Inhaling The World

Ahhh..its been a while

2010-07-27T05:18:00.000-07:00

Damn it, I haven't blogged in a long time! This is something I need to get back on!! I have no great excuse as to why I haven't, though my time has been quite full as of late. The demands and pressures of life have had me pretty burnt out and beaten down. Parenting truly is the job that gives no breaks or lets you leave after a certain hour. Now that my darling Samantha is crawling, climbing, nearly walking to nearly everywhere she feels she belongs, I am on full duty at all times. My computer time has been quite limited because of this. As I sit at my PC which has its desk right next to the couch, Samantha will be right behind me, climbing up onto the couch and onto its arm to start reaching for things on the computer desk. She'll go so far as to use my shoulder to balance herself while she reaches for anything she can get at. If there is nothing for her to get, she'll simply go for the keyboard or try reaching the items on the shelves overhead. If she tries to reach too far she will fall. So repeatedly I must remove her. I pick her up, turn to the right, and place her on the floor as she wails in disapproval. 10 Seconds later, we do it all over again. I remain patient with her but not the situation, so after a few rounds of that I'm off the computer and playing with my little girl to keep her out of harms way. This right here describes a typical evening in my house.

So I guess I'm here blogging about my daughter's climbing habits. Real fucking interesting, eh? But this is my personal forum so I guess it doesn't matter what I really blog about. I do have more stories to tell though. I had an adventurous time as a young man and I lived in a haunted house for 3 years - but that's not the beginning of my encounters with the dead. I'd really like to write about all that as it gives me chills just thinking about it.

As for my summer, its been pretty uneventful. Our finances are finally falling into place which will open up more opportunities for fun in a few weeks. I just received a lousy raise at work, but anything helps. I am glad to say though that I've been doing something this summer that I've wanted to do for YEARS and that is read Stephen King's Dark Tower series. My reading time is very limited so its been a slow crawl, but I'm moving along through each mammoth volume and loving every single page. I am currently on the fifth book, "Wolves of the Calla" with 200 pages left of the 700+. So far I can not recommend this series enough. It is truly fine literature. A fantastic story, intriguing characters, and enough twists, turns, and crazy cryptic shit to make your head spin. For those who have read other books by King, there are lots of references to some other of his books and characters as well. The main villain here seems to be Randall Flagg of "The Stand" and "Eye of the Dragon." Father Callahan from "Salem's Lot" also becomes a major character and we get to learn what became of him after his encounter with the vampire Barlow and what brought him into Roland's world. Fascinating shit. I can't wait to get to the final book.

New Song

2010-06-06T16:46:00.000-07:00

For better or for worse, I have a lot of time on my hands these days. Sitting at home with Samantha while Lynnae is at work can get a little boring sometimes. I never do the things I say I'm going to (watch a certain movie, read more of whatever book I'm reading, revisit some old video games, masturbate furiously, etc.) so today I sat down with the guitar and my computer and wrote a new instrumental. I was actually going to add vocals to it, but I'm completely blank. I can't think of any reasonably cool lyrics or how to sing them. It pretty much sucks. I haven't written a song in almost 2 years for reasons which I am admittedly a tad bitter about. Some of this song is taken from some old ideas I had and some old scrap recordings still lying around. I realized that I have been out of the music thing for a while and was pretty damn rusty. But I was able to accomplish what I set out doing for the most part and after listening I have to admit that the second half of the song is better than the first half, but oh well. Keep in mind this is a crude recording so don't expect anything professional - hell, you might even think it sucks altogether. And that's ok.

I Am Jules Winfield

2010-05-14T08:54:00.000-07:00

This morning before work I stopped in the Pilot (that's a gas station/convenient store, for you yankees) to get my normal order of a blueberry Nutri-grain bar and/or Vitamin Water. As the clerk was ringing up my goods, I took out the money and placed my wallet on the counter to count my singles and make sure I don't accidentally hand the guy a $100 bill as I did back in November only to realize the fact about 6 hours later. Bye-bye $100. And no, this isn't the same guy. ANYWAY, as I was counting out a few bucks I noticed the cashier giggling a little to himself. I looked up with a curious look and with a smile he says, "Your wallet..." Ahhh yes, my wallet. I often forget the supreme badassedness of it and get caught off guard when someone reacts to it whenever I whip it out.

Yes, the infamous Bad Mother Fucker wallet from Pulp Fiction as owned by Samuel L. Jackson's character, Jules Winfield. When I first saw Pulp Fiction when I was 15 and Jules uttered the phrase, "mine's the one that says Bad Mother Fucker on it," and the wallet was presented, I howled with laughter and marveled at such a level of coolness that before that moment I had not experienced in a film or otherwise. I had to have this wallet. I needed it. There was no one else I knew besides me that was worthy of carrying such a wallet. But it being just a movie prop, I figured there would be no such luck. I even went so far as to write BAD MOTHER FUCKER on my own wallet with a marker, since I was 15 and retarded. After 2 weeks it wore away along with my dream of owning Jules Winfield's wallet.

Fast forward 10 years to 2005 and I found the Bad Mother Fucker. I was browsing on eBay and I came across it. Simply by accident! I don't even remember what I was searching around for, but there it was. Leather, embroidered, perfect. And for a reasonable price. I've been using it ever since and even have a few spares for the future. I am truly the baddest of the bad.

So what the fuck is the point of this blog entry about a wallet you ask? Well, the fact of the matter is that though I'm a big white dude with a shaved head on the outside, on the inside I'm an inner-city black man from 1973, right out of a Jack Hill film. Don't confuse me for an extra in Dolemite - I AM Dolemite, bitches, and I'm gon' come at ya so hard you gon' shit yo britches.

I have always had a fascination with the urban culture of the seventies. Its simply marvelous. From the music, the blaxploitation films, to the whole attitude in general, I somehow connect with it. I'm the white guy with a glide in my stride and a dip in my hip, motherfucker, and everywhere I go I have "Freddie's Dead" by Curtis Mayfield bumping all around me, making the earth quake and your booty shake. This is serious. I actually hear this song playing in my head as I go about my daily routine. My own theme song.

Now I know that every single person in the world will simply see me as another average white guy, but that doesn't matter. I'm sure as hell not going to put on a pimp hat and walk around with a diamond encrusted cane just to have an image. No, no. I am who I am and those who get to know me will learn of my intense amount of soul and tell tales to their grandchildren about how Ron O'Neal stepped into a time machine back in '73 and appeared as a white man in the 21st Century. Now there's a film for you.

Things that prove I have a black soul from the 70s:

1. My adoration for classic soul music. Curtis, Baby Huey, Temptations, Al Green, Undisputed Truth, Bill Withers, etc. I not only enjoy this music, but I truly feel it. I am soul music.

2. My love for and extensive knowledge of 1970's urban cinema.

3. I really want to fuck Pam Grier.

4. My love for thick women. I like them big-tittied, big bootied, and all around meaty. I like a woman with thick thighs that resemble two shaved grizzlies mating as she walks down the street.

