Ah, Valentines Day! That most dramatic of days when the emotionally insecure either throw meaningless tokens of affection at their romantic partner in an act our modern parlance calls "pitching woo" or blubber about their lack of a woo pitching target.
As you no doubt know or at least moderately suspected, before getting
married, I was widely regarded in some circles as one of the great gentleman masters of seduction.
Several months ago, a certain women's magazine that tends to dabble in bad romantic advice asked me to write an article for other men regarding the act of seduction.
Initially, I declined. After all, I am out of the seduction business and a true master of woo does not simply pass on his techniques in widely circulated publications, lest he ruin manhood for all other manly men.
But then, I thought about... the ladies.
Hello,... ladies. You probably cannot see it,... ladies, unless you have installed a hidden camera in my bedroom to catch glimpses of my urethra, but when I said "...ladies" (and I always say, ladies out loud when I type), I paused, cocked my head just slightly, and raised one of my eyebrows... seductively. And you, no doubt, are in the early stages of being in heat.
You're welcome, gents of ...ladies who read this.
As a gentleman master of the act that a Tijuana Bible I found stuffed in a mattress in the basement of a creepy abandoned building in Auburn referred to as "El Seducto", I have learned that the first thing I always must do is think about... the ladies.
(Seriously, gents, you now owe me like two dozen hi-fives here because her buttocks are probably inflamed like a mandrill's face with passion after just those four paragraphs.)
So, ...ladies, if you wish to leave your gentleman lover some pointers about reducing you to some kind of quivering wad of desire that is simultaneously arousing and repugnant, read on. But be warned that this advice is not in any way safe for work, not only because it is filthy, but also because YOU MAY VERY WELL LOOSE ALL SELF CONTROL AND START LIKE TOTALLY MAKING OUT WITH THE NEAREST TALL OBJECT LIKE A MOP OR ARTIFICIAL PLANT!!! In fact, it was deemed so unsafe for work that the publication attempted to have it suppressed.
TWENTY TIPS FOR IDEAL SEDUCTION WHICH ARE GUARANTEED TO LEAD TO SOME FORM OF INTERCOURSE*
1. Leave clusters of your unwashed pubic hair between the pages of her books. Every single woman that has ever been or ever will be alive loves male pubic hair - especially the scraggly ones on the testicles that stick up like Larry Fine's coiffure. The sight of your strange, jaggedly angular ball bush peeking from her copy of "Sisterhood of Sappho" is sure to get her wanting wanton slathered in your greasy duck sauce.
2. As demonstrated in that last tip, find your own word to euphemistically use to refer to her genitals. Or just flat out refer to them as genitals. For example, the phrase "I want to make your genitals foam with scrubbing lust bubbles" can could be construed as downright dashing under some circumstances. Meanwhile, just call your penis your ding dong. Ding-dong has been scientifically proven to be the most erotic word for penis is English and Esperanto.
3. Send pictures of her cat's anus to her cell phone and tell her it's yours.
4. Show her how you like to masturbate. I'm not referring to the actual stroke technique you use, mind you. I'm talking about the shameful, depraved, sad-sack guy shit that you do while masturbating, like making laser noises, talking dirty and aggressively to pictures, and depositing your load in yesterdays socks.
5. Keep an entire dessert cart next to the bed. Women like options and won't find the fact that you actually own a fucking dessert cart in the first place at all disconcerting.
6. Role playing can add some sizzle to ant sexual encounter. A few of my personal favorite scenarios ars "Raffi Backstage", "Feeding Time At the Vulture Orphanage" and "I Had Too Much Pasta, Baby!"
7. Show her that you are confident in your own masculinity, but also willing to get a little freaky by trying on some of her sexier undergarments. Yeah. She'll definitely appreciate that, especially the next time she tries to wear them and discovers that they are all stretched out and covered in your hair.
8. Take a bath in front of her. Make eye contact with her the entire time, especially when you wince while washing your swampy asshole.
9. Save the condom from the first time you consummated your love in a champagne glass filled with vinegar and keep it next to your bed. It's little, sentimental things like that keep them coming back for more.
10. Send her text messages throughout the day reminding her that you really think that it's about time you two try anal. Those in the know call that sexting.
