.
THE NOT-SO-BAD PARTY:
Same scenario as above, but you will have to drive all over an unfamiliar city following your host who does not use his turn signals and runs through every yellow light. You will get lost a few times on the way there. When you arrive, it’s still the "Good Party," but since it took you half the night to find it, it’s pretty much over.
THE BLACK LABEL PUNK ROCK HOUSE PARTY!!!
Remember our question from earlier? "DO YOU WANT TO PARTY, MOTHERFUCKER?" Well, if you find yourself at the B.L.P.R.H.P., your answer better have been "yes."
The first thing you will notice about the B.L.P.R.H.P. is that everything is broken. Items you didn’t even think were CAPABLE of breaking lay shattered everywhere.
"Did you have you had your tetanus booster before you left home?"
If not, don’t touch anything.
The second thing you’ll notice is the smell. No one should smell worse than a band that has been on tour for three weeks, yet somehow everyone there smells worse than you. The women won’t even talk to you because you are not sufficiently filthy. Your presence is mildly tolerated because you are in a band, but because that band isn’t MISERY, no one will really want to have anything to do with you.
Some of the guest’s young children may also be present. You will recognize them as such because their personal hygiene habits will have been passed down to them from their parents. Do not try to interact with these kids. I mean it. They bite.
The most remarkable feature, however, will be the truly astounding quantities of "Carling’s Black Label" in 12-ounce cans. The stuff will literally be shoved into every open space not occupied by a human being, dog, filthy child or broken object. It is-- in almost all cases-- community beer. So drink up. I mean it; keep your head down, your mouth shut and drink as much as you possibly can. The reason for this is simple; if you get good and drunk it will be much easier to deal with the following, inevitable occurrences:
-Your drummer has gotten into a fistfight.
-Someone has thrown up on your stuff.
-Your van has been broken into.
And finally….
THE BLACK LABEL PUNK ROCK HOUSE PARTY…WITH KNIVES!!!
Same scenario as above, but people will be openly brandishing knives. Get the fuck out quick, and maybe your van won’t get broken into.
Brian David Shuey 01/06
Look for more excerpts from NEVER FORGET: YOU ARE THE LOWEST FORM OF LIFE ON THE PLANET to come, including, "Undatable," "Dealing With the Sound Guy" and "Keep It In Your Pants, Junior!"
It seems to be a widely held assumption that a band on the road is always looking for a party. This is not entirely true. What they ARE always looking for is a clean place to sleep. If they can manage both, all the better. But honestly, you are lucky if you manage one of the two. You may therefore have to choose. Ask yourself the following question: "Do you want to party?"
More to the point, ask yourself, "DO YOU WANT TO PARTY, MOTHERFUCKER!" Do it in just such a fashion, and you may realize is all you really want to do is sleep. But let’s assume you have chosen to party. There are exactly six types of parties you will encounter on tour. They are as follows:
THE PARTY THAT IS NOT A PARTY: This involves the following players
A) Your host.
B) One or more of his roommates who—if they had known there would be bands staying at the house every other week-- would never have signed the lease. *
C) The refrigerator. The refrigerator has exactly two beers in it. No more, no less.
Two minutes after you arrive, one of the roommates will poke his head out of his bedroom and with the most menacing look he can muster, shout, "I got work in the morning, shut the fuck up!"
The host will then whisper, "That’s my roommate Jim, He’s an asshole."
(Jim is, of course, not an asshole at all. He’s just a guy who has to work in the morning. Also, since you are a band on tour, he is keenly aware that YOU haven’t been to work in weeks. That does not put you much in his favor. And of course, don't forget our principal rule: YOU ARE THE LOWEST FORM OF LIFE ON THE PLANET. Put it all together and you may begin to see why he doesn’t want you there.)
After Jim's outburst the host will tiptoe into the kitchen to retrieve the two beers. He will take one for himself and give the other to you to split--possibly five ways. Fifteen minutes of uncomfortable whispering will then ensure as the host attempts to answer the age-old question, "How low can you play a Stooges album before it ceases to be a Stooges album and in fact becomes ‘silence.’"
