My parent's originally wanted to name me Michael Matthew Truchan. They thought Michael was such a cool, hip, modern, and unique name. Matthew, my proposed middle name, was to be in honor of my father's nephew, and my godfather. And Truchan? Well that's the name the folks at Ellis Island butchered out of the family name Truckin and branded onto my family's ass (okay, the Truchan's never went through Ellis Island and our name was never really Truckin although that's what we "keep on doin'." I just haven't made an Ellis Island joke, in like, six years). So, if my parents went through with their initial plan (pun intended baby!), then my initials would be M.M.T. That doesn't stand for anything. It sounds like a computer technology institution in the Northeast.
Then came the change of heart. They realized everyone and their dog's ball sack was named Michael. For some reason, they thought the name Eric had just enough pizazz for a child like me. They then decided to act as if my godfather, Matthew, were dead and pushed that name out of the middle slot and into oblivion. I was, officially, Eric Truchan. My initials, therefore, became E.T. My parents initialed me into a fucking blockbuster alien with a glowing finger. My full, SAT-ready name, if you will, Eric Michael Truchan, came out to be E.M.T. So, in life, I either stand for an alien or an Emergency Medical Technician. These days, I like to think of myself as a little bit of both.
Growing up, it wasn't bad enough I had self-esteem issues. No, I had to have people laugh at me and call me E.T., saying I should go and phone my home. You have no idea how many times I wound up in the office in 1st grade, beginning the principal to let me call my parents, for something must have been wrong at the house. "Come on Mrs. Principal! My fellow classmates are having premonitions." See, I hated the movie "E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial" as a kid. I tried watching it many times but could not get through it. It was too slow and creepy. So, I was oblivious for quite some time as to why classmates laughed at my initials. Now, coincidentally, I really like that movie and it makes me want to cry for lonely children everywhere. Friends really do come in all shapes and sizes.
Even today, as an adult, I can't initial important documents without revealing a slight blush. I just know the person reading it is laughing at me, thanking the Lord their initials abbreviate to jack shit. Unless your name is John Smith. Then your initials could stand for jack shit. Sorry John Smith.
But I guess it could be worse. I could be Brian Licorice Taylor (B.L.T.) I could be Fred Undies (F.U.) Or I could be Peter Maria Sexophone (P.M.S.) These all kind of suck. I cause I'd rather be an Emergency Medical Technician and a child friendly alien than the bitchy symptoms to an on coming tampon party. So, I guess, I have to say it's not as bad as it could have been, Mom and Dad. But thanks for not having me out of wedlock!!!!
January 30, 2008
January 28, 2008
Cloverfield on a School Night
***If anyone hasn't seen this, there maybe a slight spoiler with very little info somewhere in here. But I don't think that will ruin the movie for 'ya.
Begin:
I finally saw the movie everyone's been telling their grandma's and mailmen to see. I went into it really, honestly, truthfully hoping to, not love it, but like it enough. I wanted to put all doubts and pessimisms behind me and just enjoy myself. I didn't want to feel like the only pretentious dick around who'd be waving my anti-flag (no relation to that band), and yelling negative things about a cultural phenomenon. But "Cloverfield" proved almost everything I had feared about the movie.
My friend, Shadi and I (I hope he doesn't care I mentioned his name. Sorry buddy), have been in a sporadic, all encompassing argument with one another since we were about 15 concerning the things pop culture we like. He's a big movie and music fan and so am I. But I think we pretty much hate 90% of the stuff each other likes. There's the occasional agreements, but he's kept life interesting, always putting down the underground and obscure shit I like. His recent bombast about my anti-pop-culturalism, in response to my "Cloverfield" predictions, got me thinking, "maybe I am being to harsh about this." I mean, I had never seen it, yet I was predicting the whole fucking plot like a midget God. In a way, I was branding the movie a piece of crap before watching just because I knew there was CGI in it. So, I thought I'd lighten up, and try to enjoy it. But again, I'm just could not like "Cloverfield." Here's why.
The characters were the worst people ever! I tried to overlook them. I tried to focus on the explosions and blood. After all, there's death and destruction running amok in the streets of New York. Why bother focusing on a group of bullshit characters when you have, as comedian *Ron Bennington calls it, "9/11 porn" flashing on the screen? But yet, these characters infected every scene. Not so much the running away and all that, since that's expected. But the stupid pausing to tell a corny joke. Terribly acting their cries for help into the camera. The ridiculous speech at the end. And on top of that, they turned this movie into a fucking love story. There's no need for this balderdash.
"Cloverfield" was nothing more than a Universal Studios ride, except they didn't spray me with water and shoot fire over my head. But, I didn't mind that. The film actually gave me a few adrenalin rushes as the suspense built. It was what action movies had failed to be for so many years, since "Die Hard" rip-offs became formulaic. "Cloverfield" did bring some fun and fancy fresh visual and aural action back to the screen. For those who have seen the film, the scene in which the army shoots at the monster while they run for the subway was one loud, bright, and intense scene that really got me excited. But, where the film went wrong was giving us too far and few of these moments of intensity, while we watched our heroes (?) run around like, um... bad actors.
First, the film tried to establish sympathy and character development (yeah right), at that annoying party scene. It was during this scene I had a quarter life crisis, thinking "Holy shit. This is really what people act like now a days." It was a diverse collection of Manhattan douchebaggery crammed into a young executive's hip apartment. I couldn't relate and just felt annoyed because I know these people, and I saw a guy in a plaid shirt and dark glasses walking around in the background, like me. Oh no wait, that was a JJ Abrams cameo. It made me want to go to that party, drink a lot, and pass out to die in the destruction.
I originally thought from the previews, "Cloverfield" would make a great 30 minute short film. After seeing the movie, I still feel that way. If this jitter cam fest was squeezed into an explosive, cryptic, and dark 30 minutes, I think I'd be blown away. I wouldn't care about the intrusiveness of special effects. There' d be less character interaction which would lead to a heightened, paranoid, everyman feeling of actually, physically being stuck in that situation. We wouldn't be wading through a mire of slow romantic subplot.
So I'm sorry to say, that I didn't not like "Cloverfield" I saw hope in it that I didn't think I'd see. It gave me some surprises, some shocks. It had a threads of potential. But those threads only frayed into the hyped film I thought it might be. So go ahead. Tell me I'm wrong. And maybe I am. An anti mother fucker over thinking something people just want to eat popcorn to. Because $46 million and counting in ticket sales can't be wrong. Oh wait, what about "Home Alone 2: Lost in New York"?
*Ron Bennington appears on the Ron and Fez Show on XM radio. Now that's some satisfying shit right there.
Begin:
I finally saw the movie everyone's been telling their grandma's and mailmen to see. I went into it really, honestly, truthfully hoping to, not love it, but like it enough. I wanted to put all doubts and pessimisms behind me and just enjoy myself. I didn't want to feel like the only pretentious dick around who'd be waving my anti-flag (no relation to that band), and yelling negative things about a cultural phenomenon. But "Cloverfield" proved almost everything I had feared about the movie.
My friend, Shadi and I (I hope he doesn't care I mentioned his name. Sorry buddy), have been in a sporadic, all encompassing argument with one another since we were about 15 concerning the things pop culture we like. He's a big movie and music fan and so am I. But I think we pretty much hate 90% of the stuff each other likes. There's the occasional agreements, but he's kept life interesting, always putting down the underground and obscure shit I like. His recent bombast about my anti-pop-culturalism, in response to my "Cloverfield" predictions, got me thinking, "maybe I am being to harsh about this." I mean, I had never seen it, yet I was predicting the whole fucking plot like a midget God. In a way, I was branding the movie a piece of crap before watching just because I knew there was CGI in it. So, I thought I'd lighten up, and try to enjoy it. But again, I'm just could not like "Cloverfield." Here's why.
The characters were the worst people ever! I tried to overlook them. I tried to focus on the explosions and blood. After all, there's death and destruction running amok in the streets of New York. Why bother focusing on a group of bullshit characters when you have, as comedian *Ron Bennington calls it, "9/11 porn" flashing on the screen? But yet, these characters infected every scene. Not so much the running away and all that, since that's expected. But the stupid pausing to tell a corny joke. Terribly acting their cries for help into the camera. The ridiculous speech at the end. And on top of that, they turned this movie into a fucking love story. There's no need for this balderdash.
"Cloverfield" was nothing more than a Universal Studios ride, except they didn't spray me with water and shoot fire over my head. But, I didn't mind that. The film actually gave me a few adrenalin rushes as the suspense built. It was what action movies had failed to be for so many years, since "Die Hard" rip-offs became formulaic. "Cloverfield" did bring some fun and fancy fresh visual and aural action back to the screen. For those who have seen the film, the scene in which the army shoots at the monster while they run for the subway was one loud, bright, and intense scene that really got me excited. But, where the film went wrong was giving us too far and few of these moments of intensity, while we watched our heroes (?) run around like, um... bad actors.
First, the film tried to establish sympathy and character development (yeah right), at that annoying party scene. It was during this scene I had a quarter life crisis, thinking "Holy shit. This is really what people act like now a days." It was a diverse collection of Manhattan douchebaggery crammed into a young executive's hip apartment. I couldn't relate and just felt annoyed because I know these people, and I saw a guy in a plaid shirt and dark glasses walking around in the background, like me. Oh no wait, that was a JJ Abrams cameo. It made me want to go to that party, drink a lot, and pass out to die in the destruction.
I originally thought from the previews, "Cloverfield" would make a great 30 minute short film. After seeing the movie, I still feel that way. If this jitter cam fest was squeezed into an explosive, cryptic, and dark 30 minutes, I think I'd be blown away. I wouldn't care about the intrusiveness of special effects. There' d be less character interaction which would lead to a heightened, paranoid, everyman feeling of actually, physically being stuck in that situation. We wouldn't be wading through a mire of slow romantic subplot.
So I'm sorry to say, that I didn't not like "Cloverfield" I saw hope in it that I didn't think I'd see. It gave me some surprises, some shocks. It had a threads of potential. But those threads only frayed into the hyped film I thought it might be. So go ahead. Tell me I'm wrong. And maybe I am. An anti mother fucker over thinking something people just want to eat popcorn to. Because $46 million and counting in ticket sales can't be wrong. Oh wait, what about "Home Alone 2: Lost in New York"?
*Ron Bennington appears on the Ron and Fez Show on XM radio. Now that's some satisfying shit right there.
January 27, 2008
Friends of the World Unite to Fill Out Surveys About Me
Every time I log onto the ol' 'space, I see someone I know has posted another quiz or survey about themselves. "Top 150 Things I Have Not Sucked" or "Why I'm a Raucous Lover Between the Sheets," is something I see everyday. And I see that my compatriots have taken the time to answer these questions with diligence and social fervor. I have not filled any of these out once. What am I not getting?
So to save the trouble of copying and pasting my life into little boxes of questions that ask if I've ever "Spooned in a car while listening to Journey," I've decided that you can now ask me anything you want. Yes, you can ask me any question you want, and then fill out a survey about me. How's that? I'm basically making you, the home internet surfer, become my questionnaire slave.
In the past, I've attempted to ask my friends and fellow bands I know to contribute one song to a compilation I was attempting to assemble for an indie record label I was trying to get off the ground, like a beautiful dove with a broken wing. Out of the 20 bands I asked to contribute a song, 18 said yes. As of today, I've received not one song to compile. Yet, I have faith that you will make your own quizzes about me, because somewhere along the line one of us has clicked the "approve" button allowing us to become friends of international social friend network (I.S.F.N. as I like to call it). This will conveniently leave me more time to write blogs and bulletins.
Want to know if I ever put toothpaste on my peter? Well, the answer is yes. Want to know if I ever jumped in a pool naked? Well, that would be a no. See how this works? Just ask me a question and you can fill out a myspace survey in my name. From my friends, I have learned so much about their past and present. For instance, I know that my friend Matt from grade school is "eatin pizza" on a Friday night and loves the show "The Office." Thanks to his survey, I know more about his life faster and more conveniently then I ever would if we talked. And who the fuck wants to do that these days.
"What's in it for me, the filler outer of another man's survey?" you might be asking yourself. Well, truthfully, nothing. Nothing but a wealth of knowledge about me. And who wouldn't want that? Plus, if you write out my surveys for me, it will help you become a faster typer, much in the way experts say reading more helps you become a faster reader. I love helping out my friends.
So, next time, when you want to write a survey about "20 Embarrassing Bathroom Moments," just give me a holler and I'll write you a brief bio on the subject. That way, we'll all be doing something together. Having internet friends is fucking awesome. Thanks digital buddies. Signing off.
Q: Did you ever fill out a blog complaining about surveys?
A: Yes.
So to save the trouble of copying and pasting my life into little boxes of questions that ask if I've ever "Spooned in a car while listening to Journey," I've decided that you can now ask me anything you want. Yes, you can ask me any question you want, and then fill out a survey about me. How's that? I'm basically making you, the home internet surfer, become my questionnaire slave.
In the past, I've attempted to ask my friends and fellow bands I know to contribute one song to a compilation I was attempting to assemble for an indie record label I was trying to get off the ground, like a beautiful dove with a broken wing. Out of the 20 bands I asked to contribute a song, 18 said yes. As of today, I've received not one song to compile. Yet, I have faith that you will make your own quizzes about me, because somewhere along the line one of us has clicked the "approve" button allowing us to become friends of international social friend network (I.S.F.N. as I like to call it). This will conveniently leave me more time to write blogs and bulletins.