11. Bring a sense of adventure to your sex life by bringing your sex life out of the bed room and into the great outdoors! Places where geese are abundant, feral dogs rummage through your pants to find those small slivers of uneaten jerky you keep in your pockets and the air smells strongly of horse shit and burning tires are sure to set her genitals ablaze with hot, burning pre-sex urine.
12. Write a rap about your lover's body. Work the words Carolina, heinous and mirthing mavity into every other line, then try to get Ja Rule to do a verse. I'm sure his schedules open.
13. Watch pornography together. See what interests her. When that ultimately fails, masturbate alone and sob.
14. Be open and honest with your feelings, especially when you feel like she doesn't have sex with you often enough. She'll find your childish lack of empathy towards her own needs refreshing and will definitely tell you exactly what you can do with your needy peen.
15. Doubtless, every woman fantasizes about having sex with a giant, anthropomorphic penis! With that in mind, construct a giant penis costume out of scraps of flesh-colored nylon and cotton batting, and then thrash about in it on your bed like an epileptic worm.
16. Some foods are natural aphrodisiacs. A floppy six inch lettuce, bologna and cheese sandwich from Subway, for example, will no doubt conjure thoughts of your droopy penis in her subconscious, making her moderately hungry for mediocre, unsatisfying sex. Or, if you want to spice things up but also show that you are passionate about animal rights (and animal rites, har har), slice open the casing for a soy chorizo and dump it's oily, musky contents out onto your chest and plead for her to "feed your mutual needs".
17. All women want their lover to be a true gentleman! With that in mind, start dressing in white suits with powder blue ascots, fanning yourself with a horse racing brochure and refer to her erogenous zones in solely clinical terms. No woman can resist being told that the mere thought of her pubis is giving you the vapors.
18. Arts and crafts time may not sound like a great gateway to debauched sexy times, but that's because you're stupid, Stupid. Trust me, it can be very sexy. Smear glitter glue on your happy trail, leading down to an emerald banana hammock you fashioned out of pipe cleaner. Boom. Yeah. I just blew your mind. Now get ready to craft some sex.
19. They say that the brain is the woman's biggest erogenous zone. While that may be true, your biggest erogenous zone is your penis. Remind her of that by placing subtle reminders that you have a penis on your clothing. Just to clarify, though, do not place things that remind her of the time you actually had a penis that was on your clothing, as that was weird and uncomfortable for both of you. When she sees your reminder and recalls that, yes, beneath your man jeggings and Pat Buchanan man-thong, you do, in fact, have a penis, she will immediately think about your penis and all things she associates with it. Hopefully, one of those things might be limp, sauteed mushrooms.
20. If all else fails and you get desperate, remember that women are human beings, even if you barely are, and that if they actual find you sexually attractive, you probably shouldn't listen to anyone's ideas about seduction besides hers. Above all else, do not ask your parents for advice.
*Sexual intercourse is not the only guaranteed form of intercourse. Intercourse in this instance could be defined as anything from a look of mild revulsion to holding her hair while she projectile vomits the surprisingly inexpensive and indigestible meal you bought her at your nearest Steakhouse Steakhouse Restaurant.
Friday, February 13, 2015
Friday, January 30, 2015
The Duel
Driving in Portsmouth, New Hampshire presents a distinct set of challenges, even on a good day in a compact car. The city's narrow, one way streets and overabundance of uppity, traffic-oblivious gentry require you to be on constant look out for pedestrians and you need to know the route you are taking like the back of your hand. You also have to be on the lookout for those drivers that have become so hopelessly lost in the maze of one-way streets and back alleys that they have stopped even giving an iota of a crap about common sense and traffic laws, and will do anything to get back to the turnpike. Wednesday afternoon, I encountered one such person.
Portsmouth had been battered pretty heavily by Tuesday's blizzard, though their cleanup efforts had been mores successful than those of my beloved Portland's. The main roads were clear and salted, and they even had cleared off the commercial loading zone we use. After visiting my destination, I made my way back to the van, thinking that wasn't so bad.