You will then attempt to get a good night’s sleep on a hardwood floor knowing that not ten feet away a total stranger is burning with hatred for you.
* A word of advice: To avoid Jim’s fate, think real hard before you decide to live with a college radio DJ or self-styled "promoter."
THE PARTY THAT WAS ALMOST A PARTY:
Same scenario as above, add two more beers.
THE GOOD PARTY: The most rare of all, but they DO occasionally occur.
First of all, it’s not being held in the same place you will be staying. This is nice because it means you will not have to sleep in spilled malt liquor and cigarette butts. Also, when your host says, "It’s real close by, though." He isn’t bullshitting. This is key because it means you won’t get lost going from one place to the other.
The people at the "Good Party" are bright and charming. They have lots of booze and seem happy to share it with you. Some of them may have even seen you play earlier, and one or two will even say something complimentary.
Even though you are far from home, at the "Good Party" you will invariably encounter someone with whom you share a mutual friend. You will end up getting along famously with this person and laughing a great deal. They will remind you a lot of this mutual friend. You will instantly feel less homesick.
-No one will try to fight you.
-No one will throw up on your stuff.
-Your van will not be broken into.
THE NOT-SO-BAD PARTY:
Same scenario as above, but you will have to drive all over an unfamiliar city following your host who does not use his turn signals and runs through every yellow light. You will get lost a few times on the way there. When you arrive, it’s still the "Good Party," but since it took you half the night to find it, it’s pretty much over.
THE BLACK LABEL PUNK ROCK HOUSE PARTY!!!
Remember our question from earlier? "DO YOU WANT TO PARTY, MOTHERFUCKER?" Well, if you find yourself at the B.L.P.R.H.P., your answer better have been "yes."
The first thing you will notice about the B.L.P.R.H.P. is that everything is broken. Items you didn’t even think were CAPABLE of breaking lay shattered everywhere.
"Did you have you had your tetanus booster before you left home?"
If not, don’t touch anything.
The second thing you’ll notice is the smell. No one should smell worse than a band that has been on tour for three weeks, yet somehow everyone there smells worse than you. The women won’t even talk to you because you are not sufficiently filthy. Your presence is mildly tolerated because you are in a band, but because that band isn’t MISERY, no one will really want to have anything to do with you.
Some of the guest’s young children may also be present. You will recognize them as such because their personal hygiene habits will have been passed down to them from their parents. Do not try to interact with these kids. I mean it. They bite.
The most remarkable feature, however, will be the truly astounding quantities of "Carling’s Black Label" in 12-ounce cans. The stuff will literally be shoved into every open space not occupied by a human being, dog, filthy child or broken object. It is-- in almost all cases-- community beer. So drink up. I mean it; keep your head down, your mouth shut and drink as much as you possibly can. The reason for this is simple; if you get good and drunk it will be much easier to deal with the following, inevitable occurrences:
-Your drummer has gotten into a fistfight.
-Someone has thrown up on your stuff.
-Your van has been broken into.
And finally….
THE BLACK LABEL PUNK ROCK HOUSE PARTY…WITH KNIVES!!!
Same scenario as above, but people will be openly brandishing knives. Get the fuck out quick, and maybe your van won’t get broken into.
Brian David Shuey 01/06
Look for more excerpts from NEVER FORGET: YOU ARE THE LOWEST FORM OF LIFE ON THE PLANET to come, including, "Undatable," "Dealing With the Sound Guy" and "Keep It In Your Pants, Junior!"
Friday, January 06, 2006
MY LETTER TO PAT ROBERTSON
Pat Robertson has suggested that Ariel Sharon’s massive stroke was admonishment from God for having pulled Jewish settlements out of the Gaza strip, in effect “dividing” the land of Israel. (I would have put my money on Sharon’s being grossly overweight and over worked, but then I’m no doctor.)
The God of Pat Robertson is indeed a vengeful one. For those who have been paying attention, it was God who flew those planes into the World Trade Center (HE was mad that we have “homos” here in America, or more specifically, that we don’t stone them in the public square.)