5. Naturally I am a soul singer. I can belt out nearly any R&B/funk tune from 30+ years ago. I can go soft, I can go funky, its all the same to me. It comes as naturally as I do in a thick woman's booty-hole. You know how I roll.

6. Without thinking, I greet others by asking, "What's happenin'?"

7. When asking a woman how she's doing and she responds, "I'm fine," I say, "Yes you are."

8. My wallet.

Things that prove I'm still just a white boy from the 21st Century.

1. My favorite band is Clutch. I love rock n' roll, I do. Soul is my favorite music, but Clutch is my favorite band.

2. I hate cognac. Sure, I've had it quite a few times, but never by choice. I think the shit is rancid.

3. I've never pimped any ho's.

4. I enjoy Wes Anderson movies.

5. I've never had a plan to stick it to the man.

6. I was born in 1980. Shit, I couldn't have even been born in 1979 to give me a single milligram of credibility.

7. I own He-Man statues.

8. What I feel is the coolest of all my belongings is still just a dorky movie prop.

So there you have it. You be the judge. In my dreams I own the streets and will rain bullets on any jive ass mother who tries to step their business on my turf. But in reality I live in a quiet neighborhood and work full time to support a family. At least my wallet is there to tell the tales.

My Neck My Back

2010-05-09T08:06:00.001-07:00

Here's a video I made for "My Neck My Back" from Richard Cheese's new CD, OK Bartender.

Damn, My Foot Hurts

2010-05-09T05:15:00.000-07:00

It's Sunday, my day off. Samantha is crawling around the floor and Lynnae is still asleep. There is a sharp pain on the bottom of my foot which is a telltale sign that I need some new work shoes. It feels like I'm working 40 hours a week using concrete slabs for footwear. My pinkie-toes are busting out the sides of these misery-makers and my socks have been turning black and nearly as stiff and hard as the floor beneath me. I've been going through this pain daily so that my little Samantha can have all the food, formula, diapers, toys, and fun things that she needs. I wouldn't dare put her second to anything. But with Lynnae back to work now, little things like new work shoes won't be an issue. Well, they really weren't an issue before. I just usually give in to spending my money on having some fun over things that I need. That much is my own fault, I know.

"Eh, should I get some new shoes.....or should I get a case of beer, a new blu-ray, and a 50-pack of DVD-Rs?"

Read the third sentence and tell me where my money goes.

Book Review: Sunset & Sawdust by Joe R. Lansdale

2010-04-29T14:25:00.000-07:00

First off, I want to say that Joe R. Lansdale is one of the greatest storytellers of our time. Sunset & Sawdust is the eighth novel of his that I've read and he has yet to let me down. Well, what I should say is that he fucking rocked every time. Lansdale has such a unique way with his "mojo storytelling," defying genres and giving you a humorous, violent, authentically East Texan yarn. Now, on with the review.

Set in the heat parched mill town of Camp Rapture (known to the local employees as "Camp Rupture"), East Texas during the Great Depression, Sunset & Sawdust tells us everything we would want to know about a foxy dame named Sunset Jones. The book begins when Sunset (so named because of her mane of bright red hair) murders her abusive husband during a tornado strike. Regrettably for Sunset, her husband Pete was the town constable and the son of the primary owners of the local saw mill. It takes a lot of balls (..er...lips?) to stroll into the mill and tell Pete's parents what she did, but Sunset is the type of gal who always lives up to her responsibilities. Predictably, the men in the area despise the fact that this uppity woman killed her spouse. After all, everyone expects a woman in 1930's Texas to keep her mouth shut and fulfill her marital obligations. Oddly enough, Sunset's actions lead her mother-in-law Marilyn Jones to take a stand against her own husband's abusive practices. Moreover, Marilyn goes so far as to pull strings to get Sunset appointed town constable. Backed up by Clyde, a burly and lovable mill worker, and a roving hobo/musician named Hillbilly, Sunset puts on a badge and pistol to assume her post as law officer for the mill town.

A series of events soon leads to impending troubles for Sunset Jones. In her husband's files, she discovers a document recording a strange event that took place on a nearby farm owned by a black man named Zendo. According to Pete's written recollections, the farmer discovered the body of an unborn infant, encased in an earthen jar and covered in oil, buried on his property. Constable Pete Jones secretly took the body and buried it in an unmarked grave, which makes Sunset suspicious enough to reopen the case. Soon, Zendo's plow turns up the corpse of a woman, also covered in oil, on another piece of his property. The two shocking discoveries soon lead to a series of confrontations that threaten Sunset Jones, her bond with her daughter Karen, and her relationships with Clyde, Hillbilly, and Marilyn. What unfolds is a nasty little plot over land, oil, and ultimately, money. Several subplots, including Jones's reconciliation with her long lost father, the appearance of two goons from up North, and a near-mystical local black moonshiner named Bull all help move the story to its violent conclusion.

There is so much more to this story than I will get into here, but if there was ever a "must read" book, it's this one. The characters are all great. You love the good guys and the bad guys are truly despicable. The pacing is fantastic, always keeping you interested, and the characters are developed with such ease and grace that that you begin to feel as if you are hanging out with people you know, rather than reading fictional personalities. The way the story unfolds, with enough twists and turns to make you say, "Oh shit," out loud, will have you completely enveloped when the plot finally comes to a head. Even the final pages will keep you guessing. Plus, there is lots of fucking violence. I have to say that is one rare book for me in that during the final 30-40 pages or so, I found things so intense that I was actually getting short of breath. This shit effected me physically!

As for my favorite character, it would have to be an incredibly frightening dude named Two. Two is a mammoth black man in a bowler hat and long black coat who has to be the most terrifying and fascinating fictional character I have ever read about. Under his hat, Two has a horseshoe shaped scar on the top of his head where he was kicked by a horse. But what he believes is that God struck him with lightning, giving him powers to do the Lord's bidding. Not only was he given a mission from God, but it created two people living inside his one body. Hence the name, Two. What's this mission you ask? Well, whenever Two coldly murders someone, usually with his shotgun (and often), he places his mouth on his victims' lips and "sucks their souls out" so that he can pass them onto God later on. The man is like a living shadow and seems impossible to kill. Often his two personalities will speak with each other, even asking and answering each others questions in two different voices. This is one seriously creepy motherfucker.

All in all, one of my favorite books. I'll be reading this one again very soon and you should really get your hands on it.

Best Forgotten Songs of the 90's

2010-04-28T15:06:00.000-07:00

Being born in 1980, I went through my teen years in the heart of the 1990's. 1992 was when I got my first CD player and started heavily getting into music. It became my passion. As far as I'm concerned the mid-90's were the best time for music since the years between 1966-1976, and have been since. Between the poorly bunched together "grunge" bands, post-hardcore genius, gangsta rap, and the Indie rock boom, there was no shortage of creativity and innovation by bands and songwriters. Below are some of my favorite forgotten songs of that decade. Enjoy.