Want to know if I ever put toothpaste on my peter? Well, the answer is yes. Want to know if I ever jumped in a pool naked? Well, that would be a no. See how this works? Just ask me a question and you can fill out a myspace survey in my name. From my friends, I have learned so much about their past and present. For instance, I know that my friend Matt from grade school is "eatin pizza" on a Friday night and loves the show "The Office." Thanks to his survey, I know more about his life faster and more conveniently then I ever would if we talked. And who the fuck wants to do that these days.
"What's in it for me, the filler outer of another man's survey?" you might be asking yourself. Well, truthfully, nothing. Nothing but a wealth of knowledge about me. And who wouldn't want that? Plus, if you write out my surveys for me, it will help you become a faster typer, much in the way experts say reading more helps you become a faster reader. I love helping out my friends.
So, next time, when you want to write a survey about "20 Embarrassing Bathroom Moments," just give me a holler and I'll write you a brief bio on the subject. That way, we'll all be doing something together. Having internet friends is fucking awesome. Thanks digital buddies. Signing off.
Q: Did you ever fill out a blog complaining about surveys?
A: Yes.
January 26, 2008
My Opinion of "Cop and a Half" and the People Who Hate Me For It
The guy on the left with the drool on his shirt is Mikey Achino. He thinks I'm an ugly fag because the only kid's movie every that I didn't like happened to be his favorite. What follows below, is the true story. Facebook, myspace's evil twin, added a movie review section a couple months back, and for a while, I was addicted. Now it's come back to bite me in the ass and make me cry. Boo-hoo-hoo. Can you hear me now?
The movie review section allows you to rate any movie on the good old star system (1 to 5 stars), and write a little review. Basically, it's a movie review blog center for you and your friends to see what each other enjoys. Pretty simple stuff, right? Wrong. It's hurtful.
A few months ago, I reviewed the Henry Winkler (the Fonz) directed movie "Cop and a Half." This movie holds a special rotten place in my heart. It stars Burt Reynolds as a washed up cop chasing some hardened criminals who, of course, always seem to find themselves outwitted by a zany dog or something. However, in this movie, the criminals are duped by an aging Reynolds, and a little black kid. Hence, the title. There's a cop. And I guess the little black kid is a half. I believe that's racist.
When I was little, I used to play with my grandma's next door neighbor Carissa. Carissa would slap me in the throat, kick my shins, and push me in the hedges. And her mother would invite me over to dinner every now and then. One time, her father asked me to remove my Dick Tracy hat because there were no hats at the dinner table. I never went back again.
One day Carissa's mom asked me if I wanted to go see Disney's newest masterpiece, "Aladdin." I said I wanted to, but then incessantly complained about going to see a wimpy movie. After days of whining, Her mother asked what I wanted to see instead. So, I named the manliest movie out at the time, "Cop and a Half." Two kids movies, one made to be a contemporary classic, the other made to help pay off Burt Reynolds hot tub debts. It was like going to Emeril's restaurant and ordering dried toast.
So, we passed up the movie Carissa and her mother wanted to see and saw the movie I didn't want to see at all, but wanted to see more than "Aladdin." And I hated it. As a child, I liked any movie. Especially kids movies. But even at the time, I couldn't believe how bad "Cop and a Half" was. It annoyed me, especially the kid helping the cop.
Cut to present times, and Facebook. I decided to review the movie, giving it a half-a-star, in honor of that half-a-kid. In my meaningless review, I called the kid in the movie "ugly," which he was. In every children's movies, the kids were usually cute and relateable. But the kid from "Cop and a Half" was definitely picked from the bottom of the casting barrel. I finished my review, basically saying how much I hated it and went on with my life.
The rest of 2007 started winding down. Thanksgiving came and went. So did Christmas. Then, early today, January 26, 2008, my review came back to sting. I logged onto my Facebook account and found a message someone sent me. Clicking on it, I found that someone named Mikey Achino from Chicago, IL had sent me a message. It read, and I quote, "dont dis cop and a half u ugly mother fucker."
I have no idea who Mikey Achino is. I was confused and hurt. Clicking on my movie review of "Cop and a Half" I found a list of reviews for the film by other people. I spotted mine, the one I posted months ago, and right under mine was Mikey Achino's review. It read, "this movie is awesome favorite movie growing up as a kid and this eric truchan kid is a fag, and ur ugly u fag" Besides the fact that Mikey Achino doesn't know how to use capital letters or punctuation, he has it in his head that I am a fag, and apparently very ugly. Hey man, my mom says I’m handsome.
Mikey Achino took the worst children’s movie I ever saw as a kid, found a review I wrote as an adult, took the time to message me a personal comment about my looks, and then posted a public domain review about what a "fag" I was. Unbelievable string of event by Mr. Mikey Achino. Applause to the frat guy who claims he likes The Dismemberment Plan and, of course, Death Cab for Cutie.
If you see or know Mikey Achino from Chicago, feel free to kick him for me or send him boat loads of spam messages. I never thought this children's movie would come back to make me cry so hard in my beer. Damn you Mikey Achino. You have not won yet!!!
January 24, 2008
Excuse Me While I Drink Myself to Death (if I can find a fountain)
A water fountain is like a friend. It's really hard to find a good one. These days, finding a properly functioning water fountain could take up half your day. You may pass out due to bouts of dehydration in the mean time, but the adequate chill, and that strong trajectory, are essential to a fun water fountain experience.
We have become spoiled in the water fountains department of life ever since those kind with the cooling system came out. Remember in elementary school when the only water fountains around where those alabaster, porcelain ones that looked like it was made from spare toilet bowl parts? The water always tasted like toilet water too. And how about those racially segregated water fountains? Yeesh, that was embarrassing for ever party involved. But now a days, the ones with the chilling system is standard. Rather than feeling privileged, however, I just feel jipped.
Today, in search of a drink, every water fountain I came to was complete garbage. The water trickled out slowly, the water was too warm, or the trajectory was actually too good, in fact, that it shot right out the spout and off the designated basin area. Finally, I came across a complete, and fully functioning one. Nice range of water spoutage, proper temperature (cold enough to give your front tooth a slight sting). It was nirvana. A completely free and refreshing nirvana, I might add.
Still, to come to that point, I had to walk around, building to building of the Montclair campus to meet my needs. And it's not just the college that has the problem. It's every office building, high school, public park, mortuary. You name it, there's a piss poor water fountain on the premise. For once, I can't blame this problem on the internet or Republicans. Don't worry though. I'll think of a way.
We have become spoiled in the water fountains department of life ever since those kind with the cooling system came out. Remember in elementary school when the only water fountains around where those alabaster, porcelain ones that looked like it was made from spare toilet bowl parts? The water always tasted like toilet water too. And how about those racially segregated water fountains? Yeesh, that was embarrassing for ever party involved. But now a days, the ones with the chilling system is standard. Rather than feeling privileged, however, I just feel jipped.
Today, in search of a drink, every water fountain I came to was complete garbage. The water trickled out slowly, the water was too warm, or the trajectory was actually too good, in fact, that it shot right out the spout and off the designated basin area. Finally, I came across a complete, and fully functioning one. Nice range of water spoutage, proper temperature (cold enough to give your front tooth a slight sting). It was nirvana. A completely free and refreshing nirvana, I might add.
Still, to come to that point, I had to walk around, building to building of the Montclair campus to meet my needs. And it's not just the college that has the problem. It's every office building, high school, public park, mortuary. You name it, there's a piss poor water fountain on the premise. For once, I can't blame this problem on the internet or Republicans. Don't worry though. I'll think of a way.
January 23, 2008
I Killed My Band: The Signing-Off Letter of Network of Halos
I posted the following message tonight on myspace announcing the demise of my band and decided it would be today's blog since it was lengthy. If you are unfamiliar with the band, Network of Halos, you can check out our music and releases at http://www.myspace.com/networkofhalos5 It's self-promotion baby!!! Without any further ado, here's the farewell notice from the headmaster of my rock n' roll starship.
Yes, just like The Velvet Underground and The Beatles, Network of Halos is hanging up the Chuck Taylors and walking the bumpy road ahead, barefoot. What the fuck am I talking about? Anyways, I've decided to retire the Network of Halos moniker and take a break from trying to take over the world with such baby steps.
I've hit a songwriting slump that's been bugging me. Thinking about the inactivity of Network of Halos hasn't exactly helped. It's been more of a drag coming to terms with the band's inactivity of playing shows and not recording as a group than anything else.
I always said I would NEVER break up Network of Halos, since it was essentially me and my 4-track. I swore on this. Lo-fi would never die. I could record endlessly under the name and never hang up my cleats. Then, Network of Halos became a band with the help of my girlfriend Kristin, my friend Mike, and my brother Brian. With them, I played my first show fronting a band, a dream of mine since I was 8. I actually played the guitar in front of people, an instrument I convinced myself I'd never be able to play when I was..oh, 8. And we actually sold a few c.d.s along the way.
But now, as I said, thinking about the slump of this band has really gotten me down. It may be a cop out. You may call me a pussy. Shit, The Mr. T Experience was around for 16 years and only sold about 19 records, all of which I purchased (good God). But they didn't give in. Why am I? Well, my heart's not in it at the moment.
There' s still another NOH album in the can, all music recorded, currently lacking vocals. I might release it posthumously, or as a solo Eric Truchan album (the solo idea is actually pretty stupid, but then again, I can be pretty stupid sometimes too). The band of Halos (Me, Mike, Kristin, and Brian), might reunite one day, Mission of Burma/Misfits style but that's all down the road. We'll see where this all leads.
Currently, Kristin and I are trying to hammer out some new songs together, rather than me trying to take on the burden of being a Dylan/Pollard/Mark E. Smith character, which I am so far from. Our project is yet unnamed and is currently restricted to unplugged bass/acoustic guitar strumming in the bedroom. Also, I'm playing drums with Eric Gieg in our band Atlas At Least. So the Truchan music machine isn't dead completely, just in a readjusting phase.
Our 3 albums are still available, including the newest "May All the Paperboys Unite." The 3 limited EPs are still available too although dwindling in numbers. Your best bet is to purchase the split EP Mike and I put out, entitled "Network of None" featuring Mike's only solo, lo-fi recordings, so far, under the name Nineteen Ninety None. It's tops!
Other than that, thanks for all the support and maybe you'll see the Network of Halos steamroller coming over the horizon in the near or late future. Who knows, maybe I'll post a retraction two days from now but I doubt it. After all, Screeching Weasel broke up and re-formed 3 times, so just as long as your body lives on, the possibility of the band is still around. None of us had a drug related falling out or money laundering problem so it's quite possible. Hope this doesn't add to your Heath Ledger fueled sadness.
Thank you to all the bands and friends who helped us and will continue to help us in the future. Sorry for the spelling mistakes in this post. It's been a blast. Just a boy, his friends, and his tape machine.
Take care. Thanks for listening.
-Eric Truchan
Yes, just like The Velvet Underground and The Beatles, Network of Halos is hanging up the Chuck Taylors and walking the bumpy road ahead, barefoot. What the fuck am I talking about? Anyways, I've decided to retire the Network of Halos moniker and take a break from trying to take over the world with such baby steps.
I've hit a songwriting slump that's been bugging me. Thinking about the inactivity of Network of Halos hasn't exactly helped. It's been more of a drag coming to terms with the band's inactivity of playing shows and not recording as a group than anything else.
I always said I would NEVER break up Network of Halos, since it was essentially me and my 4-track. I swore on this. Lo-fi would never die. I could record endlessly under the name and never hang up my cleats. Then, Network of Halos became a band with the help of my girlfriend Kristin, my friend Mike, and my brother Brian. With them, I played my first show fronting a band, a dream of mine since I was 8. I actually played the guitar in front of people, an instrument I convinced myself I'd never be able to play when I was..oh, 8. And we actually sold a few c.d.s along the way.
But now, as I said, thinking about the slump of this band has really gotten me down. It may be a cop out. You may call me a pussy. Shit, The Mr. T Experience was around for 16 years and only sold about 19 records, all of which I purchased (good God). But they didn't give in. Why am I? Well, my heart's not in it at the moment.
There' s still another NOH album in the can, all music recorded, currently lacking vocals. I might release it posthumously, or as a solo Eric Truchan album (the solo idea is actually pretty stupid, but then again, I can be pretty stupid sometimes too). The band of Halos (Me, Mike, Kristin, and Brian), might reunite one day, Mission of Burma/Misfits style but that's all down the road. We'll see where this all leads.
Currently, Kristin and I are trying to hammer out some new songs together, rather than me trying to take on the burden of being a Dylan/Pollard/Mark E. Smith character, which I am so far from. Our project is yet unnamed and is currently restricted to unplugged bass/acoustic guitar strumming in the bedroom. Also, I'm playing drums with Eric Gieg in our band Atlas At Least. So the Truchan music machine isn't dead completely, just in a readjusting phase.
