Philadelphia Phree-Phor-All Part II: Circle Pits + Meatheads + Punches to the Face=Major Drag/Canada Wins!!!

Alright, so, the show started out innocently enough: About 60 or so awkward, black-t-shirt-sporting metal fans in attendance to see Bison B.C. totally wreck house (the "B.C." stands for "British Columbia."). They were one of the finest openers that I've seen in a while. Metal...crust punk...sludge. They had it all; and beards to boot. Great stuff! Black Cobra, from SF, came on next. They're on Southern Lord, so my expectations were somewhat high. Unfortunately, the were boring as shit. I generally get more enjoyment out of mowing the lawn. (In fairness, I LOVE mowing the lawn.) The drummer did all the work while the guitarist/vocalist pretty much acted strangely and played at a mediocre level. Zero points for the U.S. Then came Priestess (Canada). I'm a huge fan, so I was especially excited. Although their beard quotient was somewhat less than that of Bison B.C., they were incredible! Seriously,they were insane. The dual guitar harmonies set the place ablaze. Not to mention, they were some of the coolest cats around. Very humble and entertaining: two things I've never been accused of being. They burned the place down right before High on Fire came out.

Now, something I've failed to mention up until this point: For nearly the entire duration of the show, I stood behind this guy who was essentially a spittin' image of John Goodman's character from "The Big Lebowski." I mean, he looked just like him...other than the long ponytail coming out of his bandanna and the way he beat his chest while singing the Dio songs blaring from the PA. I actually tasted this poor bastard's hair on several occasions that night. Boo!!

Anyway, as High on Fire's roadies set-up, the crowd swelled. More than anything, I noticed how the jock: metal dude ratio started to slant uncomfortably in favor of the jocks. Finally, the lights went down and High on Fire took the stage. As they went into the beginning of the first song, it was very apparent that Matt Pike (one of the most sun-abused men ever)'s guitar was not working. Roadies came out in an attempt to fix the problem before the track really kicked in, but it was to no avail. They had to stop the song before it really started and figure out the problem. Pike looked disappointed and I honestly expected the whole church to burst into flames, but luckily, that didn't happen.

High on Fire played a few songs and the place absolutely erupted! For the first several songs, I found myself working harder to stay upright than to experience the set. During the third song, I saw some dude find and reapply his contact lens...in a very metal fashion, I might add. Then, within about 15 seconds, I saw one cat get knocked out cold while "moshing" and another kid get cold-cocked right in the nose by one of the aforementioned meatheads. With blood everywhere, the kid pretty much gave up and tried to let the guy know that he wasn't going to continue. Unfortunately, the hitter (as opposed to the "hitee,") didn't seem into the gesture. Onlookers eventually pulled the two apart. High on Fire muscled through a fantastic, although muddy-sounding, set. Score one for the U.S. It was easily one of the loudest shows I've ever been to. At certain points, I actually felt dizzy. I've finally seen High on Fire. On this night, however, Priestess stole the show. Canada won, 2-1, but more importantly, Justin and I survived the noise, the violence and the sea of spilled beer of which the floor bore the brunt. Overall, a great night. The next day at work sucked, but at least I have several stories to tell.

Currently blasting: Mi Ami-"Steal Your Face"

Philadelphia Phree-Phor-All Part I: Q: Who's Got the 10 1/2? A: Not me.

I got out of work at 4:30 Tuesday afternoon. I then met up with my man, Justin, and we high-tailed it to Philly for a night of stoner metal featuring the likes of High on Fire, Priestess, Bison B.C. and Black Cobra. After stopping for gas, drinks and over-priced pizza, we were on our way; eating up highway at 80 mph in my trusty ride. We got to the venue a bit early, so we decided to backtrack a few blocks to a Dunkin' Donuts where we could purchase cold beverages and use the facilities. On the way there, a forty-something, stocky dude told me that he liked my shirt. On the evening in question, I was sporting my Black Flag "Slip It In" shirt feature the Raymond Pettibon illustration of a nun holding onto a hairy arm (leg?). Classic. I mumbled a 'thanks' in his direction and we moved along.

****SIDE NOTE: Punk and metal shows always seem to function as pissing contests for people with band t-shirt collections. The idea is to sport whatever shirt could potentially make the most hipsters collectively share the greatest amount of jealousy. This is why I am usually more apt to wear my James Brown shirt to a show than almost any other shirt in my collection, because it doesn't really qualify in the fashion show. If I still had it and it still fit, I would also wear my 'Archie Bunker for President' t shirt that I got from my grandma years ago. On the morning of the show, I grabbed the closest non-black t-shirt I had, no agenda in mind. Big mistake.

So, anyway, Justin and I made it back to church where we meandered about for bit as we waited for the show to start. Bison B.C. came on around 7:45 and absolutely killed it. Score one for Canada! As they were tearing down and Black Cobra prepared to set-up, I ventured over to the merch tables to see if anything looked good. (Best piece of the night: High on Fire tote bag with the Pontiac Firebird logo.) On my way to said table, who do I run into but the Black Flag fan from earlier. This time, he stopped me and formally expressed his love of Black Flag. After indulging him with what seemed like half a dozen handshakes, we briefly talked about our favorite eras of the band as well as our favorite albums. I referenced Rollins-era Black Flag as sounding like a bulldozer running into a wall and he mentioned his man-crush over "Who's Got The 10 1/2?" at least once for each handshake he pressured me into only moments before. It was apparent that my portly, forty-something friend was intoxicated. I gave him the old "see ya later" but didn't mean it. He did.