Handsome - "Needles"

Lucas - "Lucas With the Lid Off"

King Missile - "Detachable Penis"

Hum - "Stars"

Sugar Ray - "Mean Machine"
That's right, I put a fucking Sugar Ray song on here. Believe it or not, these guys were once capable of ROCKING. This song is proof.

Gary Young - "Plant Man"

Jellyfish - "The King Is Half Undressed"
These guys aren't for everyone but I really like them. I don't mean to make a bold comparison here, but I will go so far as to say that if the Beatles hit the scene in 1992 rather than 1962, this is probably what they would sound like.

Find more videos like this on Bolt

Gravediggaz - "Diary Of A Madman"

Spacehog - "In the Meantime"

Quicksand - "Omission"

Quicksand - Omission
Uploaded by UniversalMusicGroup. - Explore more music videos.

Rollins Band - "Volume 4"

MC 900 Foot Jesus - "Killer Inside Me"

Prick - "Animal"

Digital Underground - "Doowutchyalike"

Orange 9mm - "High Speed Changer"

Life Of Agony - "Lost At 22"

Mad Season - "Long Gone Day"

Prong - "Close the Door"

Lords of the Underground - "Chief Rocka"

Matthew Sweet - "Girlfriend"

Fair Trade

2010-04-26T16:21:00.000-07:00

At the time we had been hanging around Dump's place a lot. He lived in an apartment with his mother and older brother on 1st Ave in the Highlands. His mother was never home, but his brother, Dan, usually was. Dan was about 12 years older than us and usually had weed and other drugs for sale. He also had quite an odd array of friends, and coming from me this is really saying something. There was Neck (yes, Neck) who was around 30 and always seemed ready to punch someone. None of us liked him much, but he amused us quite a bit. This guy was constantly sweating and always had his hands balled into fists so tense that the veins were on the brink of exploding and spraying us all down. The other two in their tight circle were Steve and John. Steve was fairly average. Picture, if you will, the stereotype of the fat, 80's metal lover with a mullet, complete with receding hairline. That's Steve. John on the other hand was quite a piece of work.

I arrived at Dump's place with Jack, Rob, and James around 2pm. Home with Dump was his brother, Dan, and Dan's friend John. Seemed like a normal day. Everyone was just hanging out, listening to the Scorpions, drinking beers and smoking blunts. We all got pretty high when Dan and John went out for a moment.

"Yo, you guys want a free ounce of weed?" Dump asked, as if he didn't know the answer.
"Fuck yeah! How the hell are you making this happen?" Jack responded excitedly but curious.
"Well," replied Dump, "you know Dan's boy John?"
"Yeah...."
We were getting really suspicious
"Well, he needs a favor, and its pretty fucked up."
Dump started laughing hysterically, as if he were in disbelief of what he was about to request. Without even knowing what this 'favor' was, we were pretty gung-ho about doing whatever was necessary for some free weed.
"So," I asked, "what does he want us to do?"
Dump couldn't stop laughing. "Dude, he's got a bucket of oranges in the basement."
We stared at him blankly. What the fuck do oranges have to do with anything?
"Yo, what the fuck are you talking about?" Rob was speaking for all of us.
Dumped calmed down enough to get to the point.
"Ok man. Ok, look, John ain't gay or anything..."
"Dude," James interrupted, "I ain't doing any gay shit for any fucking weed!"
We all started laughing. This wasn't looking too good. Fuck the fucking weed. Seriously. Anything that starts off with 'he ain't gay or anything...' couldn't be in our best interest.
"No, No, No man. I'm saying John ain't gay but he likes some fucked up shit. Straight up, he wants us to throw those fucking oranges at him down in the basement.
Bewilderment. I cracked the fuck up.
"Seriously man," I couldn't believe this was for real, "what the fuck?"
"No man!" Dump was serious. "It's free fucking weed! An ounce! Do you want it or not, man? I fucking want that shit!"
We knew we did as well. This was probably the strangest request I had ever been given, and I'm sure that went for everyone else in the room. Some 30 something year old guy who we barely know is going to give us an ounce of weed for hitting him with oranges in a basement. I knew there were some strange fetishes out there, but this was really fucked up.
"Look," said Rob, "I ain't fucking John."
We laughed. We agreed.
Dump insisted that John wanted nothing sexual from us. He just got off on being pelted with oranges. He always does this shit and hooks people up for doing it for him. After some serious discussion and joking around, we decided to do it.

Dan and John came back in after about 30 minutes.
"Yo," Dump called out to them, "they're gonna do it."
John just let out a "cool" and went to the basement. 'Cool?' Thats all he's got to say? I don't know what he should've said, but it just didn't sound right to me. Dan seemed kind of surprised.
"You guys are fucking crazy."
I think he was right.

The five of us went down to the basement where John was waiting for us with his shirt off, standing next to his 3 big buckets of oranges. There were at least 100 oranges. There was a pole in the center of the basement and he held out some rope and asked us to tie him to it.
"Yo," Jack said, "No one said shit about tying you up. You sure you ain't gonna try and fuck us. We'll beat the fucking shit out of you. For real. We'll fuck you up right here."
John got really serious.
"Man, I ain't gay and I don't want shit from you guys but what Dump told you about. After you tie me up, I don't want you to lay a hand on me or I'll fuck all five of you pussies up. And if you pull any shit, I'll find you and beat the piss out of you."
We looked at each other and silently agreed this was OK.

As John stood straight against the pole, Jack took the rope and starting wrapping it around his torso and arms making sure it was tight and John couldn't move. He tied a knot when he started running out of slack and John seemed ready to go.
"Just stand back almost to the wall when you throw them. It hurts too much from up close." Well he's a pro now, ain't he? We wouldn't want to seriously injure this sick bastard while we're fulfilling his fantasy of being bludgeoned with citrus!

We stood back against the wall with the buckets of oranges placed in front of us. We stood there just staring at John and laughing at the lunacy we were about to be a part of. An ounce of weed for free. This was actually too easy. John demanded we start quickly. After he told us to get this over with, we all reached down and took an orange. We were still hesitant. This was just too odd for our 16 year old minds to handle.
"Fuck it," declared Jack and he whipped that orange at John's chest with such force that it exploded on impact, causing John to let out a loud groan. At that moment we all started throwing the fruit maniacally, purposely trying to hurt this guy as much as we could. Rapidly I was bending down, taking oranges and throwing them with everything I had, nailing John in the chest, face, legs, everywhere. A puddle of orange juice was forming around John's feet as the remains of the citrus piled up around him. Some missed him altogether, but not many. He was yelling and groaning and cursing at us to throw harder. His eyes were tightly shut from so much orange juice splashing in them. What a sight! This grown man tied to a pole with his shirt off, orange chunks stuck in his hair and his body, as red welts were forming all over him. We were hysterically laughing and the oranges seemed never ending.