I was about to turn left onto Porter Street, when a car came zipping by, going the wrong direction. Porter is a one-way street, little more than a back alley, barely wide enough for the van. Apparently, there is an obscure clause in New Hampshire's weird, Libertarian laws, nestled somewhere towards the end of the "living free" portion, right on the cusp of the "or dying" section that apparently negates the meaning of one way street signs on days following blizzards for the elderly and feeble of mind. I say this because a minute later, as I was well past the point of being able to do anything besides move forward, I came face-to-face with a minivan, driven by an Orville Redenbacher looking chap, again headed the wrong way.
I stopped, and waited for the other driver to start backing up. He didn't. Instead, he looked sheepishly at me, clearly aware of the fact that he'd been caught doing something incredibly stupid, but unwilling to do anything to rectify the matter because New Hampshire.
No, I did not flash the Old Hoss at him. Were I in my own vehicle, I would have, but I try to remain professional when on the road. Instead, I gave him the universal pointy speak sign for "Sir, you are going the wrong way down a snowy, one way street and have a much larger vehicle coming towards you." You know the one. You stretch your arms out to your sides with your palms up like they are weighing something while swinging your head back and forth like a king cobra to signify "I am deeply exasperated with you. What is your intention?!".
He continued staring at me, now with sad, puppy dog eyes.
I pointed to the one way street sign behind me, then pointed at him and motioned for him to move back.
Nothing.
More gesticulating followed. I tried to indicate that I was on an incline, in the snow in a much larger vehicle and there was no possible way for me to safely back up, which can be translated as "slope-hand car backwards-slash-too big-narrow alley-you clod."
Nothing.
I repeated the gestures, this time more frantically.
Finally, the light bulb turned on. He started rolling forward again, edging towards the entrance to the parking garage to my immediate left, until he couldn't get proceed any further.
I slammed my head down against the wheel, screamed some Spanish obscenities about his mother's occupation, then decided to cut my losses and push on through. While I did not actually collide with his vehicle, I came within less than an inch of it and got stuck in a snow drift.
I backed out, and looked at him for a moment, hoping he got the picture, but he no longer felt like making eye contact. After two more attempts, I managed to get up on the sidewalk and roll past without crushing him.
I didn't look back, but I think it's safe to assume that he drove down a man hole.
Portsmouth had been battered pretty heavily by Tuesday's blizzard, though their cleanup efforts had been mores successful than those of my beloved Portland's. The main roads were clear and salted, and they even had cleared off the commercial loading zone we use. After visiting my destination, I made my way back to the van, thinking that wasn't so bad.
I was about to turn left onto Porter Street, when a car came zipping by, going the wrong direction. Porter is a one-way street, little more than a back alley, barely wide enough for the van. Apparently, there is an obscure clause in New Hampshire's weird, Libertarian laws, nestled somewhere towards the end of the "living free" portion, right on the cusp of the "or dying" section that apparently negates the meaning of one way street signs on days following blizzards for the elderly and feeble of mind. I say this because a minute later, as I was well past the point of being able to do anything besides move forward, I came face-to-face with a minivan, driven by an Orville Redenbacher looking chap, again headed the wrong way.
I stopped, and waited for the other driver to start backing up. He didn't. Instead, he looked sheepishly at me, clearly aware of the fact that he'd been caught doing something incredibly stupid, but unwilling to do anything to rectify the matter because New Hampshire.
No, I did not flash the Old Hoss at him. Were I in my own vehicle, I would have, but I try to remain professional when on the road. Instead, I gave him the universal pointy speak sign for "Sir, you are going the wrong way down a snowy, one way street and have a much larger vehicle coming towards you." You know the one. You stretch your arms out to your sides with your palms up like they are weighing something while swinging your head back and forth like a king cobra to signify "I am deeply exasperated with you. What is your intention?!".
He continued staring at me, now with sad, puppy dog eyes.
I pointed to the one way street sign behind me, then pointed at him and motioned for him to move back.
Nothing.
More gesticulating followed. I tried to indicate that I was on an incline, in the snow in a much larger vehicle and there was no possible way for me to safely back up, which can be translated as "slope-hand car backwards-slash-too big-narrow alley-you clod."
Nothing.
I repeated the gestures, this time more frantically.