Our 3 albums are still available, including the newest "May All the Paperboys Unite." The 3 limited EPs are still available too although dwindling in numbers. Your best bet is to purchase the split EP Mike and I put out, entitled "Network of None" featuring Mike's only solo, lo-fi recordings, so far, under the name Nineteen Ninety None. It's tops!
Other than that, thanks for all the support and maybe you'll see the Network of Halos steamroller coming over the horizon in the near or late future. Who knows, maybe I'll post a retraction two days from now but I doubt it. After all, Screeching Weasel broke up and re-formed 3 times, so just as long as your body lives on, the possibility of the band is still around. None of us had a drug related falling out or money laundering problem so it's quite possible. Hope this doesn't add to your Heath Ledger fueled sadness.
Thank you to all the bands and friends who helped us and will continue to help us in the future. Sorry for the spelling mistakes in this post. It's been a blast. Just a boy, his friends, and his tape machine.
Take care. Thanks for listening.
-Eric Truchan
January 22, 2008
...or How I Learned to Stop Worrying & Love Steven's Firetruck
When I was 10, I had a drawing contest with this kid Steven who lived down the street. Steven was a kid who had an awesome pool, and when you know a kid with a pool, you will automatically do anything short of sucking private parts to get in that pool. Those of you who had a pool as a kid...well, maybe some sucking was done to you? Either way, he had a pool and we had a drawing contest.
Steven drew a firetruck with a 3-D ladder popping off the page. It was pretty cool. I could not draw three dimensionally, or at all for that matter. So, I chose to go for the low blow.
My drawing was of a man screaming in pain, trapped in a room with a single lightbulb dangling above his head that looked like a crooked penis with rays of sun shooting out of it. Around him, and here's where the low blow comes in, I chose to have the man surrounded by cockroaches. This entailed that I draw hundreds of miniature circles, with four legs coming out of each circle. I made sure I drew four legs for perfect realism and detail, as to accentuate the cockroaches horror inflicted upon the man.
When I finished, three hours later, my drawing was a mess. You couldn't tell roach from roach. It just looked like a screaming guy, with a penis still dangling above his head shooting sunbeams out of it, stuck in a pool of lead colored spaghetti. Meanwhile, Steven had finished his firetruck drawing and sat playing Maximum Carnage or Sim City on the SNES.
When I finally finished for good, Steven asked the friendly, local art critic to judge our pictures. His mom took a long hard look at both pictures, eyeballing the intricacies of both. Would it be Steven's block shaped, 3-D, yet kind of primitive firetruck? Or my cockroach nightmare? The pressure was intense, to say the least.
Finally, after some sweet talking to her, and friendly competitive banter to each other, she said, "Well, this 3-D ladder is pretty neat but I like Eric's bug picture." I won the contest, leaving Steven to mope around, trying to whine to his mommy that firetrucks helped people stay safe and how it was really tough to draw and all that nonsense. I had stumped his mom into thinking my hundreds of cockroaches actually took skill, and not geeklike persistence, to sketch.
Steven didn't talk to me for about an hour and said we couldn't play with his Nerf guns anymore. I sat on his couch in the basement watching him play Super Mario World. We didn't speak. Finally, he said he was bored and I agreed I was too. I went home, leaving my drawing in his basement, not knowing if I'd see him again. It was pretty brutal.
The next day we hung out and swam in his pool because, again, being a pool guy makes you tops in my book. That day, while doing the dog paddle in the deep end, I got to thinking about his firetruck and how he actually he drew a pretty realistic looking hose on the side of it. All I wanted to do was win, so his mom could tell me I was a champion. She wasn't even hot for Christ's sake. So now, sitting here thinking about the days of past artistries, I'd like to had my championship over to you Steven. Even if you go to your grave, never laying eyes on this tale of two egos gone wrong.
Steven drew a firetruck with a 3-D ladder popping off the page. It was pretty cool. I could not draw three dimensionally, or at all for that matter. So, I chose to go for the low blow.
My drawing was of a man screaming in pain, trapped in a room with a single lightbulb dangling above his head that looked like a crooked penis with rays of sun shooting out of it. Around him, and here's where the low blow comes in, I chose to have the man surrounded by cockroaches. This entailed that I draw hundreds of miniature circles, with four legs coming out of each circle. I made sure I drew four legs for perfect realism and detail, as to accentuate the cockroaches horror inflicted upon the man.
When I finished, three hours later, my drawing was a mess. You couldn't tell roach from roach. It just looked like a screaming guy, with a penis still dangling above his head shooting sunbeams out of it, stuck in a pool of lead colored spaghetti. Meanwhile, Steven had finished his firetruck drawing and sat playing Maximum Carnage or Sim City on the SNES.
When I finally finished for good, Steven asked the friendly, local art critic to judge our pictures. His mom took a long hard look at both pictures, eyeballing the intricacies of both. Would it be Steven's block shaped, 3-D, yet kind of primitive firetruck? Or my cockroach nightmare? The pressure was intense, to say the least.
Finally, after some sweet talking to her, and friendly competitive banter to each other, she said, "Well, this 3-D ladder is pretty neat but I like Eric's bug picture." I won the contest, leaving Steven to mope around, trying to whine to his mommy that firetrucks helped people stay safe and how it was really tough to draw and all that nonsense. I had stumped his mom into thinking my hundreds of cockroaches actually took skill, and not geeklike persistence, to sketch.
Steven didn't talk to me for about an hour and said we couldn't play with his Nerf guns anymore. I sat on his couch in the basement watching him play Super Mario World. We didn't speak. Finally, he said he was bored and I agreed I was too. I went home, leaving my drawing in his basement, not knowing if I'd see him again. It was pretty brutal.
The next day we hung out and swam in his pool because, again, being a pool guy makes you tops in my book. That day, while doing the dog paddle in the deep end, I got to thinking about his firetruck and how he actually he drew a pretty realistic looking hose on the side of it. All I wanted to do was win, so his mom could tell me I was a champion. She wasn't even hot for Christ's sake. So now, sitting here thinking about the days of past artistries, I'd like to had my championship over to you Steven. Even if you go to your grave, never laying eyes on this tale of two egos gone wrong.
January 21, 2008
Today, I Won the Super Bowl
First of all, I must say I was never big on Football. American Football that is to you Soccer savvy savants. But this New York Giants run has been so exhilarating to watch in the past few weeks, and I must say last night's Ice Bowl against the Packers was no exception. I was yelling, cursing, sweating, squinting through tight eyelids. What a game. It was like a bad Disney movie, starring Tony Danza. If I saw last night's game in a movie, I would say, "No way the kicker misses a field goal in the 4th quarter but banks one in overtime. Stupid movies." But why am I writing about football, a sport I used to despise as a child and only watched sporadically as a teenager?
Well thanks to my state of the art Nintendo 64 video game console, along with Madden 2001 from EA Sports, I have grown to admire the intricacies of the game. Football that is. This game, Madden that is, has taught me the many life lessons of 3rd down conversions, the art of the linebacker, and that posting digital replays of your best video game moments on youtube does not automatically qualify you as a baby raper.
Tonight, in my second franchised season as head coach of the 2001 lineup New England Patriots, I led my men to victory in the Super Bowl. We beat the Washington Red Skins 42-31. Before you critical fans start throwing Cheetos at your screen booing me for my choice of team, let me just say, starting your franchise as the Cleveland Browns is fucking impossible. If you suck at the game, like me, you must pick a bulldozer of a team to even win your first game against the Gimpville Gusses. But tonight, I won, making 64 bit coach, Eric Truchan, a Super Bowl winning coach.
Thank you Madden 2001 for showing me the way of the game. Whether by turf or grass, domed top or opened, pass play or rush, Madden 2001 has become my pigskin Bible. I go to bed tonight a Super Bowl champion and wake up tomorrow a fucking loser.
Well thanks to my state of the art Nintendo 64 video game console, along with Madden 2001 from EA Sports, I have grown to admire the intricacies of the game. Football that is. This game, Madden that is, has taught me the many life lessons of 3rd down conversions, the art of the linebacker, and that posting digital replays of your best video game moments on youtube does not automatically qualify you as a baby raper.
Tonight, in my second franchised season as head coach of the 2001 lineup New England Patriots, I led my men to victory in the Super Bowl. We beat the Washington Red Skins 42-31. Before you critical fans start throwing Cheetos at your screen booing me for my choice of team, let me just say, starting your franchise as the Cleveland Browns is fucking impossible. If you suck at the game, like me, you must pick a bulldozer of a team to even win your first game against the Gimpville Gusses. But tonight, I won, making 64 bit coach, Eric Truchan, a Super Bowl winning coach.
Thank you Madden 2001 for showing me the way of the game. Whether by turf or grass, domed top or opened, pass play or rush, Madden 2001 has become my pigskin Bible. I go to bed tonight a Super Bowl champion and wake up tomorrow a fucking loser.
January 20, 2008
Comment Me Please, I'm Fuckin' Dying Here
I am extremely tired of people demanding that we all comment each other online. Would you walk into a bar, lift your shirt sleeves, and ask the brutish motorcycle gang in the corner, "Hey, can you comment on my physique?" No, you wouldn't. So why is everyone, of every age demographic, asking complete strangers, or online friends, to give their opinions about a picture of themselves with french fries shoved in their mouth while flexing in a mirror. Yeah, I know you're humorous, and I'll tell you when I want too, dammit.
I have also recently seen some requests from people in their myspace bulletins that demand, "Do not message me. Comment me." My well-thought out, personalized message to you, punctuated with the word "Sincerely," is now obsolete. My inner feelings to you now have to be posted so your other "friends" you barely know are aware of the fact that I felt a need to tell you something mundane. Is nothing sacred?
Recently, I hung out with a guy that I don't even like for about 20 minutes and I mentioned something I saw on his myspace page. Rather than showing gratitude that I even noticed his stupid anecdote in the first place, he just asked, "Why didn't you just comment me?" I don't know, I just thought seeing your face would have been a little more genuine, asshole.
Is this the new friendship give and take of our generation? No longer "you scratch my back, and I'll scratch yours." Now it's "show people you know me, and maybe I'll tell you one of your pics looks sexy, but in an ironic gay sort of way." It's all about the fake friendship hype now. What if my car breaks down? Will you, online friend who seeks comments, help pick me up on the side of the road? Will you console me when a family member dies? No, because you're busy commenting other peoples pics.
I have also recently seen some requests from people in their myspace bulletins that demand, "Do not message me. Comment me." My well-thought out, personalized message to you, punctuated with the word "Sincerely," is now obsolete. My inner feelings to you now have to be posted so your other "friends" you barely know are aware of the fact that I felt a need to tell you something mundane. Is nothing sacred?
Recently, I hung out with a guy that I don't even like for about 20 minutes and I mentioned something I saw on his myspace page. Rather than showing gratitude that I even noticed his stupid anecdote in the first place, he just asked, "Why didn't you just comment me?" I don't know, I just thought seeing your face would have been a little more genuine, asshole.
Is this the new friendship give and take of our generation? No longer "you scratch my back, and I'll scratch yours." Now it's "show people you know me, and maybe I'll tell you one of your pics looks sexy, but in an ironic gay sort of way." It's all about the fake friendship hype now. What if my car breaks down? Will you, online friend who seeks comments, help pick me up on the side of the road? Will you console me when a family member dies? No, because you're busy commenting other peoples pics.
January 18, 2008
Chachi or No Chaci? Every Vote Matters!
Back in the late '90s, Nick at Nite introduced "Happy Days" into their nightly lineup of baby boom nostalgia and post Vietnam moonlighting. And I was glued to my television. Oh, that Fonz was quite a role model to my middle school self. I wanted to punch every jukebox and make it spark into action. I wanted to be Ralph Malph and come out with the COOLEST one liners at Arnold's restaurant, or an establishement of similar interest. I wanted to take my awkwardness and spin it into Richie Cunningham gold the way he could, episode after episode. But I couldn't. Everyday was another fat joke and spelling test for me.
But Nick at Nite gave me a chance to have a say in the world a full seven years before I could vote for president. One night, they announced that you could vote whether you liked your "Happy Days" episodes "Chachi-nated" or "Un-Chachi-nated". For those of you who are confused, Chachi-nated meant you preferred the episodes of "Happy Days" featuring Fonzie's cousin, Chachi Arcola, played by past Tiger Beat phenom Scott Baio. If you liked your episodes un-Chachi-nated, that meant you enjoyed the carefree days of timeless issues of teenage love, high school hi jinx, and self-esteem issues that comprised the original themes of the show. It was a way for Nick at Nite to conduct a pre-"American Idol "phone in championship to rate the 2 phases of the show. In a way, it was like "Family Matters." Do you like the show when the "family mattered," or did you like it when Urkel started splicing his genes into superhunks and exploring space with time travel machines?
I was ecstatic to have a say in something so important. I, Eric Truchan, would be able to judge the significant plot devices of a pop culture, television juggernaut such as "Happy Days." I dialed, with parent permission of course, and voted for the shitty period of the show, when Chachi entered the picture. Hence, I voted for my episodes to be Chachi-nated. I mattered in the world! Chaci's street smarts, like Fanzie's, made me jealous of that fact that my book smarts meant shit. Plus, he was my age, and thin to boot! Girls liked him. He talked with a tough, Italian accent that made him seem infallible. I was weak, and he got my vote. He would speak for me, and I, vicariously, through him.