Finally, James threw the final orange. He held it close against his chest with such intensity, as if pitching the final throw of of a tied game in the ninth inning of the World Series. He was serious about this one. He cocked his arm back and let it go with all of his strength, obliterating the orange against John's neck! With a loud yelp, John hung his head and said nothing.

"OK," I said, "where's the fucking weed?"
John looked up exhaustedly. "Untie me and go upstairs. I'll be right up. I just need a few minutes."
"He's gonna jerk off now," Jack joked. We laughed because we all believe this to be true. I'm sure it was.
We untied John and went back upstairs to Dump's place to smoke another blunt.

About 10-15 minutes later John came up looking like 5 people just tried to stone him to death with oranges but he miraculously survived. He had bruises developing all over his face and chest. His hair was a mess but he smelled delightful. He went into Dan's bedroom and came out with his backpack. He unzipped the front pouch and pulled out the ounce of weed. It was brown, looked like some shitty dirt weed, but it was definitely an ounce.
"Here," he said as he tossed it to us, "don't say shit about this. Just forget about it. You can keep all the beer too."
He put his shirt on, took his bag, and left.
We continued to smoke weed for a few more hours as we talked about how fucked up the events of the afternoon had been. This was a damn good deal as far as we were concerned.

I still wonder what John is up to these days. The last I heard of him was about 12 years ago when he was locked up for molesting a 9 year old girl.

Family

2010-04-22T19:21:00.000-07:00

It was common at this time of night to hear Eileen crying, sobbing, begging Jim to stop. They were usually both drunk and/or on some serious amounts of cocaine when Jim would begin to beat her. Our yards were connected and from my back steps you could see their front door. It was a strange setup, the way their property was in the center of a city block, surrounded by houses on every side. They were on their own little avenue called Filbert Street, which 99% of people in town never even knew existed. You simply thought it was a long, dirt driveway off of Larrington Blvd. I heard them all too clearly on many nights.

I was good friends with Eileen's oldest son, Jack. Jack was a good kid, though he was a pretty well known pot-dealer around town and was prone to violence and addiction. We hung out all the time, usually at his house where we could literally do anything - drugs, fucking sluts, drinking, loud noise. Hell, we could probably kill someone and Jim, Jack's stepdad, would help bury the body under the house.

One random midnight I was over Jack's and we had a few blunts going around getting us pretty fucked up as Tripping Daisy played over the local rock station. The usual smell of cat piss and shit was everywhere. I looked around. Yep, the house was still on the brink of collapsing. He suggested I crash there for the night so we could "wake and bake" in the morning. This is when you get high the moment you wake up. Guaranteed to fuck you up more than smoking weed during any other time of day. Not long after midnight Jack's mom, Eileen along with Jim, came home from wherever foul place they had been. Drunk. High on coke. The yelling started.

"Why do you do this every time we go out?"

Eileen was crying and her voice was even more hoarse than usual.

"I didn't do fuckin' nothing you stupid bitch! You're a god damned drunk and I'm tired of your fucking shit!" Jim answered.

Crying harder Eileen started screaming, "I didn't do anything to you! Why do you always have to fucking embarrass me? I fucking hate you!"

Jim took a beer out of the refrigerator. Calmly he told her to "shut the fuck up."

"Dude," I said to Jack, "Do you want to go back to my house?"
"Nah, fuck them," said Jack as he turned up the music and kept hitting the blunt. "You still sleeping here tonight?"
"Yeah," I said hesitantly, "I'm chillin'."

We heard a loud thud. Eileen had charged at Jim, swinging her fists wildly, hitting his massive frame anywhere her hands would connect. This did nothing to him. Eileen was, after all, about half his size. And fucking drunk. Jim grabbed her wrists, threw them down towards her waist, then slapped her in the mouth with great force. She hit the floor, screaming obscenities and things that we could not even make out as English. She got up, and once again, Eileen attacked Jim. He took her by the hair and dragged her to the other side of the kitchen.

"You fucking slut, you're gonna hit me? You're gonna fucking hit me you fucking cunt?"

I watched Jack stare at the floor and pretend as if nothing was going on. Finally he spoke.
"I hate that fat fuck."
I said nothing. What could I say to this? I didn't like the fat fuck either and at least I didn't have to live with him as he beat my mother almost daily.

Jim threw Eileen onto the floor, spit on her, and kicked her in the stomach. Eileen vomited where she lay. She was called a pig and Jim threw a dirty, mildewed bath towel over her face. Then things went quiet for the night.

Jack and I woke up around the same time. Roughly 7:30am. The entire house smelled like gas. It fucking reeked of gas. As we came out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, we noticed that all the windows were shut and all four of the stove's gas burners were on, leaking gas at full heat with no flame. After shutting off the burners and opening up all the windows and doors, Jack went into his mothers room. She was sleeping. Jim was nowhere to be found. Holy shit, Jim tried to kill us all. That piece of shit tried to gas us to death as we slept. Jack woke up Eileen and told her what happened to which she replied, "He should've just choked me." I went the fuck home and didn't say shit to my parents.

The following afternoon I went back to see Jack. He was sitting on his front porch cleaning out the large wooden cage he had built for his 7 iguanas. I asked if I could buy a dime bag from him and he offered to take only five dollars if I'd smoke a blunt with him. His head stash was gone. I handed him fifteen and took an additional bag of weed to take home with me later on. As we were sitting there talking I heard Eileen singing in the kitchen. She was drunk again. Her singing voice was that of a sickly mule. I asked to use the bathroom and regretted it almost immediately.

I walked through the front door which brought you into the kitchen. The bathroom was directly across from the door. I took 2 steps and here comes Eileen, fully nude, singing, and her arms open towards me.

"Come here and sing with me! HA! You're a good boy, you know that? I always tell Jack to hang out with you 'cause you're not like any of those little assholes that come around here!"

I tried to walk around her and go back outside. She was circling me. I couldn't help but to notice how her body looked about 20 years older than it was and she desperately needed to groom her bikini area. She grabbed my arms and kept talking to me.

"You're getting handsome." She said with a deranged look in her eye. Her hands made their way onto my hips. "Such a big, big boy!"

Jack came storming into the kitchen which prompted me to break away and run outside trying to hold back the laughter.

"What the fuck, ma? I can't even have fucking friends over without you being a stupid bitch!? Get your fucking clothes on! I'm fucking leaving!"

This was typical. Things like this happened all the time over Jack's house. Eileen was a complete mess. This is probably why she stayed with Jim. She really couldn't take care of herself. Jim was an abusive coke-addict, but he had a steady full time construction job and paid all the bills. He started doing some repairs on the place as well. I'm not saying he's a decent guy, after all he did attempt to kill his family - and me. This is just how things are.

I'll never forget the night when Jack had had enough. I wasn't there, thank God, but I heard everything from my backyard. There was another drunken argument between Eileen and Jim. Jim was obviously beating her again. He was slapping her, kicking her, and throwing things at her. I later learned that he had actually beaten Eileen until she pissed herself.