Finally, the light bulb turned on. He started rolling forward again, edging towards the entrance to the parking garage to my immediate left, until he couldn't get proceed any further.
I slammed my head down against the wheel, screamed some Spanish obscenities about his mother's occupation, then decided to cut my losses and push on through. While I did not actually collide with his vehicle, I came within less than an inch of it and got stuck in a snow drift.
I backed out, and looked at him for a moment, hoping he got the picture, but he no longer felt like making eye contact. After two more attempts, I managed to get up on the sidewalk and roll past without crushing him.
I didn't look back, but I think it's safe to assume that he drove down a man hole.
Tuesday, January 27, 2015
January 27th, 2015
I guess this would constitute and actual blog post.
...
There's an honest-to-god blizzard raging outside. We're getting somewhere around 2 inches of snow an hour with 15-50mph wind gusts. Earlier this morning, I bundled up in my ordinarily ludicrously impractical collection of cold weather gear (that occasionally doubles as a wasp fighting costume), and wandered out into the squall. I looked like a 6'3", M81 woodland camouflage Jawa in jeans, traipsing through blowing snow.
Shortly after I came back in from my stroll, the wind managed to blow open one of the windows in our kitchen, causing snow to explode out through the plastic seal.
As I was in the middle of shoveling up the mess with a spatula, my phone rang. it was Matty (one of the District Managers), calling to tell me that the company had decided not to open at all today. There was some talk that we might have been attempting to open at noon yesterday, but it was never a sure thing.
I called all the scheduled staff and let them know that we weren't opening. The sheer disappointment in their voices could have easily been misconstrued as tired confusion by a lesser man, but my keen understanding of the human condition told me otherwise.
....
So, it's been a few years since I posted much of anything directly related to my actual life. Here's a quick update for those of you with brain veins itching for an shot of that sweet, syrupy black tar Cargile:
__ Katie and I have been married for five years now. We're living in a rented house in Westbrook, ME near the Gorham town line.
__ Our son, Frankie is four years old. About a year ago, he was diagnosed as falling somewhere low on the Autism spectrum. We're still working our way through the labyrinth of DHHS to try to get him the help he needs. Things were pretty dark for a while, but we're starting to adapt.
__ I'm still working as the warehouse manager for a local record store chain. Due to staff shortages, I've been doubling as a delivery driver one day a week since October. For what it's worth, I really enjoy driving, especially the North run up to Bangor and back. It just makes for some really long days.
__ I don't have much of a social life anymore, outside of work. Frankie's condition makes it difficult for him to cope with change and requires a fairly lockstep schedule, one in which my role in tucking him in at night is pretty crucial. By the time that is over, I have about an hour and a half before I need to be in bed to get a full nights rest before working another 10+ hour day.
__ My musical taste remains in roughly the same trajectory. I listen to a lot of punk, country, blues, psychobilly and old R&B stuff with a bit of doom metal and stoner rock mixed in.
Current Playlist:
__ Kepi Ghoulie -Kepi Goes Country (entire album)
__ Nick Curran and the Nitelifes - Doctor Velvet (entire album)
__ Dog Party - Lost Control (entire album)
__ The Cramps - Look Mom, No Head (entire album)
I guess this would constitute and actual blog post.
...
There's an honest-to-god blizzard raging outside. We're getting somewhere around 2 inches of snow an hour with 15-50mph wind gusts. Earlier this morning, I bundled up in my ordinarily ludicrously impractical collection of cold weather gear (that occasionally doubles as a wasp fighting costume), and wandered out into the squall. I looked like a 6'3", M81 woodland camouflage Jawa in jeans, traipsing through blowing snow.
Shortly after I came back in from my stroll, the wind managed to blow open one of the windows in our kitchen, causing snow to explode out through the plastic seal.
As I was in the middle of shoveling up the mess with a spatula, my phone rang. it was Matty (one of the District Managers), calling to tell me that the company had decided not to open at all today. There was some talk that we might have been attempting to open at noon yesterday, but it was never a sure thing.
I called all the scheduled staff and let them know that we weren't opening. The sheer disappointment in their voices could have easily been misconstrued as tired confusion by a lesser man, but my keen understanding of the human condition told me otherwise.