For a whole week, I waited anxiously by my post 8 PM television set, waiting for Nick at Nite to tally its totals. Would Scott Baio win, or would the original charm of the show win out? Finally, Nick at Nite announced that Chachi-nated episodes won. YES! I was victorious. My vote had been included, and Chachi was king of the happiest days of them all. The original episodes didn't matter any more. The only thing that mattered was Chachi and me.
At the present moment, I'm watching Chachi, aka Scott Baio, on VH1, whoring his girlfriend and himelf off for money as they let TV cameras film the oncoming of their first child. Now, I'm appalled I let my chubby little fingers call Nick at Nite and vote for my episodes to be, as they said, "Chocked full of Chachi." I want my vote back. I want Richie, and Ralph, and Anson Williams himself to convene at Arnold's and eat a hamburger. It's on me, fellas. Preferable, while Rivers Cuomo and the 90's Weezer gang play "Buddy Holly" behind them. I am now, in my wise old age, officially Un-Chachi-nated. Sorry Scott Baio. (I get into a car with Jenna Elfman in "Can't Hardly Wait" wearing angel wings. (side note: what's up with Jenna Elfman?))
But Nick at Nite gave me a chance to have a say in the world a full seven years before I could vote for president. One night, they announced that you could vote whether you liked your "Happy Days" episodes "Chachi-nated" or "Un-Chachi-nated". For those of you who are confused, Chachi-nated meant you preferred the episodes of "Happy Days" featuring Fonzie's cousin, Chachi Arcola, played by past Tiger Beat phenom Scott Baio. If you liked your episodes un-Chachi-nated, that meant you enjoyed the carefree days of timeless issues of teenage love, high school hi jinx, and self-esteem issues that comprised the original themes of the show. It was a way for Nick at Nite to conduct a pre-"American Idol "phone in championship to rate the 2 phases of the show. In a way, it was like "Family Matters." Do you like the show when the "family mattered," or did you like it when Urkel started splicing his genes into superhunks and exploring space with time travel machines?
I was ecstatic to have a say in something so important. I, Eric Truchan, would be able to judge the significant plot devices of a pop culture, television juggernaut such as "Happy Days." I dialed, with parent permission of course, and voted for the shitty period of the show, when Chachi entered the picture. Hence, I voted for my episodes to be Chachi-nated. I mattered in the world! Chaci's street smarts, like Fanzie's, made me jealous of that fact that my book smarts meant shit. Plus, he was my age, and thin to boot! Girls liked him. He talked with a tough, Italian accent that made him seem infallible. I was weak, and he got my vote. He would speak for me, and I, vicariously, through him.
For a whole week, I waited anxiously by my post 8 PM television set, waiting for Nick at Nite to tally its totals. Would Scott Baio win, or would the original charm of the show win out? Finally, Nick at Nite announced that Chachi-nated episodes won. YES! I was victorious. My vote had been included, and Chachi was king of the happiest days of them all. The original episodes didn't matter any more. The only thing that mattered was Chachi and me.
At the present moment, I'm watching Chachi, aka Scott Baio, on VH1, whoring his girlfriend and himelf off for money as they let TV cameras film the oncoming of their first child. Now, I'm appalled I let my chubby little fingers call Nick at Nite and vote for my episodes to be, as they said, "Chocked full of Chachi." I want my vote back. I want Richie, and Ralph, and Anson Williams himself to convene at Arnold's and eat a hamburger. It's on me, fellas. Preferable, while Rivers Cuomo and the 90's Weezer gang play "Buddy Holly" behind them. I am now, in my wise old age, officially Un-Chachi-nated. Sorry Scott Baio. (I get into a car with Jenna Elfman in "Can't Hardly Wait" wearing angel wings. (side note: what's up with Jenna Elfman?))
January 17, 2008
Cloverfiled Predictions
Tomorrow, the much hyped, much debated, much message-boarded (?) movie, "Cloverfield" hit theaters, and frankly, I think it's gonna be one redundant, boring, and predictable exercise in innovative film making, if by innovative we mean hand held camera work.
Also, everyone seems to be getting a real boner regarding this movie because mega-stud of the television world and behind-the-scenes geek mogul, J.J. Abrams, has his fingerprints all over the thing. Now, I still can't figure out why we as a viewing public keep giving this guy so much credit for his awesomeness. Granted, I am a big fan of "Lost" but let's check out his rap sheet:
J.J. Abrams-Achievements!!!!!
-Co-creator of ABCs hit TV show "Lost" (okay, that's cool. But he was brought in to help try to sell the show in the first place based on his other TV hit "Alias")
-Creator of "Alias" (this is not a cool thing at all.)
-Co-Creator of the WBs smash hit show "Felicity" (This is also not a good thing.)
-Directed "Mission: Impossible III (Wow, another boner of a movie in the chronicles of American film)
-Wears super hip black rimmed glasses with spiked hair. (people think this makes him cool but he just looks like a lame Ira Glass from "This American Life")
I have revoked JJ Abrams of any credit for doing anything significant in this world.
Now, here are my Cloverfield Predictions:
-The film opens up with that party scene we keep seeing on the commercials. You know, the one where that Daniel Stern looking guy says, "this is gonna be the best night ever." Nice ironic foreshadowing. I bet this party scene will last at least 25 minutes, showing tons of boring and shallow characters that the film wants us to get to like and sympathize with.
-Then the monster comes as we keep waiting for anything to happen at all. The room will probably shake, signifying the beginning of the attack. Explosions in the sky. Statue of Liberty's head whizzes along the street. People scream. The mayhem has started.
-Then, people at the party can't find their friends. They freak out. One group of friends break off and band together. Inevitably, one guy becomes the unnamed leader of the pack. They retreat to the subways. Then, we're stuck in here for a while as loud banging noises come from the streets above. At some point, the power goes out.
-After a lot of suspenseful noises and hard to identify flashes in the dark salvation arrives. Eventually, the army comes in to rescue our band of friends in distress. One or two of the semi-main characters will die during the duration of the rescue mission. The black friend will also disappear during the course of the film.
-Now the army tries to air lift the group out as we see areal shots of the smoldering skyscrapers. The group of friends cry in disbelief, covered in blankets, dried blood stuck to their brows.
-We realize the devastation continues. No happy ending. The film becomes an allegory for global warming, pollution, and/or nuclear war. The movie turns out to be, basically, the middle of a Godzilla movie turned into a feature length. Roll credits.
That's what I think "Cloverfield" will turn out to be. 90 minutes of a new "Blair Witch Project" that people won't bitch about because we'll see CGI explosions and brief glimpses of the monster. I hope to see this thing during a matinée showing or the Tuesday night $5 special at the multiplex. If anyone sees this movie over the weekend, feel free to tell me if I was on or off with these predictions. Happy viewing.
Also, everyone seems to be getting a real boner regarding this movie because mega-stud of the television world and behind-the-scenes geek mogul, J.J. Abrams, has his fingerprints all over the thing. Now, I still can't figure out why we as a viewing public keep giving this guy so much credit for his awesomeness. Granted, I am a big fan of "Lost" but let's check out his rap sheet:
J.J. Abrams-Achievements!!!!!
-Co-creator of ABCs hit TV show "Lost" (okay, that's cool. But he was brought in to help try to sell the show in the first place based on his other TV hit "Alias")
-Creator of "Alias" (this is not a cool thing at all.)
-Co-Creator of the WBs smash hit show "Felicity" (This is also not a good thing.)
-Directed "Mission: Impossible III (Wow, another boner of a movie in the chronicles of American film)
-Wears super hip black rimmed glasses with spiked hair. (people think this makes him cool but he just looks like a lame Ira Glass from "This American Life")
I have revoked JJ Abrams of any credit for doing anything significant in this world.
Now, here are my Cloverfield Predictions:
-The film opens up with that party scene we keep seeing on the commercials. You know, the one where that Daniel Stern looking guy says, "this is gonna be the best night ever." Nice ironic foreshadowing. I bet this party scene will last at least 25 minutes, showing tons of boring and shallow characters that the film wants us to get to like and sympathize with.
-Then the monster comes as we keep waiting for anything to happen at all. The room will probably shake, signifying the beginning of the attack. Explosions in the sky. Statue of Liberty's head whizzes along the street. People scream. The mayhem has started.
-Then, people at the party can't find their friends. They freak out. One group of friends break off and band together. Inevitably, one guy becomes the unnamed leader of the pack. They retreat to the subways. Then, we're stuck in here for a while as loud banging noises come from the streets above. At some point, the power goes out.
-After a lot of suspenseful noises and hard to identify flashes in the dark salvation arrives. Eventually, the army comes in to rescue our band of friends in distress. One or two of the semi-main characters will die during the duration of the rescue mission. The black friend will also disappear during the course of the film.
-Now the army tries to air lift the group out as we see areal shots of the smoldering skyscrapers. The group of friends cry in disbelief, covered in blankets, dried blood stuck to their brows.
-We realize the devastation continues. No happy ending. The film becomes an allegory for global warming, pollution, and/or nuclear war. The movie turns out to be, basically, the middle of a Godzilla movie turned into a feature length. Roll credits.
That's what I think "Cloverfield" will turn out to be. 90 minutes of a new "Blair Witch Project" that people won't bitch about because we'll see CGI explosions and brief glimpses of the monster. I hope to see this thing during a matinée showing or the Tuesday night $5 special at the multiplex. If anyone sees this movie over the weekend, feel free to tell me if I was on or off with these predictions. Happy viewing.
January 16, 2008
I Know It's Winter When...
January is definitely here. Christmas has been packed away. The trees are tossed to the curb, unless you condone hayseed behavior, the DVD box sets are categorized on the shelves. Yes, winter has kicked in and I am feeling the effects. How can I tell? I'm becoming all too familiar with terrible sitcoms I never watch any other time of the year.
Every year, around this time, I find myself catching syndicated episodes of shows you generally couldn't pay me to watch. And the thing is, I never go out of my way to watch them. Just by being around other company, whether it be while eating dinner on the couch, passing through a living room, or lying in bed with a random station playing in the background, I'm catching way to many episodes of "Everybody Loves Raymond" and "Yes Dear." I've become an avid watcher of "Home Improvement" since December 26 and stop what I'm doing to watch Tim Allen hammer another nail into his hand. Don't get me wrong, I do enjoy "Home Improvement" in its own little cozy, corny way, but I should not be devoting so much attention to these reruns when I have a whole "Twin Peaks" box set going unwatched as I type.
The fact that I'm picking up on plot points and arching story lines for shows called, something like "Six Men and a Monkey" makes me feel like less of a person. Damn winter is here. It is a season I love when I'm outside in the wonderful wintry majesty. But when the cold keeps me in, I'm covered in a blizzard of cable station syndicated, laugh track coated, sitcoms. Everybody may love you Raymond, but frankly, I'm sick of you. And we still have February and March...
Every year, around this time, I find myself catching syndicated episodes of shows you generally couldn't pay me to watch. And the thing is, I never go out of my way to watch them. Just by being around other company, whether it be while eating dinner on the couch, passing through a living room, or lying in bed with a random station playing in the background, I'm catching way to many episodes of "Everybody Loves Raymond" and "Yes Dear." I've become an avid watcher of "Home Improvement" since December 26 and stop what I'm doing to watch Tim Allen hammer another nail into his hand. Don't get me wrong, I do enjoy "Home Improvement" in its own little cozy, corny way, but I should not be devoting so much attention to these reruns when I have a whole "Twin Peaks" box set going unwatched as I type.
The fact that I'm picking up on plot points and arching story lines for shows called, something like "Six Men and a Monkey" makes me feel like less of a person. Damn winter is here. It is a season I love when I'm outside in the wonderful wintry majesty. But when the cold keeps me in, I'm covered in a blizzard of cable station syndicated, laugh track coated, sitcoms. Everybody may love you Raymond, but frankly, I'm sick of you. And we still have February and March...
January 15, 2008
Creepy Crawlers Champion of Central NJ: 1993-1996 (self-proclaimed)
Does anyone remember Creepy Crawlers? When this toy hit the market, I flipped my lid, and crapped my pants at the same time so I guess I crapped my lid. When I saw the commercials on Nickelodeon, I thought the coolest toy in the world had just been invented. God was happy and wanted to reward me! I specifically, and literally, remember thinking, "This toy is so practical. I don't have to put quarters into the rubber toy vending machines outside of Shop Rite anymore."
The fact that I was buying a junk toy workshop should have signaled something was wrong with me. Why was I so ecstatic about making little plastic, worthless bugs anyway? And the brunt of my childhood problems was putting quarters into junky vending machines? Take that kids born in crackhouses!
For those unfamiliar with the crawlers, the toy was basically an Easy-Bake oven for manly men, who like to play with neon colored glue bottles. Originally manufactured in 1964, the oven came back with a bang in 1992. Creepy Crawlers oven would come with die cast, metal molds that could also be used as a paper weight or to bludgeon your friends to death with. The molds were shaped as various insects and dinosaurs. I believe there was even the faggy saber tooth tiger series of molds. I had that one! You'd then squeeze plastic, glue like, colorful substances into the molds, in any wacky and imaginative way you'd like, and bake them until the oven gave you the magic you deserved.