Eileen lied there on the kitchen floor, sobbing in a puddle of her own urine as Jim snorted a line of cocaine off of the kitchen table. Jack, in his bedroom, couldn't stand the sound of his mother's beatings anymore. He came out of his room with a broom and started swinging it at Jim, hitting him in his head, back, shoulders, face. Everywhere he could. He was insane with rage. But Jim stood 6'3, weighed over three-hundred pounds and was on a lot of cocaine. It was going to take a lot more than what Jack had to take him down. Jim took Jack by his throat and threw him into the wall, taking the broom stick. Jim then proceeded to beat Jack mercilessly with it. He swung it at his face. Smack. He swung it at his back, knocking Jack down onto the floor next to his mother who was barely conscious. Jim kept hitting Jack in the face and head as he tried to block the blows with his arms. After Jim calmed down and went to bed, Jack was left sitting there, crying, his face bleeding with several large wounds from the impact of the broomstick. All felt lost. It was.

Things were actually quiet for a while after that. Sure, there were still some pretty loud arguments here and there, but nothing physical. Jack healed up, and was trying his best to get along with Jim, even help him with some of the home renovations. I could never understand how Jack could do it. How he could go home every day to that....mess of a life. How he could be in the same house with Jim, that fucking animal, and his mother who took it. But Jack always tried to keep positive at that time of his life and make the best of things. Then one night Jack came by my house and I knew immediately something was wrong.

"What's up, man?" I asked.
"We found Jim dead tonight." Jack said.
"What..."
Jack came in and took a seat in a chair.
"I was in my room just hanging out and shit, and Jim was home, just watching tv. He fell asleep on the couch like he always does. Whatever. Then my mom came home and tried to wake him up. He was fucking dead on the couch. We think he OD'd on coke. That fat fuck shouldn't have been fucking with that shit as fat as he was. I'm fucking glad he's dead. He fucking deserved it. I wish I could've fucking killed him."

Jack was angry, but I couldn't exactly tell what he was angry about. It seemed like he was pissed that he didn't get the chance to kill Jim himself, something I know he often dreamed of. But at the same time, it seemed as if he was just mad that Jim was dead. As if it were some type of loss. I saw this as nothing but a gain for everyone. Understandably so, Jack was emotional.

We sat on my back porch that night, smoking a blunt that Jack had brought over. We weren't talking about Jim. We talked about concerts, bitches, who we'd like to rob for weed or money or both. Then we both fell silent. We couldn't ignore what had happened. That's when I saw tears coming down Jack's face.

"You OK man?" I was concerned.
"Man....shit's just fucked up."
"Hey, at least that shit is over with now."
"Jim's dead, dude. Fucking Jim's dead."
"So why are you crying? I thought you hated that jerkoff?"
Jack turned his head towards me, but his eyes looked at the ground. This is how I knew he was serious. It was something he always did when letting his emotions out.
"I did hate him..."
"I know you did..."
"I don't want him gone. He was the closest thing I have to a father."
I didn't know how to respond to that. I just sat there thinking. Feeling hopeless.

10 Great Soul Songs You've Probably Never Heard

2010-04-18T17:18:00.000-07:00

Anyone who knows me knows that I love me some sweet soul music. Something about it just moves my..well...soul. Most people enjoy soul music as well and are familiar with the greats like Marvin Gaye, The Temptations, Sam Cooke, Wilson Pickett, etc., but what I've done here is bring together 10 of my favorite soul rarities for your listening enjoyment. Check 'em out and hopefully you'll find something new to jam to.

Baby Huey & the Babysitters - "Listen to Me"
Baby Huey is one of my all time favorites. His untimely death prevented the world from hearing any more than just one fantastic album. The groove in this song will rock you, then the horn section will come in and shake your skeleton right out of your skin.

Rasputin's Stash - "Mr. Cool"
What can I say about this one? This song is just plain bad ass. So much so that Beck sampled a piece for his song "High 5 (Rock the Catskills)"

Bill Withers - "World Keeps Going 'Round and 'Round"
Bill Withers is simply one of my favorite singer/songwriters. Though I'm really only a fan of his first two albums and his live album Live at Carnegie Hall, the songs are so good I can forgive most of the fluff that followed. This song is from Live at Carnegie Hall and is just a perfect example of how a good song is written. Though it will get you right from the start, it really takes off around the 2 minute mark. So listen, bitch.

The Stovall Sisters - "Hang On In There"
What would this list be without some bad bitches doin' they thang? This song is great and these ladies be mean. Another strong horn section to rattle your innards.

Malo - "Suavecito"
Man, I love this song. This one isn't exactly rare, but its so good that I had to include it. Plus we need to have a slow jam on here. Malo is one of those bands that should've seen a lot more success than they had but they were stuck in between genres which prevented from finding a solid fanbase. They were too "rock" for the spanish fans, but too "spanish" for the rock fans. Oh well.

The Dramatics - "Get Up and Get Down"
The Dramatics were so great. Personally I think they could've been even better than the Temptations if they would've had a songwriter as talented as Norman Whitfield in their corner. Yes, they did some songs which were written by Whitfield, they had already been done by his darlings, the Temptations.

Funkadelic - "Stuffs and Things"
Pretty much everyone knows George Clinton & Parliament Funkadelic, right? Acutally no. Most people know George Clinton & Parliament. Though Parliament and Funkadelic are associated with one another and rightfully so (they are the two biggest groups that George Clinton fronted in the 70s), few people actually know the music of Funkadelic. Well, here you go.

Demon Fuzz - "Disillusioned Man"
These guys are like a prog-soul-jam-band. The album Afreaka! has such fantastic songwriting and perfect arrangements that if you haven't heard it, you better get a copy tomorrow. This just may be my favorite song on the album.

Edwin Starr - "Back Street"
Here's another forgotten great. Edwin Starr was one of the strongest voices in soul music at the time. Probably best known for his hits "25 Miles" and "War," this classic cut is a dear favorite of mine. I just love the rhythm and groove to it.

Curtis Mayfield - "Kung Fu"
I couldn't make this list up and not include Curtis. This is the original gangsta shit. This song gets inside of me and does things to me. Gangsta things. Give this one a listen and you'll be pimpin' hos in no time.

[ Download ]

Everything Dies: In Memory of Peter Steele

2010-04-16T05:55:00.001-07:00

Over the past year or so, it seems like every other celebrity we've known of throughout our lives has been dropping dead. I'm no celebrity whore, so for me none of them garnered a much bigger reaction than, "Oh shit..." That was until yesterday when we lost one of my favorite singer/musicians.

Peter Steele was only 48 when he passed away Wednesday of heart failure, and the when I received the news yesterday morning, it did all but completely ruin my day. Heart failure!? The guy seemed to be the picture of health so you can't help but to wonder, "How?" This guy was in magnificent shape. The first thing you picture when thinking of Type O Negative is Pete, standing 6'7 with a physique that would make even Anton Chigurh tremble. Solid as a fucking rock. Aside from his obvious interest in physical fitness, I'm sure there were a lot of years of drug and alcohol abuse on the road. Recently I've been reading reports of his overcoming heavy alcohol and cocaine abuse. Well, that'll put you in your grave before you're 50. The news of Peter Steele's death has caused me great sadness as much as the murder of John Lennon did to my parent's generation.