....
So, it's been a few years since I posted much of anything directly related to my actual life. Here's a quick update for those of you with brain veins itching for an shot of that sweet, syrupy black tar Cargile:
__ Katie and I have been married for five years now. We're living in a rented house in Westbrook, ME near the Gorham town line.
__ Our son, Frankie is four years old. About a year ago, he was diagnosed as falling somewhere low on the Autism spectrum. We're still working our way through the labyrinth of DHHS to try to get him the help he needs. Things were pretty dark for a while, but we're starting to adapt.
__ I'm still working as the warehouse manager for a local record store chain. Due to staff shortages, I've been doubling as a delivery driver one day a week since October. For what it's worth, I really enjoy driving, especially the North run up to Bangor and back. It just makes for some really long days.
__ I don't have much of a social life anymore, outside of work. Frankie's condition makes it difficult for him to cope with change and requires a fairly lockstep schedule, one in which my role in tucking him in at night is pretty crucial. By the time that is over, I have about an hour and a half before I need to be in bed to get a full nights rest before working another 10+ hour day.
__ My musical taste remains in roughly the same trajectory. I listen to a lot of punk, country, blues, psychobilly and old R&B stuff with a bit of doom metal and stoner rock mixed in.
Current Playlist:
__ Kepi Ghoulie -Kepi Goes Country (entire album)
__ Nick Curran and the Nitelifes - Doctor Velvet (entire album)
__ Dog Party - Lost Control (entire album)
__ The Cramps - Look Mom, No Head (entire album)
Sunday, December 7, 2014
Damage Case #4: God Dammit, John Denver!
The only musician my mother listened to when I was a child that really made enough of an impression on me to vividly remember was John Denver.
I have vague memories of drives through the brown, grassy hills of California, bound for my aunt's house in Walnut Creek, staring at one of his cassette's liner notes and thinking he looked like an androgynous church organist or Roy Orbison's foreskin as my family sang along to Annie's Song.
But man, we loved that guy at that moment in time. I mean, Jesus, everybody did when I was kid. He was wholesome. He fucking loved nature, was in Oh God, regularly hung out with the muppets, performed on PBS and just, gosh, represented everything great about America. I've seen footage of motherfucking astronauts singing Take Me Home, Country Roads while in mother fucking space.
Eventually, however, everything changed. My family stopped listening to him in the car, and his cassettes began gathering dust in my mother's cassette drawer.
At some point, I asked my mom if he had any new albums after noticing that he had been absent from our lives for a long time. I don't remember what she said, exactly, but it was dark. Something about his wife and that he was kind of a bad person.
As I sat down to write this entry, I actually started to get curious about why I have such an aversion to the guy based on some forgotten statement that my mother said in the mid '80s It was a quick, passing comment, almost trivial, but it totally shut the door on him. Like, just seeing his smiling, non-threatening face and strangely phallic haircut makes me uncomfortable.
A quick check of his biography on Wikipedia jogged my memory:
Denver and Annie Martell divorced in 1982 and the ensuing property settlement caused Denver to become so enraged he nearly choked his ex-wife, then used a chainsaw to cut the marital bed in half.
Wow.
Upon relating that tidbit to my wife, she looked very confused and horrified, then un-ironically yelled "Goddammit John Denver!"
So, yeah. I'm just going to stop writing about this topic now.
God dammit John Denver indeed.
I have vague memories of drives through the brown, grassy hills of California, bound for my aunt's house in Walnut Creek, staring at one of his cassette's liner notes and thinking he looked like an androgynous church organist or Roy Orbison's foreskin as my family sang along to Annie's Song.
But man, we loved that guy at that moment in time. I mean, Jesus, everybody did when I was kid. He was wholesome. He fucking loved nature, was in Oh God, regularly hung out with the muppets, performed on PBS and just, gosh, represented everything great about America. I've seen footage of motherfucking astronauts singing Take Me Home, Country Roads while in mother fucking space.
Eventually, however, everything changed. My family stopped listening to him in the car, and his cassettes began gathering dust in my mother's cassette drawer.