Thinking back, this toy was not only boring, but highly dangerous. There's nothing like giving a kid a toy that makes the sun's core feel like a moist gym sock in comparison. And on top of that, the kid would then stick obscenely heavy pieces of metal into them. All in the pursuit to make bugs.
But still, I loved this machine. This wasn't like that stupid Ricochet remote controlled car or that touch-it-once-it-falls-apart microscope I put back in the box after one use. This was one of the few toys I dreamt about as a kid and actually used daily, like I was trying to learn the guitar or master the art of constructing 18th century Venetian blinds. I had zip lock bags full of these damned little bugs. Sometimes, I'd throw them on my living room rug, roll around in them and start screaming, "they're eating me. Help me. Bug invasion. Eating my spine!" And at that point, I think I was 11. And I wonder why my father hates me sometimes.
One day, my mother threw my plastic bugs out on me when she was cleaning the basement. I was so mad, I ran to my room, thinking of the hours I had invested in producing such masterfully colorful insects. My collection was enormous! "This woman has no appreciation for the arts," I screamed into my pillow. Actually, I doubt I said that, but I was pissed.
Today, as I recall the Creepy Crawlers machine and various molds, I just want to say, thank you mom for throwing those worthless pieces of crap away so I could get on with my life. If not for you, I'd be in my car, placing fake centipedes and mini, plastic, triceratops' on my face, screaming my head off in the middle of traffic.
The fact that I was buying a junk toy workshop should have signaled something was wrong with me. Why was I so ecstatic about making little plastic, worthless bugs anyway? And the brunt of my childhood problems was putting quarters into junky vending machines? Take that kids born in crackhouses!
For those unfamiliar with the crawlers, the toy was basically an Easy-Bake oven for manly men, who like to play with neon colored glue bottles. Originally manufactured in 1964, the oven came back with a bang in 1992. Creepy Crawlers oven would come with die cast, metal molds that could also be used as a paper weight or to bludgeon your friends to death with. The molds were shaped as various insects and dinosaurs. I believe there was even the faggy saber tooth tiger series of molds. I had that one! You'd then squeeze plastic, glue like, colorful substances into the molds, in any wacky and imaginative way you'd like, and bake them until the oven gave you the magic you deserved.
Thinking back, this toy was not only boring, but highly dangerous. There's nothing like giving a kid a toy that makes the sun's core feel like a moist gym sock in comparison. And on top of that, the kid would then stick obscenely heavy pieces of metal into them. All in the pursuit to make bugs.
But still, I loved this machine. This wasn't like that stupid Ricochet remote controlled car or that touch-it-once-it-falls-apart microscope I put back in the box after one use. This was one of the few toys I dreamt about as a kid and actually used daily, like I was trying to learn the guitar or master the art of constructing 18th century Venetian blinds. I had zip lock bags full of these damned little bugs. Sometimes, I'd throw them on my living room rug, roll around in them and start screaming, "they're eating me. Help me. Bug invasion. Eating my spine!" And at that point, I think I was 11. And I wonder why my father hates me sometimes.
One day, my mother threw my plastic bugs out on me when she was cleaning the basement. I was so mad, I ran to my room, thinking of the hours I had invested in producing such masterfully colorful insects. My collection was enormous! "This woman has no appreciation for the arts," I screamed into my pillow. Actually, I doubt I said that, but I was pissed.
Today, as I recall the Creepy Crawlers machine and various molds, I just want to say, thank you mom for throwing those worthless pieces of crap away so I could get on with my life. If not for you, I'd be in my car, placing fake centipedes and mini, plastic, triceratops' on my face, screaming my head off in the middle of traffic.
January 12, 2008
Death Ruins Blogs
Yesterday was my two year anniversary of when I woke up in the middle of the night with extreme chest pains and had to go to the hospital the next day. I was going to talk about all the cool shit that happened to me there and write a tribute to my faulty chest, and talk about how doctors were so amazed by my condition, they rushed out of bed at 2 in the morning to come see me. But instead of writing my story/tribute, I found myself caught up in another predicament. My grandmother died.
It was expected. As of Wednesday afternoon, the nurses said it would come in a day or two. Basically, my family began preparing, in different ways. I prepared for a phone call from my mom in the forthcoming hours. My mom was on the phone with undertakers and the lot. My dad was preparing console my mom when her mother went. And I'm not sure what my brother did. He's at track practice a lot and I don't get to see him as much as I'd like.
She was 92,only a week away from her 93rd birthday, and was one miserable, condescending former Registered Nurse of a woman. In my more recent years, where I began to see how things really were with the family, I witnessed the tension, loathing, and my grandma's ongoing desire to feel miserable. But still, to me grandma was always a woman with cataract problems and thinning hair. She was someone who we had to pick up from Pennsylvania and bring to our house three times a year; Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. She was the woman who gave me five dollars every time she saw me, enough to buy a WWF action figure when I was 8, and not enough to put 3 gallons of gas in my car, when I was 21.
Since the early '90s she began fantasizing about her own death. It became her new hobby. The more friends and family she watched grow old and die, the more she longed for it. Every time I'd visit, she'd remind my little brother and me that we'd "carry grandma's body in the casket" and we could "read all [her] favorite readings at the funeral." In fact, she planned her funeral arrangements with my mom two years ago, to either get a head start on the big day or provoke God into finally taking it all away. "It was the happiest I've seen grandma in a long time," my mom told me when she got home that day.
At Thanksgiving, my grandma collapsed two hours before dinner and was bed ridden the rest of the day. By mid December she was in an assisted living home. Two days before Christmas, she was hospitalized. By the end of December she was in a nursing home. The first week of January she deteriorated hard. And yesterday, she finally went. Her greatest wish was finally fulfilled.
No longer will I be receiving crisp five dollar bills every time we meet. No longer will I hear about her selection of final church songs and the misadventures of her future casket carrying sessions. The future is now. But at the moment, I hope my grandma's happy she got her wish. She conquered her hobby. She's like some fat 15 year old who just won the national Magic the Gathering tournament or caught all the Pokemon in Guinness record book time. Except their families don't have to sit through a church service.
I'll write about my near heart attack tomorrow.
It was expected. As of Wednesday afternoon, the nurses said it would come in a day or two. Basically, my family began preparing, in different ways. I prepared for a phone call from my mom in the forthcoming hours. My mom was on the phone with undertakers and the lot. My dad was preparing console my mom when her mother went. And I'm not sure what my brother did. He's at track practice a lot and I don't get to see him as much as I'd like.
She was 92,only a week away from her 93rd birthday, and was one miserable, condescending former Registered Nurse of a woman. In my more recent years, where I began to see how things really were with the family, I witnessed the tension, loathing, and my grandma's ongoing desire to feel miserable. But still, to me grandma was always a woman with cataract problems and thinning hair. She was someone who we had to pick up from Pennsylvania and bring to our house three times a year; Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. She was the woman who gave me five dollars every time she saw me, enough to buy a WWF action figure when I was 8, and not enough to put 3 gallons of gas in my car, when I was 21.
Since the early '90s she began fantasizing about her own death. It became her new hobby. The more friends and family she watched grow old and die, the more she longed for it. Every time I'd visit, she'd remind my little brother and me that we'd "carry grandma's body in the casket" and we could "read all [her] favorite readings at the funeral." In fact, she planned her funeral arrangements with my mom two years ago, to either get a head start on the big day or provoke God into finally taking it all away. "It was the happiest I've seen grandma in a long time," my mom told me when she got home that day.
At Thanksgiving, my grandma collapsed two hours before dinner and was bed ridden the rest of the day. By mid December she was in an assisted living home. Two days before Christmas, she was hospitalized. By the end of December she was in a nursing home. The first week of January she deteriorated hard. And yesterday, she finally went. Her greatest wish was finally fulfilled.
No longer will I be receiving crisp five dollar bills every time we meet. No longer will I hear about her selection of final church songs and the misadventures of her future casket carrying sessions. The future is now. But at the moment, I hope my grandma's happy she got her wish. She conquered her hobby. She's like some fat 15 year old who just won the national Magic the Gathering tournament or caught all the Pokemon in Guinness record book time. Except their families don't have to sit through a church service.
I'll write about my near heart attack tomorrow.
January 10, 2008
Fart of Disruption
Today, I was substitute teaching a seventh grade health class. The time: 1:20. The period: 8th. The mood: restless.
I was administering a test on the female vagina. It was quite an unruly class but I had managed to actually calm them down by the time tests were distributed. I gave many a warning to the class clowns I remembered from weeks, even years past. "You're not in trouble, but I'm warning you, you should move across the room to prevent talking to your friend during the test," I warned several of them, trying to split up the cheaters and authority beaters from one another.
No one budged. As I mentioned, to my surprise, the test was going rather smoothly. Talking was non-existent except kids thinking out loud about the differences between the labia majora and the clitoris.
Suddenly, from a cross the room, piercing the sound of scribbling lead and sporadic winter coughs, came one of the loudest farts I've ever heard in my life. I looked up at the class, waiting for someone to yell "OH MY GOD," which would inevitably send the class into a frenzy, ruining the test, causing a neighboring teacher to come in and yell at the kids for shouting. All the while, I'd be standing there, pride next to my shoes, proving I had no control whatsoever over managing kids and their budding minds.
The reaction, however, unfolded dramatically different than this But the fart was massive. I watched as one by one, heads lifted from their tests, looks of confusion on their faces, as if to indicate "did I just hear what I thought I heard?" Smiles began to spread, a lone chuckle from the back of the room. Then, full blown laughter, growing louder and louder.
But just as in "A Bronx Tale" I noticed one face in the back corner that looked different than the rest. This face was not smiling. Instead, it looked as if this kid was taking an embarrassed shit, face flushing a deep red, eyes cast down, cemented to his desk, quaking in his boots. The guilty party had outed it's own self.
Eventually, the laughter in class tore down the rafters. The memory of the fart was just too powerful, still hanging in the air. Our ears still rung with the rectal rumble. Kids made farting noises of their own, laughing as if each mouth-to-hand fart was funnier than the next. I warned them to shut up. And to shut up. And to shut up. Eventually, I got so annoyed, I wrote a report to the teacher telling them everyone was talking during the test, probably causing a wide spread F's or retakes.
Driving home I realized, "Oh my God. They're gonna get zeros. But that one kid is gonna get a zero on his test and have to live with the guilt of that A(nus) bomb." I wish I could go back and erase the note to the teacher, telling him to go easy on the kids tomorrow. After all, a fart is a fart is a good laugh.
I was administering a test on the female vagina. It was quite an unruly class but I had managed to actually calm them down by the time tests were distributed. I gave many a warning to the class clowns I remembered from weeks, even years past. "You're not in trouble, but I'm warning you, you should move across the room to prevent talking to your friend during the test," I warned several of them, trying to split up the cheaters and authority beaters from one another.
No one budged. As I mentioned, to my surprise, the test was going rather smoothly. Talking was non-existent except kids thinking out loud about the differences between the labia majora and the clitoris.
Suddenly, from a cross the room, piercing the sound of scribbling lead and sporadic winter coughs, came one of the loudest farts I've ever heard in my life. I looked up at the class, waiting for someone to yell "OH MY GOD," which would inevitably send the class into a frenzy, ruining the test, causing a neighboring teacher to come in and yell at the kids for shouting. All the while, I'd be standing there, pride next to my shoes, proving I had no control whatsoever over managing kids and their budding minds.
The reaction, however, unfolded dramatically different than this But the fart was massive. I watched as one by one, heads lifted from their tests, looks of confusion on their faces, as if to indicate "did I just hear what I thought I heard?" Smiles began to spread, a lone chuckle from the back of the room. Then, full blown laughter, growing louder and louder.
But just as in "A Bronx Tale" I noticed one face in the back corner that looked different than the rest. This face was not smiling. Instead, it looked as if this kid was taking an embarrassed shit, face flushing a deep red, eyes cast down, cemented to his desk, quaking in his boots. The guilty party had outed it's own self.
Eventually, the laughter in class tore down the rafters. The memory of the fart was just too powerful, still hanging in the air. Our ears still rung with the rectal rumble. Kids made farting noises of their own, laughing as if each mouth-to-hand fart was funnier than the next. I warned them to shut up. And to shut up. And to shut up. Eventually, I got so annoyed, I wrote a report to the teacher telling them everyone was talking during the test, probably causing a wide spread F's or retakes.
Driving home I realized, "Oh my God. They're gonna get zeros. But that one kid is gonna get a zero on his test and have to live with the guilt of that A(nus) bomb." I wish I could go back and erase the note to the teacher, telling him to go easy on the kids tomorrow. After all, a fart is a fart is a good laugh.
January 9, 2008
If They Lived... Rock Star Edition Vol. 2
Yesterday, I wrote a blog about the fate of dead rock stars and/or icons and their futures, if they had lived. Well, I guess their true fates where, in fact, met, as one can't change fate, or so they say. But I proposed their career moves, and lifestyles, had the fates been with them.
Thinking about these dead guys, I came up with three of them who I believe would have embraced a happy outcome, personally, creatively, and critically. But not all careers take a turn for continued praise into the future.