I first heard the music of Type O Negative in 1994 when I was 14, listening to the greatest hard rock station of all time, New York's Q104.3 which has since changed formats and become a classic rock monolith. The song was 'Christian Woman' and it was unlike anything I had ever heard before. The thing that stood out above all else were the vocals. I had never heard any singer with such a deep, purely awesome voice which seemed both menacing and dripping with sexuality all at the same time. Then of course you heard Pete's heavier-than-thou, distorted bass riffs which were simply nothing to fuck with and often reminiscent of Ozzy-era Black Sabbath. I was an instant fan, buying up every album I could get my hands on.

I was fortunate enough to have seen Type O Negative perform live twice. The first time was a 30 minute set at Ozzfest '97, and the second, a full show at the Stone Pony only 4 months after that. Neither performance disappointed. Pete's voice was strong and he looked so badass as he used a big black chain for his bass strap. You know, I always saw Peter as an underrated bass player as well. Sure, he was no Les Claypool or Bootsy Collins, but his playing was smooth, slick, and destructive in its general simplicity.

Type O Negative were a very big part of my youth and as silly as it may sound, the death of Peter Steele almost feels like I lost a distant friend. Its like that kid that used to hang around your little group of friends when you were 10. He was nobody's best friend, but he was an integral part of the unit nonetheless. After 20 years you hear of his death and you can't help but to mourn, even if you haven't seen or spoken to him at all in that time, or even thought of him or remember what the hell he looks like. The fact of the matter is, a big part of my teenage years is gone forever. Dammit, I don't like it.

Hauntingly, the lyrics of Type O Negative seem fixated, almost obsessed with death. 90% of Pete's lyrics had to do with everyone in his life dying, or he, himself wanting to die. Yes, most of it was very tongue-in-cheek; the band was really more of a mock-goth band than anything else. As my pal Neil had said, "he prepared and accepted death in his music/lyrics like no other." There is a lot of truth to that, but personally, I did not see a man who was accepting and comfortable with death. I always saw Peter Steele as a man who was afraid and resentful of it. This man did not simply "sing about death." His lyrics always focused on the emotional distress which comes with it. Such a fixation on an inevitable horror, usually is a sign of great fear and uncertainty. But this does not make him weak. As most people try their best to ignore death and pretend it won't happen to them, Peter Steele came right out and expressed his every last feeling on it, be it as an outlet for sadness over such a harsh reality and loss of loved ones or with his sharp, sardonic sense of humor.

Peter Steele has left behind a legacy of great music which I will enjoy until my time eventually comes. This is a sad day for me and anyone else who loved the music of Type O Negative. Peter, you will truly be missed.

"We suck? You're the idiots who paid $15 to be here." - Peter Steele

The following are statements from Pete's bandmates from Type O Negative.

Josh Silver
"Peter, My endless source of frustration, (as I'm yours) you have really done it this time," Silver wrote. "You have changed and touched countless lives through music, comedy and often brutal honesty. You've made life both interesting and irritating and I could not imagine not having known you for 37 years. It still isn't true in my mind but in time I will miss you and the creating that we all endured together. We certainly disagreed constantly and I believe (and hope) we all learned from each other. Should I call you my brother, friend or neighbor? I can only call you Peter (and usually after 2 p.m.). We laughed at ourselves more times then I can count. Knowing humans are preposterous creatures and I know we reveled in that fact. I will miss you in time, but at this moment your premature departure seems surreal and has pissed me off to no end. Though I never told you that I harbor a deep respect for you, I do. Goodbye my friend."

Kenny Hickey called Steele one of the most brilliant and funny personalities in music, saying his humor and talent were 100 percent real. "Half the time people thought he was joking, but he was actually telling the truth," he wrote. "Part of me died with him."

Johnny Kelly found it hard to put his grief into words, admitting, "I'm not sure if I should eulogize or roast you. Both good and bad, we went on one hell of a ride together and sadly, the ride has come to an end. You truly were a unique person. Your music touched many people. Myself included. Whether it was talking about the Beatles, power tools, how Pluto was no longer considered a planet or calling me at 3 a.m. asking me to drive to your house to have a fistfight with you, you always kept it interesting. It was a privilege to have been your bandmate. It's something that I will always cherish."

Petrus T. Ratajczyk: January 4, 1962 - April 14, 2010

February 16, 1996 Part 2 (It's Time to Rock)

2010-04-10T14:40:00.001-07:00

The parking lot was tremendous. I must have walked 5 miles through a sea of cars and snow before I made it to the Coliseum. I had never seen a structure so enormous. It was 10 miles high and 20 miles wide. I followed the crowd of people to find the entrance. I kept catching myself staring down random people for no other reason than the drugs giving their faces such a distorted look that they couldn't even be real. Chins and noses shot out of faces about a foot long. Eyes were either too close together or too far apart. Either way they had the look of terrible, terrible things.

I made it inside and the next step was finding my seat in this monolith. It was becoming obvious that I had a shitty seat when I kept being directed further up every level until I was at the very top of the arena. When I found the right gate, not only was I at the very top level, but allllllll the way in the very back. I wasn't too happy, but I took my seat and let the acid do its thing until the first band took the stage which was only in about 15 minutes.

THE RENTALS

When the Rentals took the stage I had no idea how much gayness I was about to endure. They were awful and 20,000 others agreed with me. As I was sitting in my seat taking in this galaxy of people I could smell weed. Oh I really should've brought some with me. Motherfucker, I want to smoke weed! I turned around and saw the weed guy smoking from a pipe. His hair was climbing down his body which frightened me. When we made eye contact I jerked myself back around and hoped he wouldn't hit me. I sat there, scared, wishing this godawful band would die. The cheesy keyboard sounds were causing me to grow with uncomfortable anger. That's when I heard the last thing I really needed to hear at that moment.

"Hey! Look at that fuckin' guy chewing on his coat!"

I turned around, looking past the pot-guy with macrame hair and saw a group of people laughing at me.

"How's the coat taste, dude?"

There seemed to be 50 of them altogether just laughing. Laughing, laughing. I still had my collar in my mouth. That's when I couldn't take it anymore. I stood up, looked right at them and decided to tell them what I thought.

"FUCK!"

That was about the best I could come up with. With that I turned around and went to take a step, but instead of stepping to the side so that I could walk across the row of seats to the stairs, I stepped forward over the seat in front of me which sent me stumbling down the next 2 rows of seats. I was now layed out over the heads and bodies of 4-5 people. Angry people. One slapped me on the head and another spilled (or poured) a drink of some sort on me. There was a lot of yelling and I found myself closed in. Closed in by huge, angry faces. Faces bigger than any normal human. They were all around me. Freaking out in the tornado of faces, I twisted myself back to my feet and ran back up to where I belonged. I checked my face. The spectrum glasses were still intact. It became apparent that I had fully adapted to a world full of rainbows.