At some point, I asked my mom if he had any new albums after noticing that he had been absent from our lives for a long time. I don't remember what she said, exactly, but it was dark. Something about his wife and that he was kind of a bad person.
As I sat down to write this entry, I actually started to get curious about why I have such an aversion to the guy based on some forgotten statement that my mother said in the mid '80s It was a quick, passing comment, almost trivial, but it totally shut the door on him. Like, just seeing his smiling, non-threatening face and strangely phallic haircut makes me uncomfortable.
A quick check of his biography on Wikipedia jogged my memory:
Denver and Annie Martell divorced in 1982 and the ensuing property settlement caused Denver to become so enraged he nearly choked his ex-wife, then used a chainsaw to cut the marital bed in half.
Wow.
Upon relating that tidbit to my wife, she looked very confused and horrified, then un-ironically yelled "Goddammit John Denver!"
So, yeah. I'm just going to stop writing about this topic now.
God dammit John Denver indeed.
Sunday, October 19, 2014
Damage Case #3: Nirvana
First of all , I have a confession - I do not have any Nirvana albums on my hard drive to listen to while I type this. Instead, i am listening to Mudhoney's "Superfuzz Bigmuff", which I regard as superior to anything Nirvana put out.
If presented with a choice between having to listen to Nirvana's In Utero or the entire Ace of Base catalog, I'd probably go with Ace of Base. That's not a joke. I find In Utero insufferable. More on that later.
Starting back at the beginning, I first heard Nirvana on my thirteenth birthday while riding in the car with my older sister, a few days before my first day of seventh grade. The song was "Smells Like Teen Spirit", and it was just starting to get a little airplay on the local college radio station. If I remember correctly, I initially disliked the song because the melody of the "with the lights out / it's less dangerous / here we are now / entertain us " was catchy, but I couldn't yet make out the words. It's usually a good sign when something like that bothers me, and as the days went on and I started hearing the song more often, it grew on me.
I was sitting at a lunch table packed with former Pettengill Elementry students one day towards the end of the first week of school. We were discussing music, and I mentioned "Smells Like Teen Spirit". Most of the other people at the table hadn't heard it, and the one who claimed to have called me a fag for liking them. Coincidentally, that person later turned out to be gay.
I actually liked "Come As You Are" better than "Teen Spirit", and to this day, it remains one of the few songs actually written by Nirvana that I genuinely love. I remember having an awkward conversation with a friend about the video and how I really liked the melody. She told me that she really didn't like Nirvana because they had a song called lithium.
I didn't end up getting "Nevermind" until much later, but I did have a cd single of "Teen Spirit" that I got in a trade along with a copy of Final Fantasy II for the SNES in exchange for Final Fight. I feel like I got the better part of that deal, even if the liner notes to the single smelled like skunk weed and patchouli.
About a year later, "Incesticide" came out, and I got it for Christmas, along with Minor Threat's complete discography.
(I just switched up, and am listening to Azam Ali's "From Night to the Edge of Day" because it's getting late and I want to unwind.)
"Incesticide" is a compilation of unreleased and older material from early singles, EPs and mix tapes. The best three tracks on the album, in my opinion, are a cover of Devo's "Turnaround" and a pair of Vaselines covers. Those two Vaselines covers, "Molly's Lips" and "Son of a Gun" are actually my favorite Nirvana recordings, which is why Incesticide is the only Nirvana album I still own. In case you're wondering, I sold my copies of "Nevermind" and "In Utero" at a garage sale about 18 years ago.
"In Utero" came out a few weeks into my freshman year of high school. I didn't like it. Maybe I am alone in this sentiment, but when I was severely depressed, suffering from insomnia because I couldn't get the image of my mother's brain pulsing through a crack in her skull and the tinny gurgle of blood choking her airways out of my head, just trying to make it through my day without losing it, listening to some rich junkie who has the world in the motherfucking palm of his hand whine and wallow in his own misery just didn't hold that much appeal for me.
For what it's worth, the MTV unplugged recording is pretty great, but its always bugged me that the strongest songs on the album are the covers. Plus, I hate the way Kurt sings the word "birds".