God also has it in for the Township of Dover, PA. I have talked before about how proud I was that the good people of Dover saw fit to kick the “intelligent design” dinks off the school board. Pat didn’t see it that way. He suggested that since Dover had “abandoned” God, they better not count on his “protection.” So when it starts raining blood and fire in southeastern PA, they’ll have no one to blame but themselves. (That reminds me: I should call my parents and warn them!)
This GOD of ROBERTSON is really starting to scare the shit out of me. I need to get in touch with Pat and find out what’s really going on with this spiteful, homicidal lunatic!
I HAVE THEREFORE SENT PAT ROBERTSON THE FOLLOWING EMAIL: (Granted, I am adopting a different sort of tone, and yes, goofing on him quite a lot, at least I am signing my own name to it.) HERE IT IS!
Dear Mr. Robertson,
I am a young American who is VERY scared and VERY confused. The TV said that YOU said that God gave Ariel Sharon his stroke in Israel. Does God really give people strokes? I thought the Devil gave people strokes and God gave people nice things.
Am I wrong?
I went to Sunday school when I was younger, but I’m not sure I got all the right information. The lady who taught it didn’t shave her underarms or legs and sometimes she played the guitar. My Dad said that that meant she didn’t know anything about God. He said, “God wants ladies to BE LADIES and shave some places.”
My Mom told him to hush because, as she said, “it was the only church in town that would have people like us.”
So now I don’t know what to think!
A friend told me that you also said that the Twin Towers thing was God, too. He said that you said that it was because we have so many gay people in America. Well, I wouldn’t know anything about THAT, but when I was in high school we took a trip to France, and there sure were a lot of gay people there. One of them even asked me to dance! (Boy, that was weird.) But the thing is, I saw more gay people in France than I ever did in America, but God didn’t fly planes in French buildings. Then again, the French don’t really have any TALL buildings. So does God just hate gay people when they’re way up in the sky? Or does he just hate American gay people? The gay people in France didn’t seem to be scared at all. (I’ll betcha’ they SHOULD be scared though, right?)
My friend also told me that you’re mad at some town out east. He said that you said that they don’t teach the right things in their schools. He said that the school was trying to do the right thing and teach about God and stuff (Although this is where it gets weird: He said that everybody said they WEREN’T teaching about God-- because you can’t do that in regular schools— but when the people that said they weren’t teaching about God were told they couldn’t teach what they were TRYING to teach it turned out all the people who were upset about it were REALLY INTO GOD.) So were they or weren’t they? Teaching about God, I mean.
Anyway, I said that’s weird that you would say you were mad at them because you don’t live there and you don’t have kids that go to that school so I told him I didn’t think you would think it was your place to tell them what they should teach in their schools. He then said that it was God who was mad at them, not you. He said that you know just what God wants because he tells you and then you tell everybody else. THAT SEEMS LIKE A GOOD SYSTEM TO ME!
So that’s how I figured out I should write you. If God gives people strokes when they do what he doesn’t want them to do, then I want to know what He wants ME to do. I don’t want to get a stroke, because sometimes that means you can only move one side of your body, and it looks frustrating and uncomfortable.
So if you could write me back and tell me what God wants me to do, I sure would appreciate it. My friend says that sometimes it helps to send money, except that I don’t have any right now. Maybe if you let me know what God wants, by the time I get your letter I’ll have a little more money than I do now and I could send you some. Okay?
Oh, one last thing. I was just kind of wondering what those miners in West Virginia did to get God so mad at them? Was it because they were stealing all of God’s coal? I don’t know what God would need with so much coal, but then I guess we’ve established that I don’t know much about God! (My Dad must have been right about the hairy lady with the guitar, huh.) Oh well, bye for now!
Your Friend,
Brian David Shuey
Minneapolis, MN
P.S. My friend wants me to go see that “Brokeback Mountain” movie. I told him if we did we would go to Hell. He told me that we would only go to Hell if it made us FEEL a certain way. I don’t think I should risk it, do you?
The God of Pat Robertson is indeed a vengeful one. For those who have been paying attention, it was God who flew those planes into the World Trade Center (HE was mad that we have “homos” here in America, or more specifically, that we don’t stone them in the public square.)