After Black Cobra's painfully boring set came to a close, I took a stroll to the back of the room to flip through a couple boxes of used cds that some guy was selling. Nothing really caught my eye so I headed back to the spot that Justin and I had planted ourselves for the first two bands. I turned around and an extended hand was waiting for my shaking. It was "10 1/2 Man." It was almost like we hadn't spoken twice within the last hour. He told me how big of a fan he was of Black Flag...especially...you guessed it..."Who's Got The 10 1/2." This time, he had an open bottle of Miller Lite in one hand and an open Pabst Blue Ribbon pounder in the other. He talked about his infatuation with Henry Rollins and how Henry is really only about "this tall";according to this man, Henry Rollins is about 4'7". I said "wow" and "cool" a lot in an effort to humor him. At the end of his lengthy monologue, he asked, "So...what do you think about 'Who's Got the 10 1/2?'?" To which I said, "It's my FAVORITE album!!" He nearly lost his shit. I gave him the old "see ya later" one last time and dodged him the rest of the night. I'm not gonna wear that shirt again any time soon.

NOTE: The story behind the name of Black Flag's live LP, "Who's Got The 10 1/2?" is that one of the members allegedly had, and hopefully still has, a 10 1/2" member. Seeing as though there was a girl in the band at the time, it pretty much limits the owner to Greg Ginn, the apparently dwarf-like Henry Rollins or Anthony Martinez (?). I'm gonna go with Ginn.

Currently blasting: Black Flag-"Slip It In"

Whacks

Since I've been so enthralled with making stop-motion movies these past few weeks, and I'm a huge vinyl fan, I thought to myself, "What if I were to combine the two? Would the world implode? Probably, but I'm willing to take that chance." When the conversation in my mind ended, I began creating the following. I definitely missed some gems, but the goal was to get as much finished as I could before Isaac and Rosalie woke up. Maybe I'll make a sequel sometime soon. Who knows? Enjoy!

Fear does not exist in this dojo (but questions do).

At this very moment, I am watching the second installment of one of the greatest quadrilogies the world has ever seen: The Karate Kid. This installment, "Karate Kid II: The Search for Daniel's Dignity," is better than the next two adventures, but not as good as the original. But when I was younger, this was all I cared about. In fact, I saw this exact movie in the theater and it blew my mind.

Some things have stood the test of time, while others have not. One of the constants has been Pat Morita's bottomless supply of humor. Such as this gem:

Daniel: Can you break a log like that, Mr. Miyagi?
Mr. Miyagi: Don't know. Never attacked by tree.

Good God! That shit STILL brings the house down. Unfortunately, Ralph Macchio doesn't stand the test of time quite as well. In 1986, I found him to be the absolute coolest cat ever to get beaten up by Billy Zabka. Twenty-four years later, I find him to be so annoying that I not only feel as though Zabka was possibly given a bad rap, but also that Elizabeth Shue could have done much, much better. With the exception of the following three items:

1. "Aw, C'moooonnn."
2. "Whoa!"
3. "Ouch!"

he only asks questions. How aggravating! And seriously, dude. Take off that stupid headband. You look ridiculous. And it has to smell like a mixture of Drakkar Noir, Aquanet and sweat at this stage in the game.

When I originally saw the movie, I thought that the whole drum-technique-expressed-through-the-doll-thing was kind of interesting. At present, I think that a cameo by Stewart Copeland would have been more effective in conveying a drum technique.

Either way, I own the boxed set (Good lookin' out Laura Kicey!) and I will continue to love the franchise, but after all these years Mr. Miyagi's eternal wit and charm trump any and all whining done by his zany sidekick.

R.I.P., Pat Morita. Your performances in the Karate Kid movies are matched only by your appearance in that Tony's Pizza commercial once upon a time.

Currently blasting: Peter Cetera-"Glory of Love"

Leg-Ohs

Last Friday, my dear friend Cotten and I went to see Sonia Sanchez speak at Dickinson College. We met up with a couple of friends beforehand to grab a couple of beers. An important thing to mention is that our reasoning behind having a few drinks before the event was in no way similar to why a teenager would have pounded a couple of Old Milwaukee pounders before a Night Ranger concert in 1985. In other words, we weren't "lubing up," per se; nor were we "psyching ourselves up." I only mention this because the thought of getting wasted before attending a Sonia Sanchez reading is utterly ridiculous. In fact, I wanted to be absolutely stone-sober in case her presence was too powerful for me to handle, thus, turning me into dust. To the best of my knowledge, no one changed form, but I will say that seeing her and hearing her speak was incredible. What an amazing person!! I was blown away as she leveled the room. How great it was!!