Everyone is staring at me. Everyone in this arena is staring at me.

Looking down onto the floor about 2 miles down, I noticed someone wearing the same cotton-candy blue and pink tye dyed shirt that I had on. I wanted to meet this person. As for the rest of the Rentals set, the only thing worthwhile was seeing the singer get pelted in the face with a foam football.

SILVERCHAIR

I was pretty excited about seeing Silverchair. I thought Frogstomp was a solid album and thought they were a cool band overall. They opened their set with "Israel's Son," the first song off of Frogstomp. They sounded tight and I was really starting to hate my seat. The band was so far away and so small that I couldn't even see their faces. They were just small blobs on a huge stage, surrounded by lights which shot rainbows at me. They played on with a strong set and when they started playing "Tomorrow," the big hit, thats when everyone lost it. I noticed thousands of people who had lousy seats like me rushing down to the general admission area on the floor. Everyone was hopping over the 4 foot wall and past security who had given up at this point. You can't stop everyone.

That was my cue. I got up and started walking in the right direction this time - to the right, instead of down - and took the stairs down as far as they could go. I found myself at floor level with a mad rush of people going to hop the wall. I was getting closer and getting more terrified that I would be the one and only person to be captured and sent out of the arena. Or worse. I got to the wall, looked at security, and climbed over. Success. I made it! I was now down on the floor, trapped in the largest crowd I had ever been in. After playing a 4 new songs and closing their set with the blistering instrumental, "Madman," Silverchair left the stage. The crowd went nuts and I had a new respect for these guys. They honestly fucking rocked.

RED HOT CHILI PEPPERS

Between the sets of S/C and RHCP I started mingling. I was drug-crazed, alone, and PUMPED for the Chili Peppers. I made it to the middle of the floor and looked back at where I was sitting. I could see the hairy pot-guy. I could see the group of people who mocked me. I was sure they were still mocking me. I then looked around for the guy with my shirt. I was standing there like a plant, looking around when I heard someone shouting at me.

"Hey man, what's up with those glasses!?"

I turned my head around looking everywhere but I couldn't find the voice.

"DUDE! What's with the 3-D glasses?"

I straightened my head out and he was right in front of me. He was about my height with a huge brown beard that reached out to hug me. He was smiling. This was good.

"They're spectrum glasses," I said. "I'm tripping right now!"

The guy looked excited. He kept talking to me. I explained to him that I was alone and that the glasses made my trip most excellent. He turned to 2 chicks and told them my story. They all took turns trying on the glasses, each admitting they wished they too were on acid and had the glasses. Their envy was making me feel calm and welcome. We stood there for a few chatting it up and then came the magic question.

"Dude, you want to smoke some weed?"

"Fuck yeah, man!"

He pulled out a joint as fat as my thumb, lit it, and we passed it around for what felt like an hour. Though it couldn't have been that long, the Chili Peppers hadn't even hit the stage yet and there was only an average of about 20-30 minutes for setup time. After a few hits the LSD in my system started to intensify. Everything around me seemed to get more....just more. It was like living in a caricature of life. Think of what Don Swayze is to Patrick Swayze. You look at Don and his face is like TOO much Patrick Swayze. That's what the world had just become. Don Swayze.

Finally. SHOWTIME. The Chili Peppers opened up with a funky favorite of mine, "Suck My Kiss." The place exploded. This was during the brief period where Dave Navarro was their guitar player and his signature sound really gave the song a new intensity. Or that just could've been the drugs. Flea was a madman as usual and Anthony Keidis sounded great, wearing the same ensemble seen in their video for "Warped." The guy with the weed and the two bitches attempted to give me a high five which I ignored. For some reason this made him laugh.

"Dude, you are so fucked up!" he insisted.

Truth is, I just don't like high-fiving in public. I moved in closer and closer to the stage until I was only maybe 20 feet away. This is where I needed to be. I was being crushed by the crowd which wasn't agreeing with my large Carhart coat. I was getting hot, freaking out. I started using my weight to push people away from me. I could hear myself yelling at everyone. Nothing sensible, just yelling and pushing. I need space, but there was no way I could go back to my seat in the next town over and deal with the enemies I had made for eating my coat.

The Red Hot Chili Peppers went on to play a killer fucking set. They played the first 8 tracks off of One Hot Minute, along with the aforementioned "Suck My Kiss," and from what I can remember, "Give It Away," "Higher Ground," "Under the Bridge," "Fire," "Blood Sugar Sex Magik," and "Fight Like A Brave." There was another song as well that I remember, but I have no idea what it was.

During "Give It Away," I couldn't help but to really carry on like an asshole. The energy in the place was HIGH. Flea's bass was rocking my skeleton and for the entirety of the song, that's all I could hear. That funktified, swirling bass line. I was dancing in my place when I found myself knocked to the floor. A hundred hands grabbed me and picked me up to my feet.

"Dude, you ok?"

No fucking way. It was the guy in my t-shirt. He saved my life.

"Yo man," I said, "I've been looking for you all night!"

"Do I know you?" he looked confused, yet amused.

"No, man. We have the same shirt. I wanted to say 'what's up.'"

After that we couldn't hear each other and went on with our rocking.

A detective of perspective I need to try and get a bigger eye...

During the slow yet completely awesome part of "One Big Mob," the place went black and there were giant blue circles rotating around the arena. I was following one single circle as it moved around the Coliseum, completely fixated. I was standing in one spot, just spinning slowly. The spectrum glasses were still on. There were no rainbows. Everyone was laughing at me again. The collar of my coat was shredded from my teeth, I was sweating, spinning.

When the Red Hot Chili Peppers came out for the encore they did not let us down. The songs were "Fire" and "Warped" and the band was wearing nothing but socks on their dick and balls. This is what we came to see. The nutty, punky, we-don't-give-a-fuck, Rolling Stone cover RHCP. Dave Navarro kept turning around to stick his bare ass to the crowd while Anthony Keidis jumped and danced so intensely that his cock-sock fell off, exposing his nude self to the packed arena. You'd think a guy in a band like this wouldn't give a shit, but he recoiled, running to grab his sock and put it back on.

The show ended and the acid was starting to wear off. Oh, I was still bugging out, but it was mild and still enjoyable, yet depressing. I really need to take a hot, stinking, acid shit. A shower would help too. I found myself to the doors and out to the parking lot where it was still freezing, snowing, and insanely large. I had no idea what the bus situation was so I started running as fast as I could to get to it in time. I was running like a wildman, nearly getting hit by car after car. There were headlights flying at me and I kept dodging what felt like seven dozen automobiles. Honestly, I had no fucking idea where I was going. I was just running until I saw a bus.

Wouldn't you believe it, I made it to the right fucking bus.