One of the things death does, as examined in Chuck Klosterman's book Killing Yourself to Live is help celebrities cement a legacy for themselves they may not have obtained while sill alive. Think about all of the rock stars that we try to continue to pin as living legends. Johnny Rotten, Mick Jagger, Ringo "fucking" Starr, if you will. They're legacies are fortified in the importance of rock history, but the past couple decades haven't been too kind to them; reunion tours, refusals to break up bands, continuing to tour in something called "the All-star Band."
Yet, plenty of dead rock stars shortened lives have created proverbial altars to worship on fueled by forever morning fans. They live on in legacy through countless documentaries, biographies, reissued albums, t-shirts, benefit concerts. In short, to quote Yogurt of Spaceballs, it's all about "MERCHANDISING!" By dying, rock stars simply cut out the filler that bogs down the rest of their life. It's why the original 3 hour version of Apocalypse Now! is much better than that 4 hour redux version.
Here is a list of 5 dead rock stars I believe would have ultimately met a negative outcome, forgoing millions of fans that scream their brilliance from rough tops and spend the anniversary of their deaths lying bed or crying to their records.
5 Bad Outcomes (denotes, not necessarily bad lives in the star's own eyes, but less than celebrated careers than we the public recognize now):
Brad Nowell (Lead singer/songwriter of the band Sublime. Date of Death: 5/25/96 Cause of Death: heroin overdose):
Their current, and last, self-titled album becomes minor hit amongst music fans. Sublime releases one more album entitled "Lou on my Shoe" in 1999 before Nowell breaks up band. People forget about Sublime by 2002. Forms laughable reggae infused band that plays local California clubs. Tries producing terrible punk band and ska acts but gives up. College kids across America don't walk around campuses and attend karaoke parties singing "Santeria." Eventually becomes rhythm guitar player in current Sublime spin-off, Long Beach Dub All-Stars, before becoming a talking head on a VH1 video recap special about the '90s.
Sid Vicious (second, and infamous, bass player of Sex Pistols, known for reckless life-style and inability to play one note. Date of Death: 2/2/79 Cause of Death: Overdose on heroin given to him by his mother):
What becomes of him? Nothing. Works as a mechanic at a small garage outside of London. 14 year olds and miss guided 20-somethings don't hang up posters of him in their rooms. Alex Cox never directs the worthless film "Sid and Nancy" Sex Pistols continue to recruit original Pistol's bassist, Glenn Matlock, on all of their awful, money grubbing reunion tours. Sid Viscous become a mere trivia question in endless coffee table books about the History of Punk.
Jim Morrison (lead singer of The Doors. Date of Death: 7/3/71. Cause of Death: Unknown. Found dead in Paris bathtub.)
Cleans up act by late '70s after years of musical inactivity and many close episodes with death. Puts out solo albums with dated synths in the '80s that can now be found in every used cd section in America. Morrison reunites with The Doors to put out a stale reunion album in 1988 and performs a sold out tour where Doors fans stand still during their hooky new songs. Again, reunites with The Doors in 1999, only to tour, looking like an overweight middle school teacher. Does life insurance commercials along side Dennis Hopper in 2007 before writing his definitive autobiography.
Kurt Cobain (singer/songwriter/guitarist of Nirvana. Date of Death: 4/5/94. Cause of Death: Apparent suicide. Possible murder. Shotgun blast to head.)
Nirvana break up in '98 after 2 poorly received, generic albums. 1993's "In Utero" recognized as the average album it is rather than the final masterpiece. MTV Unplugged sessions lost in the vaults. Cobain forms new band, Backwoods Dry Rot, in 2001 that releases an awful album with one tour where crowd continually requests "Come as You Are" and "About a Girl" Continues to produce albums by his favorite artists, such as The Melvins. Divorces Courtney Love in an ugly custody battle for Francis Bean. Eventually marries an unknown homely housewife. Dave Grohl, in turn, puts out one decent album with Foo Fighters rather than 6 that sound identical. Cobain reunites Nirvana in 2009 for two sold out tours of tiny clubs. Divorces homely housewife in 2010.
John Lennon (singer/songwriter of The Beatles fame. Political activist. Popular 70s solo artist. Date of Death: 12/8/80. Cause of Death: murdered outside his NYC apartment by crazed fan Mark David Chapman):
Legacy of The Beatles remains cemented. However, 1980's comeback album with Yoko Ono, "Double Fantasy" becomes ridiculed by critics as the '80s progress rather than reaching brilliant, farewell status. Becomes a participant of Band Aid in 1984 and sings on "Do They Know It's Christmas Time?" Helps Michael Jackson and Lionel Ritchie write "We are the World" in 1985. Puts out overproduced, star studded records shrouded in reverb every 7 years starting in 1986 while giving the green light to a barrage of his own Greatest Hits collections. Hands out awards at the Grammies every few years. Gets tangled in some sort of Yoko Ono marriage scandal in 1993. Guest stars as backing vocals on one track from a Sean Lennon album. Does much hyped iPod commercial along side Paul McCartney which airs during Super Bowl XLI.
Thinking about these dead guys, I came up with three of them who I believe would have embraced a happy outcome, personally, creatively, and critically. But not all careers take a turn for continued praise into the future.
One of the things death does, as examined in Chuck Klosterman's book Killing Yourself to Live is help celebrities cement a legacy for themselves they may not have obtained while sill alive. Think about all of the rock stars that we try to continue to pin as living legends. Johnny Rotten, Mick Jagger, Ringo "fucking" Starr, if you will. They're legacies are fortified in the importance of rock history, but the past couple decades haven't been too kind to them; reunion tours, refusals to break up bands, continuing to tour in something called "the All-star Band."
Yet, plenty of dead rock stars shortened lives have created proverbial altars to worship on fueled by forever morning fans. They live on in legacy through countless documentaries, biographies, reissued albums, t-shirts, benefit concerts. In short, to quote Yogurt of Spaceballs, it's all about "MERCHANDISING!" By dying, rock stars simply cut out the filler that bogs down the rest of their life. It's why the original 3 hour version of Apocalypse Now! is much better than that 4 hour redux version.
Here is a list of 5 dead rock stars I believe would have ultimately met a negative outcome, forgoing millions of fans that scream their brilliance from rough tops and spend the anniversary of their deaths lying bed or crying to their records.
5 Bad Outcomes (denotes, not necessarily bad lives in the star's own eyes, but less than celebrated careers than we the public recognize now):
Brad Nowell (Lead singer/songwriter of the band Sublime. Date of Death: 5/25/96 Cause of Death: heroin overdose):
Their current, and last, self-titled album becomes minor hit amongst music fans. Sublime releases one more album entitled "Lou on my Shoe" in 1999 before Nowell breaks up band. People forget about Sublime by 2002. Forms laughable reggae infused band that plays local California clubs. Tries producing terrible punk band and ska acts but gives up. College kids across America don't walk around campuses and attend karaoke parties singing "Santeria." Eventually becomes rhythm guitar player in current Sublime spin-off, Long Beach Dub All-Stars, before becoming a talking head on a VH1 video recap special about the '90s.
Sid Vicious (second, and infamous, bass player of Sex Pistols, known for reckless life-style and inability to play one note. Date of Death: 2/2/79 Cause of Death: Overdose on heroin given to him by his mother):
What becomes of him? Nothing. Works as a mechanic at a small garage outside of London. 14 year olds and miss guided 20-somethings don't hang up posters of him in their rooms. Alex Cox never directs the worthless film "Sid and Nancy" Sex Pistols continue to recruit original Pistol's bassist, Glenn Matlock, on all of their awful, money grubbing reunion tours. Sid Viscous become a mere trivia question in endless coffee table books about the History of Punk.
Jim Morrison (lead singer of The Doors. Date of Death: 7/3/71. Cause of Death: Unknown. Found dead in Paris bathtub.)
Cleans up act by late '70s after years of musical inactivity and many close episodes with death. Puts out solo albums with dated synths in the '80s that can now be found in every used cd section in America. Morrison reunites with The Doors to put out a stale reunion album in 1988 and performs a sold out tour where Doors fans stand still during their hooky new songs. Again, reunites with The Doors in 1999, only to tour, looking like an overweight middle school teacher. Does life insurance commercials along side Dennis Hopper in 2007 before writing his definitive autobiography.
Kurt Cobain (singer/songwriter/guitarist of Nirvana. Date of Death: 4/5/94. Cause of Death: Apparent suicide. Possible murder. Shotgun blast to head.)
Nirvana break up in '98 after 2 poorly received, generic albums. 1993's "In Utero" recognized as the average album it is rather than the final masterpiece. MTV Unplugged sessions lost in the vaults. Cobain forms new band, Backwoods Dry Rot, in 2001 that releases an awful album with one tour where crowd continually requests "Come as You Are" and "About a Girl" Continues to produce albums by his favorite artists, such as The Melvins. Divorces Courtney Love in an ugly custody battle for Francis Bean. Eventually marries an unknown homely housewife. Dave Grohl, in turn, puts out one decent album with Foo Fighters rather than 6 that sound identical. Cobain reunites Nirvana in 2009 for two sold out tours of tiny clubs. Divorces homely housewife in 2010.
John Lennon (singer/songwriter of The Beatles fame. Political activist. Popular 70s solo artist. Date of Death: 12/8/80. Cause of Death: murdered outside his NYC apartment by crazed fan Mark David Chapman):
Legacy of The Beatles remains cemented. However, 1980's comeback album with Yoko Ono, "Double Fantasy" becomes ridiculed by critics as the '80s progress rather than reaching brilliant, farewell status. Becomes a participant of Band Aid in 1984 and sings on "Do They Know It's Christmas Time?" Helps Michael Jackson and Lionel Ritchie write "We are the World" in 1985. Puts out overproduced, star studded records shrouded in reverb every 7 years starting in 1986 while giving the green light to a barrage of his own Greatest Hits collections. Hands out awards at the Grammies every few years. Gets tangled in some sort of Yoko Ono marriage scandal in 1993. Guest stars as backing vocals on one track from a Sean Lennon album. Does much hyped iPod commercial along side Paul McCartney which airs during Super Bowl XLI.
January 8, 2008
If They Lived... Rock Star Edition Vol. 1
Question: If I killed myself today, would my band's albums suddenly become mysterious and artistically viable? Probably not, since only about .0000004% of the population's heard any of them. But what about some of the names we've grown to know, love, cherish, worship, dissect, and study in a scholarly manner? The death of a celebrity, particularly a rock star, or musician with some sort of audience appeal, seems to spark tremendous activity in all areas of study in their life, ofter projecting them to God-like status in the eyes of many.
I began compiling a list of dead rock stars, some extremely famous, some of cult status, and determined where they would be if they had lived; kicked the addictions, took the gun out of their mouths, drained their pools before they got drunk in them. Here's a rough summation of where I believe these rock stars would be today, had they lived.
I've broken the sections up into Good outcomes and Bad outcomes. The blog, VOLUME 1, contains three good outcomes.
The Good (denotes an positive lifestyle, career, and or fan following):
IF THEY LIVED!
Elliott Smith (Grammy nominated, cult singer songwriter of heavy '90s popularity. Date of Death: 5/21/03 Cause of Death: Apparent suicide. Possible murder. Knife to the heart):
Dropped from major label and releases 2 stripped down acoustic albums on his old record label, Kill Rock Stars. Tries his hand at acting in indie films to rave reviews, generally playing emotionally void, expressionless men in search of a greater good. Releases book of vague and abstract poetry and a Dostoevsky inspired road novel to high Amazon.com sales among the shaggy haired demographic. Signs to the eclectic indie label, Anti- Records (home of Tom Waits, Merle Haggard, The Locust), in 2006 where he releases well received albums every 5-7 years.
Brian Jones (Former rhythm guitar player, and eclectic instrumentalist of '60s Rolling Stones lineup. Date of Death: 7/3/69 Cause of Death: Drowned in pool. Questionable suicide, overdose, murder?):
After being dropped from The Stones, Jones gains a cult following in the '70s by releasing difficult, instrumentally layered, baroque pop records throughout the decade. After the phasing out of vinyl in the late '80s, collectors go mad obtaining records as he lays low in the decade kicking his addictions. Albums reissued through the Rykodisc label in the '90s as Jones guest stars on ostensibly cool records by other artists big in the coffee house folk and college radio circuit. Meanwhile, The Rolling Stones continue to sink deeper into a laughably creative drought as Jones becomes US citizen and relaxes in his quaint New England home. The Brian Jonestown Massacre forced to come up with different band name before they even form.
Keith Moon (Manic drummer of influential British rock group The Who. Date of Death: 9/7/78. Cause of Death: Overdose from Chlormethiazole, a chemical that aids in curing alcohol abuse):
Quits The Who after the average album "Who Are You" is released in 1978 and continues to tell Pete Townshend to fuck off every time he asks him to participate in a reunion tour. The Who's Moon-less '80s albums remain pure shit. Moon spends the late '80s and early '90s partying with celebrities before finally sobering up. After producing three various records for friends, Moon teaches drum lessons at local schools and holds a regular drum workshop where a 60 Minutes crew does a special on his happy and sober life out of the spotlight. The Who still put out 2006's piece of shit album "Endless Wire."
VOLUME 2 COMING SOON!!! THE BAD OUTCOMES!!!