So, after that, a few of us decided to go down the street to consume a few celebratory beverages. Since I arrived before everyone else, it seemed like a good idea to make my way to the bar where I would be able to purchase a nice, frothy brew. Locals be damned, I was on a mission. After nudging my way through the crowd of students and townies I managed to find an empty spot near the end of the bar. Now, up until this point, you may be wondering if there is anything resembling a story in this entry. And indeed, there is. The tiny void near the end of the bar had a gaggle of twenty-something girls on the left side and on the right side were two forty-something men who appeared to have received hygiene tips from Oscar the Grouch. I ordered an ice-cold Guinness Draught (not to be confused with a Guinness "Drought" that the girl at the beer distributor encourage me to sample) and replied to a text sent minutes before by my beautiful wife. The bartender walked away, undoubtedly considering how manly I must be in order to request such a tough beer. And that's when I felt a tap on my shoulder from one half of the Dumpster Twins sitting on my right. The following exchange occurred.

Creepy man: (pointing and nodding in the direction to my left) Look there.
Me: What?
Creepy man: (pointing at the legs of a girl from the gaggle to my left)There.
Me: What?
Creepy man: Legs.
Me: OK?
Creepy man: You don't like legs?
Me: Yeah. My wife has lovely ones.
Creepy man: Aw, man. You can look!
Me: (using my mind to quickly steer the Guinness directly into my hand, not unlike the tractor beam in Star Wars: Episode IV) No, thanks.

I did a 180 and beat cheeks out of my little nook. In hindsight, I probably should have told the girl to guard her drink in case the man had a fistful of roofies. But in actuality, it would have taken a special kind of person to be tricked by that guy.

Currently blasting: Desmond Dekker-"Pickney Girl"
Currently enjoying: Syracuse railing Villanova.

Way to stay strong, my friend.

Today is my last day off before I start my new job in the morning. To celebrate, I have been listening to music, reading and drinking...a bit. At noon, Rosalie had a doctor's appointment. Nothing important, just a follow-up to an appointment she had a month ago. Everything was fine with her, as we expected, but in the process of picking her up for her appointment, I got to see a rather hilarious bumper sticker and as a bonus, the owner of the bumper sticker.

So, you may be wondering how I saw the driver AND the bumper sticker. I saw him get in his car on the street and then after I pulled out of the daycare, I ended up behind the same car. Perhaps he was warming that bad-boy up before going out on the prowl. I'm not sure. Either way,the bumper sticker on said car read the following:

"I'll keep my guns, my freedom and my money. You can keep the 'Change'."

Clever, no? I trust he voted for McCain in the 2008 election or perhaps he wrote in David Duke. The man, when I saw him, appeared to be going out into the forest in search of large game. Camouflage draped his right-wing body as he sauntered into his car. Seeing the man and the sticker in which he sported made me wonder what this man meant by "change" since he seemingly included all of the things that he held near and dear to his heart in his list of things that he chose to keep. Since I didn't get the opportunity to speak to him, I decided to create a list of thing that I supposed he would wish to give away. Among those things, I came up with the following list:

His crystal-meth lab
His teeth
His dignity
His David Allan Coe CDs
His access to fairs and/or carnivals (including ability to operate rides)
His windowless van
His inability to be treaded upon.
Etc etc...

Now, I know it is unfair to judge people solely by their bumper stickers and/or camouflage attire, but this fellow totally owned the stereotype of disenfranchised hillbilly. This certainly isn't the first silly bumper-sticker that I've seen. But it was the best I've seen in a while, and that's good enough for me.

Currently blasting: Mission of Burma-"The Truth About Burma"
Currently rocking-A Banana and a soft pretzel with Ortega-brand "cheese dip"

The Skinny

After a lengthy hiatus, I've decided to return to Blogburg, or is it the Blogosphere? I'm not sure. I enjoy writing about the ridiculous things and people that I encounter on a daily basis, so this blog will act as my forum for reporting such encounters. There really won't be any format, per se; basically the same types of things that comprised my last blog: Nothing too heavy, nothing overly political, I'm not trying to fight or support City Hall...nothing like that. My plan is simply to tell stories.

Now, as far as the name goes, again...nothing mind-bending. A few months ago, a class that I was taking was granted a 10 minute break. I saw a friend outside and he was running like hell. It was then that I decided that people, other than athletes and wanted criminals, are most vulnerable when they are running. I had never seen this person run before and I couldn't help but think how ridiculous he looked. Then I considered how ridiculous I must look when I run. In my case, the flailing limbs and spazzy wounded-deer mechanics are most likely enough to make witnesses think that I am a blind PCP addict. This is why I tend to stick to walking when I'm in public. Chances are pretty good that if I was being chased by a man with an axe, and there were people on the street while I was being chased, that I would sooner walk with urgency, thus, saving face, than run. That's how bad I have it. "It" being lack of grace. But anyway, from a distance it's easy to judge a lone runner. The person is late, he or she is unprepared for something; the list of thoughts is as long as it is ridiculous. Or perhaps I just like to internally mock people who are hurried for one reason or another.

So that's what this blog is going to be made up of: Stories and thoughts that have little if any bearing on anything.

Currently blasting: ESG-"A South Bronx Story"