The bus was CRAMMED. There were no available seats and plenty of people standing. Instead of just standing, I felt like forcing myself between two people who were seated. I squeezed my big ass right in between the thighs of two, now angry, people. I checked my face. The spectrum glasses were still on. It was definitely time to remove them.

When the bus took us back to Hempstead station, I ran into a familiar face. It was Steve fucking Hallibut. No shit. He wasn't a good friend of mine, but a friendly face from school. We would shoot the shit in class and he was an all-around good guy.

"NICK!" he shouted at me. "Were you at the show?"

"Yeah man! They were awesome. I've been on acid the whole time."

"No shit! Where was your seat?"

"Everywhere."

We rode the train back to NJ together, discussing the show and he offered to drop me off at my house when we got back to Middletown. Good deal. I really didn't feel like waiting for a cab at this time of night. Holy shit, it was nearly 3am when we got back to Middletown. Steve dropped me off at home where everything was snow-covered and very tranquil. It was moments like this where it was easy to fall in love with your own neighborhood. The sky black, the ground white, and everyone asleep. The block was mine.

I went into the house which was pitch-black. No one was home. Dad was with his girlfriend for the night and my brother was who-knows-where. Probably at Mom's. The microwave read 3:14am. Then the phone rang. I figured it was my mother who didn't want me to take this trip in the first place. I answered.

"Hello?"

It was my grandmother. She was calling to see how the concert went. We chatted for about 5-10 minutes and she was glad I had a good time.

What the hell was my grandmother calling me at 3am for? How the hell did she know that I'd be home at that time. The caller ID didn't show her number at all for that night and no one had been home. Either way it was really nice to hear from her after the long fucking day I had.

I love you Ba, and miss you dearly.

Feb. 16, 1996 Part 1 of 2

2010-04-09T09:37:00.000-07:00

(all names have been changed to protect the guilty)

Art rolled 2 blunts as we discussed the Red Hot Chili Peppers show which we would be attending that night.
"I want to be FUCKED UP when they hit the stage." said Art. "If we get close enough I want to throw a blunt up to Anthony Keidis."
We tossed around that idea for a while while we got high and waited for Dump to come by with the acid.

That night, the Red Hot Chili Peppers were going to be playing Nassau Coliseum in Long Island. This was in support for their newest release, One Hot Minute, which we were loving at the time. I was really excited since this was to be my very first true rock concert. The weather this day was horrible. There was a blizzard going on outside and I was hoping it wouldn't be too bad to where my dad couldn't drive us all as planned. There were 7 of us holding tickets and relying on ol' pop to transport us.

At around 12:30pm, Dump showed up with the acid. Yes. Art and I were now joined by Jay and Rob. The plan was to hold on to the hits until we started getting close to the venue, that way we could be peaking during the Chili Peppers set. We had our drug use down to a controlled science. We smoked some more weed, then headed over to my house right around the block.

While there, Dump was wearing a pair of "Spectrum Glasses" which basically look like those cheap, cardboard 3-D glasses you used to get at the movies or with a 3-D comic book, only the lenses were clear. When wearing these, anything reflecting light would have a mighty ray of colors shooting out of it. You could have rainbows dancing around the room wherever you look. I needed these for the show. After prying, he agreed to let me have them. My night was set. The snow fell harder and we carried on in my empty house like apes until the phone call came.

"Nick, its Dad."
"Hey...what's up?"
"The snow is really bad and the turnpike is shut down. I'm not going to be able to take you to the show tonight. I'm really sorry."

I broke the news to everyone. We were disappointed, but what could you do?

Fuck it. I decided I was going to take the train. For some insane reason no one else shared my enthusiasm for this decision. So after telling everyone to fuck off if they don't want to have a good time, I dropped the acid, put on the spectrum glasses, called a cab and headed to the Middletown train station.

Thats when I realized I had no idea where I was going. I knew that I had to get to Penn Station in NYC and that's about it. I stood there at the train station in the great nor'easter asking every person that I saw what train do I take to get to Penn Station. Oh yeah, at this point the acid was kicking in.

Finally on the train I could feel my skin running laps around my body and my head on the verge of exploding with drug-fueled laughter. I sat in the corner of train car, laughing like a maniac and chewing on the collar of my jacket as if it were giving me life. A drooling, laughing, twitching, teenager wearing cardboard glasses, set out for his first time to Long Island for a rock show. All this at 4:00pm.

We arrive at Penn Station and the LSD has fully consumed me. I'm barreling through the station like a raving lunatic, staring down every one who walks past me as I searched for someone who looked like they worked there. I found an African-American woman with bug-eyes standing in a long, clear plastic tube. She had a badge, so I figured she could help me.
"Can I help you with something?"
All I did was stare at her.
"Sir, do you need help?"
I tried to play it cool...
"I'M GOING TO NASSAU COLISEUM TO SEE THE RED HOT CHILI PEPPERS! WHERE DO I GO!?"
She gave me a very odd look. I can't even describe it, but I'm sure it was from my wild, Cookie-Monster-On-Acid eyes and the line of drool connecting my mouth to my coat.
She directed me to the Long Island Railroad. Wonderful, I thought.

On this half-dilapidated and very dark train, I sat trying to keep control. I squirmed, laughed, and talked to myself a lot but I kept things low-key. My train conductor was Iggy Pop and he was friendly and helpful. He told me exactly what to do once I reached Hempstead, the final stop on the L.I.R.

Once at Hempstead Station, I found the bus station across the street. Fortunately the uncontrollable insanity you feel early on in the acid trip was fading in to a good, strong, solid bugging-out. There was only a 10 minute wait for the bus which felt like 4 hours. The ride went well. I was able to keep calm and not draw attention to myself as I did on the 2 hours worth of trains I had just ridden. After about 15 minutes we arrived at Nassau Coliseum. We weren't dropped off in front of the place though. The stop was across the street. I should say, a 6 lane highway. And each lane was 100 yards wide. Good fucking God. How was I ever going to make it to the show alive!? I stood in the wild snow not knowing what I should do. The traffic just wouldn't stop. There was no traffic light in sight, and the highway seemed to go on forever. It did go on forever. The violent rainbows from the spectrum glasses shot out of every car headlight that passed and into other cars. Rainbows and cars everywhere. I saw a small gap and I ran. I was running, and a second ago I was completely alone on that highway and now I was in a group of about 35 people. Where the fuck did you all come from? Barely, we made it to the other side safely.

There it was. The huge arena just waiting for my arrival. The Chili Peppers were going to be awesome.

Ok So Here It Goes...

2010-04-09T08:17:00.000-07:00

OK! So I've started a blog just like everyone else. I can not say what my posts will consist of as I really have nothing to say. Maybe I'll do some movie/tv/music/book reviews, lists of things, or maybe just discuss my boring day. Whatever. If I could ever get 5 fucking minutes alone maybe I could think of something cool, but I'm not holding my breath. Here it is. I hope you find yourself entertained at one point or another.