I began compiling a list of dead rock stars, some extremely famous, some of cult status, and determined where they would be if they had lived; kicked the addictions, took the gun out of their mouths, drained their pools before they got drunk in them. Here's a rough summation of where I believe these rock stars would be today, had they lived.
I've broken the sections up into Good outcomes and Bad outcomes. The blog, VOLUME 1, contains three good outcomes.
The Good (denotes an positive lifestyle, career, and or fan following):
IF THEY LIVED!
Elliott Smith (Grammy nominated, cult singer songwriter of heavy '90s popularity. Date of Death: 5/21/03 Cause of Death: Apparent suicide. Possible murder. Knife to the heart):
Dropped from major label and releases 2 stripped down acoustic albums on his old record label, Kill Rock Stars. Tries his hand at acting in indie films to rave reviews, generally playing emotionally void, expressionless men in search of a greater good. Releases book of vague and abstract poetry and a Dostoevsky inspired road novel to high Amazon.com sales among the shaggy haired demographic. Signs to the eclectic indie label, Anti- Records (home of Tom Waits, Merle Haggard, The Locust), in 2006 where he releases well received albums every 5-7 years.
Brian Jones (Former rhythm guitar player, and eclectic instrumentalist of '60s Rolling Stones lineup. Date of Death: 7/3/69 Cause of Death: Drowned in pool. Questionable suicide, overdose, murder?):
After being dropped from The Stones, Jones gains a cult following in the '70s by releasing difficult, instrumentally layered, baroque pop records throughout the decade. After the phasing out of vinyl in the late '80s, collectors go mad obtaining records as he lays low in the decade kicking his addictions. Albums reissued through the Rykodisc label in the '90s as Jones guest stars on ostensibly cool records by other artists big in the coffee house folk and college radio circuit. Meanwhile, The Rolling Stones continue to sink deeper into a laughably creative drought as Jones becomes US citizen and relaxes in his quaint New England home. The Brian Jonestown Massacre forced to come up with different band name before they even form.
Keith Moon (Manic drummer of influential British rock group The Who. Date of Death: 9/7/78. Cause of Death: Overdose from Chlormethiazole, a chemical that aids in curing alcohol abuse):
Quits The Who after the average album "Who Are You" is released in 1978 and continues to tell Pete Townshend to fuck off every time he asks him to participate in a reunion tour. The Who's Moon-less '80s albums remain pure shit. Moon spends the late '80s and early '90s partying with celebrities before finally sobering up. After producing three various records for friends, Moon teaches drum lessons at local schools and holds a regular drum workshop where a 60 Minutes crew does a special on his happy and sober life out of the spotlight. The Who still put out 2006's piece of shit album "Endless Wire."
VOLUME 2 COMING SOON!!! THE BAD OUTCOMES!!!
January 6, 2008
Let's Go to the Rodeo!
"Rodeo embodies the frontier spirit as manifested through the aggressive and exploitative conquest of the West, and deals with...the reordering of nature according to the dictates of this ethos. It supports the value of subjugating nature, and reenacts the 'taming' process whereby the wild is brought under control" - Lawrence. (I found this on a rodeo website. I'm not sure who Lawrence is but he sounds like the Dr. of Rodeo).
Yesterday, Kristin and I went into NYC to see the new Paul Thomas Anderson movie "There Will Be Blood" It was amazing with a capital A (so I guess that would mean it was Amazing). But that's not what I want to talk about now. That's a later, more thought out blog.
What I want to discuss today is the rodeo crowd that descended upon Madison Square Garden last night. I'm not sure of the nature of the rodeo or what the official name of the event was, but believe me, Penn Station was full of Midnight Cowboy lookalikes.
Cowboy hats bounced up and down above the crowd of train riders. Families line danced in place to the absence of music, clapping at their clumsy whiteness. I even saw a little 3 year old running around with a hat autographed on 4 sides by some sort of rodeo celebrities. One day, he will grow up and pass that down to his son and tell of tales of the old west on 33rd St and 8th Ave.
There was even a sparse group of picketers outside holding up signs that read "Bulls buck because their owners kick them!!!" and "A Bull isn't brave. He's scared". That was verbatim too. What a stupid sign.
Our train ride home was chocked full of middle aged lesbians (literally) with skin tight, acid washed jeans, Garth Brooks t-shirts, and Cowboy hats. Then there was the four person family next to them; truck driving dad, frumpy wife, two pale children of European decent with pin straight bowl cuts. I enjoyed this nice change of pace. This was a fun crowd, who love a good calf roping.
I'm not really sure the point of this post. I just wanted to let everyone know about the rodeo, because if I weren't there last night, I would have been none the wiser.
Yesterday, Kristin and I went into NYC to see the new Paul Thomas Anderson movie "There Will Be Blood" It was amazing with a capital A (so I guess that would mean it was Amazing). But that's not what I want to talk about now. That's a later, more thought out blog.
What I want to discuss today is the rodeo crowd that descended upon Madison Square Garden last night. I'm not sure of the nature of the rodeo or what the official name of the event was, but believe me, Penn Station was full of Midnight Cowboy lookalikes.
Cowboy hats bounced up and down above the crowd of train riders. Families line danced in place to the absence of music, clapping at their clumsy whiteness. I even saw a little 3 year old running around with a hat autographed on 4 sides by some sort of rodeo celebrities. One day, he will grow up and pass that down to his son and tell of tales of the old west on 33rd St and 8th Ave.
There was even a sparse group of picketers outside holding up signs that read "Bulls buck because their owners kick them!!!" and "A Bull isn't brave. He's scared". That was verbatim too. What a stupid sign.
Our train ride home was chocked full of middle aged lesbians (literally) with skin tight, acid washed jeans, Garth Brooks t-shirts, and Cowboy hats. Then there was the four person family next to them; truck driving dad, frumpy wife, two pale children of European decent with pin straight bowl cuts. I enjoyed this nice change of pace. This was a fun crowd, who love a good calf roping.
I'm not really sure the point of this post. I just wanted to let everyone know about the rodeo, because if I weren't there last night, I would have been none the wiser.
January 5, 2008
Where Were You in '92? Listening to These Cassettes?
1992: The year of my little brother. I awoke one September morning to find myself alone in my house with only my grandmother, while over in New Brunswick, my new brother laid in an incubator, placenta dreams still wafting in his thin skull.
Meanwhile, the world outside was swimming with great music, cultural change, and new possibilities and improbabilities for the "unemployed" and "depressed" members of generation X.
Nirvana was changing the day to day record singings on the major label front. Pavement's "Slanted and Enchanted" was white washing a new generation in fuzz pedal dreams of turning on, tuning in, and dropping out. Pixies were disintegrating as Kim Deal and her Breeders hit platinum record status with their album "Last Splash". Sonic Youth was pushing David Geffen around for a change, selling records and retaining the cred of Greil Marcus and Mr. Kurt Loder.
The floodgates were opening to a new frontier of musical experimentation once again in mainstream America. Bands powered by Ramen and Milwaukee's Best had a chance to pay their rent comfortably while still churning out critically viable and interesting records. All the while, C.C. Deville and that guy from Winger sunk into a well deserved depression as the record executives and hair teased van trash stopped sucking their cocks. Looking back it was quite an adventure. The year after punk broke, AGAIN, and the year it started to come apart, AGAIN.
With so much going on outside my window, I could have jump started my education early, becoming the coolest 7 year old in my class. However, this was not the case.
In '92, I was certain of a few, essential facts of life. Billy Joel was God. Fleetwood Mac were irrefutable legends. There was a Bad Moon Rising somewhere. The lyrics to "Material Girl" were so true when sung by Jesus' mother. Guns N Roses were cop killers. Bad words were not aloud in music. And Genesis' "Invisible Touch" could provide the perfect one song soundtrack for any car ride with your parents.
Don't think you already know the whole story however. I created my own haven of music that made 2nd grade worth living. I never left the house without that Walkman. Well, unless we were going on one of those "Invisible Touch" road trips. I got around the town. I was too hip, manning my own ship.
Without added rambling text, my TOP 5 cassettes of '92, release date irrelevant:
1) The Beach Boys "Made in the USA" (a terribly assembled greatest hits that featured more of their lame ass songs from the '80s than their masterpieces from the '60s)
2. WWF Theme Songs Vol. 2 (way more intense than Vol. 1. The Big Boss Man and Demolition's songs were on it for Christ's Sake).
3. Joe Public "Joe Public" (Positive rap with no cussing. Song, "Live and Learn" later featured on SNES' NBA Jam VHS soundtrack. Amazingly inspirational. Killa rhymes).
4. Kris Kross "Totally Krossed Out" (They made me wanna Jump. And believe me, I jumped!)
5. Michael Jackson "Mix Tape recored by holding my Fischer Price recorder up to the TV speaker during a VH1 marathon" (I wish he was molesting me in '92).
1992 was a pretty stupid year for me.
Meanwhile, the world outside was swimming with great music, cultural change, and new possibilities and improbabilities for the "unemployed" and "depressed" members of generation X.
Nirvana was changing the day to day record singings on the major label front. Pavement's "Slanted and Enchanted" was white washing a new generation in fuzz pedal dreams of turning on, tuning in, and dropping out. Pixies were disintegrating as Kim Deal and her Breeders hit platinum record status with their album "Last Splash". Sonic Youth was pushing David Geffen around for a change, selling records and retaining the cred of Greil Marcus and Mr. Kurt Loder.
The floodgates were opening to a new frontier of musical experimentation once again in mainstream America. Bands powered by Ramen and Milwaukee's Best had a chance to pay their rent comfortably while still churning out critically viable and interesting records. All the while, C.C. Deville and that guy from Winger sunk into a well deserved depression as the record executives and hair teased van trash stopped sucking their cocks. Looking back it was quite an adventure. The year after punk broke, AGAIN, and the year it started to come apart, AGAIN.
With so much going on outside my window, I could have jump started my education early, becoming the coolest 7 year old in my class. However, this was not the case.
In '92, I was certain of a few, essential facts of life. Billy Joel was God. Fleetwood Mac were irrefutable legends. There was a Bad Moon Rising somewhere. The lyrics to "Material Girl" were so true when sung by Jesus' mother. Guns N Roses were cop killers. Bad words were not aloud in music. And Genesis' "Invisible Touch" could provide the perfect one song soundtrack for any car ride with your parents.
Don't think you already know the whole story however. I created my own haven of music that made 2nd grade worth living. I never left the house without that Walkman. Well, unless we were going on one of those "Invisible Touch" road trips. I got around the town. I was too hip, manning my own ship.
Without added rambling text, my TOP 5 cassettes of '92, release date irrelevant:
1) The Beach Boys "Made in the USA" (a terribly assembled greatest hits that featured more of their lame ass songs from the '80s than their masterpieces from the '60s)
2. WWF Theme Songs Vol. 2 (way more intense than Vol. 1. The Big Boss Man and Demolition's songs were on it for Christ's Sake).
3. Joe Public "Joe Public" (Positive rap with no cussing. Song, "Live and Learn" later featured on SNES' NBA Jam VHS soundtrack. Amazingly inspirational. Killa rhymes).
4. Kris Kross "Totally Krossed Out" (They made me wanna Jump. And believe me, I jumped!)
5. Michael Jackson "Mix Tape recored by holding my Fischer Price recorder up to the TV speaker during a VH1 marathon" (I wish he was molesting me in '92).
1992 was a pretty stupid year for me.
January 4, 2008
Finally, In Rainbows
On my top 10's of 2007, I gave Radiohead's much talked about 7th album, "In Rainbows", the coveted #1 spot on the "albums I was pissed I didn't listen to in 2007." For those who didn't hear the endless amount of hype which seemed to overshadow talk of the music itself in just about every review published last year (a.k.a. "articles published 2-3 weeks ago), Radiohead offered up the album at a supposedly revolutionary "pay-what-you-want" download from their website in October. You could pay a million dollars for the songs, or jack shit itself! And this was a full 3 months from its announced street release.
So the fact that I didn't take the bull by the horns and listen to it made me angry come year’s end. Oh, and I had my chances. There was the time I filled out the form on the website and opted for procrastination rather than hit the "complete" button. Then there was the week when I was thinking of my favorite albums of '07 and remembered Radiohead. "Should I listen to it in rushed manner?" I thought, wanting to give it the time of year. Finally, I wound up hopelessly angered by my lack of knowing how to complete any task that involves the internet, downloading, or music files, even if it was the all mighty Radiohead.
Cutting to the chase, I've finally given "In Rainbows" its due. And I must say I love it.
The first thing I thought about after "buying" the real album, complete with liner notes, was Windows Media Player. You know when you pop in a c.d. and those lame squiggles rape your computer screen? You watch it and fall deep into a trance as tacky, futuristic colors pulsate to the music. No matter what c.d. you put on, those squiggly vortex worm holes appear, loop endlessly, as colored graphics rape your skull. I hate that dumb feature. However, that's what Radiohead's "In Rainbows" sounds like. And I mean that with ALL due respect.
This album is what that original designer who created the Windows Media Player color montage set out to do. "In Rainbows" creates those colorful squiggles, throbbing EKG-esqe lines across your brain. When listening to the album, especially with headphones, you become that Windows Media Player, minus that useless feature that allows you to purchase Paula Cole singles straight off the internet.