God also has it in for the Township of Dover, PA. I have talked before about how proud I was that the good people of Dover saw fit to kick the “intelligent design” dinks off the school board. Pat didn’t see it that way. He suggested that since Dover had “abandoned” God, they better not count on his “protection.” So when it starts raining blood and fire in southeastern PA, they’ll have no one to blame but themselves. (That reminds me: I should call my parents and warn them!)
This GOD of ROBERTSON is really starting to scare the shit out of me. I need to get in touch with Pat and find out what’s really going on with this spiteful, homicidal lunatic!
I HAVE THEREFORE SENT PAT ROBERTSON THE FOLLOWING EMAIL: (Granted, I am adopting a different sort of tone, and yes, goofing on him quite a lot, at least I am signing my own name to it.) HERE IT IS!
Dear Mr. Robertson,
I am a young American who is VERY scared and VERY confused. The TV said that YOU said that God gave Ariel Sharon his stroke in Israel. Does God really give people strokes? I thought the Devil gave people strokes and God gave people nice things.
Am I wrong?
I went to Sunday school when I was younger, but I’m not sure I got all the right information. The lady who taught it didn’t shave her underarms or legs and sometimes she played the guitar. My Dad said that that meant she didn’t know anything about God. He said, “God wants ladies to BE LADIES and shave some places.”
My Mom told him to hush because, as she said, “it was the only church in town that would have people like us.”
So now I don’t know what to think!
A friend told me that you also said that the Twin Towers thing was God, too. He said that you said that it was because we have so many gay people in America. Well, I wouldn’t know anything about THAT, but when I was in high school we took a trip to France, and there sure were a lot of gay people there. One of them even asked me to dance! (Boy, that was weird.) But the thing is, I saw more gay people in France than I ever did in America, but God didn’t fly planes in French buildings. Then again, the French don’t really have any TALL buildings. So does God just hate gay people when they’re way up in the sky? Or does he just hate American gay people? The gay people in France didn’t seem to be scared at all. (I’ll betcha’ they SHOULD be scared though, right?)
My friend also told me that you’re mad at some town out east. He said that you said that they don’t teach the right things in their schools. He said that the school was trying to do the right thing and teach about God and stuff (Although this is where it gets weird: He said that everybody said they WEREN’T teaching about God-- because you can’t do that in regular schools— but when the people that said they weren’t teaching about God were told they couldn’t teach what they were TRYING to teach it turned out all the people who were upset about it were REALLY INTO GOD.) So were they or weren’t they? Teaching about God, I mean.
Anyway, I said that’s weird that you would say you were mad at them because you don’t live there and you don’t have kids that go to that school so I told him I didn’t think you would think it was your place to tell them what they should teach in their schools. He then said that it was God who was mad at them, not you. He said that you know just what God wants because he tells you and then you tell everybody else. THAT SEEMS LIKE A GOOD SYSTEM TO ME!
So that’s how I figured out I should write you. If God gives people strokes when they do what he doesn’t want them to do, then I want to know what He wants ME to do. I don’t want to get a stroke, because sometimes that means you can only move one side of your body, and it looks frustrating and uncomfortable.
So if you could write me back and tell me what God wants me to do, I sure would appreciate it. My friend says that sometimes it helps to send money, except that I don’t have any right now. Maybe if you let me know what God wants, by the time I get your letter I’ll have a little more money than I do now and I could send you some. Okay?
Oh, one last thing. I was just kind of wondering what those miners in West Virginia did to get God so mad at them? Was it because they were stealing all of God’s coal? I don’t know what God would need with so much coal, but then I guess we’ve established that I don’t know much about God! (My Dad must have been right about the hairy lady with the guitar, huh.) Oh well, bye for now!
Your Friend,
Brian David Shuey
Minneapolis, MN
P.S. My friend wants me to go see that “Brokeback Mountain” movie. I told him if we did we would go to Hell. He told me that we would only go to Hell if it made us FEEL a certain way. I don’t think I should risk it, do you?
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