At first, I thought, maybe I had reached this theory due to the colorful artwork and the fact that "rainbows" is in the title. But that is not so. Radiohead has created the proper follow up to "OK Computer", as a lot of reviews I read have mentioned. The perfectly balanced layers of guitar noodling, electronic assistance, tight drum patterns, and the crooning of Mr. Yorke reach a utopia they tried but failed on with their previous "Hail to the Thief."
The moods on this album fluctuate track by track, which works rather well in all areas. The guitar tapestry woven out of both speakers on "Weird Fishes/ Arpeggi" is fascinatingly simple and well missed. The slow sadness of "Nude", “Faust Arp”, and the piano haunted closer "Videotape" are familiar, yet refreshingly updated Radiohead areas of past exploration. "Bodysnatchers" boasts all the great indie rock influences Radiohead continually cite but never replicate, all in one. But the danceclub-on-the-brink-of-collapse, falsetto opener, "15 Step" sets a perfect pace for the whole Windows Media Player color attack. When I finally heard this track the anger of never downloading the album began to lift. All good things come to those who wait (and there is a cliché' to sum up everything you ever wanted to describe in metaphor).
Overall, Radiohead has delivered an album that crushes all of that "can you believe they're letting you pick your own price for their album" talk of last fall. I must admit, I was pretty caught up in that for a few days, and still think it was a cool move. Still, the music here is pretty amazing. The band has always strived for bigger ambitions, sometimes pretentious, other times unfathomably amazing. Here, I feel Radiohead has finally made an album that comfortably shows natural growth and eases in far less obtuse song writing. Sometimes in life, when you strive for nothing, you can achieve a lot more. That's why I'm sleeping with my copy of "In Rainbows" tonight.
Oh yeah… and the packaging is pretty cool too
So the fact that I didn't take the bull by the horns and listen to it made me angry come year’s end. Oh, and I had my chances. There was the time I filled out the form on the website and opted for procrastination rather than hit the "complete" button. Then there was the week when I was thinking of my favorite albums of '07 and remembered Radiohead. "Should I listen to it in rushed manner?" I thought, wanting to give it the time of year. Finally, I wound up hopelessly angered by my lack of knowing how to complete any task that involves the internet, downloading, or music files, even if it was the all mighty Radiohead.
Cutting to the chase, I've finally given "In Rainbows" its due. And I must say I love it.
The first thing I thought about after "buying" the real album, complete with liner notes, was Windows Media Player. You know when you pop in a c.d. and those lame squiggles rape your computer screen? You watch it and fall deep into a trance as tacky, futuristic colors pulsate to the music. No matter what c.d. you put on, those squiggly vortex worm holes appear, loop endlessly, as colored graphics rape your skull. I hate that dumb feature. However, that's what Radiohead's "In Rainbows" sounds like. And I mean that with ALL due respect.
This album is what that original designer who created the Windows Media Player color montage set out to do. "In Rainbows" creates those colorful squiggles, throbbing EKG-esqe lines across your brain. When listening to the album, especially with headphones, you become that Windows Media Player, minus that useless feature that allows you to purchase Paula Cole singles straight off the internet.
At first, I thought, maybe I had reached this theory due to the colorful artwork and the fact that "rainbows" is in the title. But that is not so. Radiohead has created the proper follow up to "OK Computer", as a lot of reviews I read have mentioned. The perfectly balanced layers of guitar noodling, electronic assistance, tight drum patterns, and the crooning of Mr. Yorke reach a utopia they tried but failed on with their previous "Hail to the Thief."
The moods on this album fluctuate track by track, which works rather well in all areas. The guitar tapestry woven out of both speakers on "Weird Fishes/ Arpeggi" is fascinatingly simple and well missed. The slow sadness of "Nude", “Faust Arp”, and the piano haunted closer "Videotape" are familiar, yet refreshingly updated Radiohead areas of past exploration. "Bodysnatchers" boasts all the great indie rock influences Radiohead continually cite but never replicate, all in one. But the danceclub-on-the-brink-of-collapse, falsetto opener, "15 Step" sets a perfect pace for the whole Windows Media Player color attack. When I finally heard this track the anger of never downloading the album began to lift. All good things come to those who wait (and there is a cliché' to sum up everything you ever wanted to describe in metaphor).
Overall, Radiohead has delivered an album that crushes all of that "can you believe they're letting you pick your own price for their album" talk of last fall. I must admit, I was pretty caught up in that for a few days, and still think it was a cool move. Still, the music here is pretty amazing. The band has always strived for bigger ambitions, sometimes pretentious, other times unfathomably amazing. Here, I feel Radiohead has finally made an album that comfortably shows natural growth and eases in far less obtuse song writing. Sometimes in life, when you strive for nothing, you can achieve a lot more. That's why I'm sleeping with my copy of "In Rainbows" tonight.
Oh yeah… and the packaging is pretty cool too
January 3, 2008
Too Much Seasoning
I remember a time in New Jersey when winter was winter, summer was summer, fall was fall, and childhood was fun. You know what I'm talking about? When I was a kid, I remember the actual existence of seasons. After Halloween, it was time to whip out the big jacket, that puffy one with the gigantic Charlotte Hornet on the back (I'm convinced the Charlotte Hornet's sold more NBA merchandise in the '90's, besides the Bulls. Everyone had a Hornets hat, shirt, gloves, and/or matching panties. Goddamn, did people think teal cured cancer?). Now a days, it seems Halloween is now the time to put away the shorts and tank tops and get out closed toed shoes and snazzy windbreakers.
I also remember Christmases when I could see my breath when I stepped outside. The lawn ornaments of grazing reindeer and smiling polar bears actually fit with the nip in the air. However, the past few Christmases I wake up and have a debate whether I should shoot my sunbathing neighbor off her roof with a slingshot or open gifts. The weather has been wacky to say the least.
Today, out of nowhere, January struck, pounding Jersey with good old fashioned, frigged-as-fuck temperatures (even Miami was only 39 degrees this morning). But the news tonight promised me that this weekend, would be "warm and ahhh'rockin'!!!", far above the average January temperatures. What the hell is going on? Why can't we have temperatures act the way they used to? Huh? Why God?
And I'm not blaming this on global warming either. I'm blaming it on all the prayers of people who want to live in the upper northeast but don't want to deal with cold weather. It's as if the weather keeps going on drinking binges, waking up and forgetting what the fuck its purpose is. These volatile seasons are screwing with my head. I like to be cold in the winter, and hot in the summer, and content in the spring. Stop praying about the weather and let me freeze in peace. Thank you.
I also remember Christmases when I could see my breath when I stepped outside. The lawn ornaments of grazing reindeer and smiling polar bears actually fit with the nip in the air. However, the past few Christmases I wake up and have a debate whether I should shoot my sunbathing neighbor off her roof with a slingshot or open gifts. The weather has been wacky to say the least.
Today, out of nowhere, January struck, pounding Jersey with good old fashioned, frigged-as-fuck temperatures (even Miami was only 39 degrees this morning). But the news tonight promised me that this weekend, would be "warm and ahhh'rockin'!!!", far above the average January temperatures. What the hell is going on? Why can't we have temperatures act the way they used to? Huh? Why God?
And I'm not blaming this on global warming either. I'm blaming it on all the prayers of people who want to live in the upper northeast but don't want to deal with cold weather. It's as if the weather keeps going on drinking binges, waking up and forgetting what the fuck its purpose is. These volatile seasons are screwing with my head. I like to be cold in the winter, and hot in the summer, and content in the spring. Stop praying about the weather and let me freeze in peace. Thank you.
January 2, 2008
If I Could Turn Bach Time
* The following is an older blog that I wrote the day before Thanksgiving of 2006 and only posted on my myspace. So, without further ado, here is the article in all its glory.
Every once in a while something happens that restores your faith in the fact that almost everything you think about the world is correct. Tonight, was one of those moments. For I, Eric Truchan, have finally seen, in person, Sebastian Bach of Skid Row. And let me tell, you, I hate everything right now.
This evening I stopped over at Vintage Vinyl to buy a cd or two and walked in on a store cramped full of over-the-hill-hair-metal moms and dirty kids in hooded sweatshirts who probably fix a lot of mopeds. A line twisted all around the walls to a lone table near the back of the store. It was then I heard the loud cry of the most annoying fucking man I've ever seen. Let me rephrase. The most annoying man I've ever seen who will probably always make more money than me. There he was, Sebastian "Doucheballs" Bach, Sharpie in hand, ready to meet the masses.
During my stay, which was probably 15 minutes, I heard and witnessed many things that almost ruined my chipper Thanksgiving mood. A list if you will:
1). An obese, menopausal woman in red leather, running around the store with a guitar screaming, "He signed my guitar! He signed my guitar!"
2). Sebastian Bach screaming at the top of his lungs, out of the blue, "GOD BLESS ROCK AND ROLL!!!" The crowd then cheered in unison, fists to the air, with a few random "FUCK YEA[s]!" thrown in the mix.
3). Mr. Bach headbanging relentlessly to his own music, which blasted over the store's speakers the entire time I was there, and probably played plenty long after I was gone.
4). A group of 5 or 6 women in their mid-30's walking out of the store with their signed posters thanking each other for dinner and saying things like "This was really fun you guys" and "We should do things more often together."
5). A 2 year old girl running around while their mom tried to wrangle her up and explain to her who Sebastian Bach was and why he was important.
I'm not sure what this proved to me about the world but I can't seem to Rattlesnake Shake this dirty, depressed feeling. I guess most people like stupid things.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Every once in a while something happens that restores your faith in the fact that almost everything you think about the world is correct. Tonight, was one of those moments. For I, Eric Truchan, have finally seen, in person, Sebastian Bach of Skid Row. And let me tell, you, I hate everything right now.
This evening I stopped over at Vintage Vinyl to buy a cd or two and walked in on a store cramped full of over-the-hill-hair-metal moms and dirty kids in hooded sweatshirts who probably fix a lot of mopeds. A line twisted all around the walls to a lone table near the back of the store. It was then I heard the loud cry of the most annoying fucking man I've ever seen. Let me rephrase. The most annoying man I've ever seen who will probably always make more money than me. There he was, Sebastian "Doucheballs" Bach, Sharpie in hand, ready to meet the masses.
During my stay, which was probably 15 minutes, I heard and witnessed many things that almost ruined my chipper Thanksgiving mood. A list if you will:
1). An obese, menopausal woman in red leather, running around the store with a guitar screaming, "He signed my guitar! He signed my guitar!"
2). Sebastian Bach screaming at the top of his lungs, out of the blue, "GOD BLESS ROCK AND ROLL!!!" The crowd then cheered in unison, fists to the air, with a few random "FUCK YEA[s]!" thrown in the mix.
3). Mr. Bach headbanging relentlessly to his own music, which blasted over the store's speakers the entire time I was there, and probably played plenty long after I was gone.
4). A group of 5 or 6 women in their mid-30's walking out of the store with their signed posters thanking each other for dinner and saying things like "This was really fun you guys" and "We should do things more often together."
5). A 2 year old girl running around while their mom tried to wrangle her up and explain to her who Sebastian Bach was and why he was important.
I'm not sure what this proved to me about the world but I can't seem to Rattlesnake Shake this dirty, depressed feeling. I guess most people like stupid things.
Happy Thanksgiving.
January 1, 2008
Curb Yourself, Dickhead
The other night I was exiting a diner at 2 in the morning. I had to walk by a line of drunk "hunks" waiting to be seated. It was then that one of them, complete with fake tan, barked in my ear. If you are reading this, and you are him, then you know your guilt. It made me so angry that I turned around and told the guy to "lick my balls."
Now this is far from threatening, even bordering on homoerotic if you will. It's actually the stupidest thing I could have retaliated with. However, I rarely talk back to anyone. Yet, seeing this greasy, sweaty, club hopping, 26 year old executive with his popped collar and spiked hair brewed a rage deep in my gut that commanded that this man "lick my balls." I even toyed with the notion of walking up and giving him a big hug to freak him the fuck out. Or taking a shit in my hand and throwing it at him, monkey style.
If you are with a group of your shit eating friends after hittin' the clubs, and you're so lame that you have to go to a diner together afterwards rather than going home with a sleazy, easy, Jersey girl, then you have no right to bark into anyone's ear. When you can't get free, cheap, and easy sex, don't take out your frustrations on my right ear. I'm always in the wrong place at the wrong time. Ho-hum-ho-hum-blah.
Now this is far from threatening, even bordering on homoerotic if you will. It's actually the stupidest thing I could have retaliated with. However, I rarely talk back to anyone. Yet, seeing this greasy, sweaty, club hopping, 26 year old executive with his popped collar and spiked hair brewed a rage deep in my gut that commanded that this man "lick my balls." I even toyed with the notion of walking up and giving him a big hug to freak him the fuck out. Or taking a shit in my hand and throwing it at him, monkey style.
If you are with a group of your shit eating friends after hittin' the clubs, and you're so lame that you have to go to a diner together afterwards rather than going home with a sleazy, easy, Jersey girl, then you have no right to bark into anyone's ear. When you can't get free, cheap, and easy sex, don't take out your frustrations on my right ear. I'm always in the wrong place at the wrong time. Ho-hum-ho-hum-blah.
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