Hindsight plays a role in my generally negative appraisal of Nirvana, and especially In Utero. Once it stopped being shocking, Kurt Cobain's suicide really just pissed me off. Not just the media attention or his posthumous rise to iconic status, though that fucking droopy dog looking image that wound up plastered on shirts sold at Spencers and Hot Topic still pisses me off. I mean that the act itself really just pissed me off. I know that he was mentally ill and suffering from drug addiction and Crohn's disease, so his judgement was fucked, but he had a wife and kid and countless other people who gave a shit about him. Instead of getting help, he ate a fucking gun.
Even before he offed himself though, my interest was shifting away from mainstream music and more towards punk and hardcore. As I mentioned in my last post, I was listening to the Sex Pistols a lot, along with Crass, punk and hip hop era Beastie Boys and the Dead Kennedys, and my sister had just introduced me to Green Day and the Bouncing Souls. A few months later, I'd run across Rancid, who had a much bigger impact on me.
....
Five years later, on the anniversary of his death, I was running a punk, oi! and hardcore radio show on WRBC. These kids kept calling in, asking me to play Nirvana and sobbing when I would refuse. It almost would have been funny, if they weren't so persistent and whiny.
If presented with a choice between having to listen to Nirvana's In Utero or the entire Ace of Base catalog, I'd probably go with Ace of Base. That's not a joke. I find In Utero insufferable. More on that later.
Starting back at the beginning, I first heard Nirvana on my thirteenth birthday while riding in the car with my older sister, a few days before my first day of seventh grade. The song was "Smells Like Teen Spirit", and it was just starting to get a little airplay on the local college radio station. If I remember correctly, I initially disliked the song because the melody of the "with the lights out / it's less dangerous / here we are now / entertain us " was catchy, but I couldn't yet make out the words. It's usually a good sign when something like that bothers me, and as the days went on and I started hearing the song more often, it grew on me.
I was sitting at a lunch table packed with former Pettengill Elementry students one day towards the end of the first week of school. We were discussing music, and I mentioned "Smells Like Teen Spirit". Most of the other people at the table hadn't heard it, and the one who claimed to have called me a fag for liking them. Coincidentally, that person later turned out to be gay.
I actually liked "Come As You Are" better than "Teen Spirit", and to this day, it remains one of the few songs actually written by Nirvana that I genuinely love. I remember having an awkward conversation with a friend about the video and how I really liked the melody. She told me that she really didn't like Nirvana because they had a song called lithium.
I didn't end up getting "Nevermind" until much later, but I did have a cd single of "Teen Spirit" that I got in a trade along with a copy of Final Fantasy II for the SNES in exchange for Final Fight. I feel like I got the better part of that deal, even if the liner notes to the single smelled like skunk weed and patchouli.
About a year later, "Incesticide" came out, and I got it for Christmas, along with Minor Threat's complete discography.
(I just switched up, and am listening to Azam Ali's "From Night to the Edge of Day" because it's getting late and I want to unwind.)
"Incesticide" is a compilation of unreleased and older material from early singles, EPs and mix tapes. The best three tracks on the album, in my opinion, are a cover of Devo's "Turnaround" and a pair of Vaselines covers. Those two Vaselines covers, "Molly's Lips" and "Son of a Gun" are actually my favorite Nirvana recordings, which is why Incesticide is the only Nirvana album I still own. In case you're wondering, I sold my copies of "Nevermind" and "In Utero" at a garage sale about 18 years ago.
"In Utero" came out a few weeks into my freshman year of high school. I didn't like it. Maybe I am alone in this sentiment, but when I was severely depressed, suffering from insomnia because I couldn't get the image of my mother's brain pulsing through a crack in her skull and the tinny gurgle of blood choking her airways out of my head, just trying to make it through my day without losing it, listening to some rich junkie who has the world in the motherfucking palm of his hand whine and wallow in his own misery just didn't hold that much appeal for me.
For what it's worth, the MTV unplugged recording is pretty great, but its always bugged me that the strongest songs on the album are the covers. Plus, I hate the way Kurt sings the word "birds".
Hindsight plays a role in my generally negative appraisal of Nirvana, and especially In Utero. Once it stopped being shocking, Kurt Cobain's suicide really just pissed me off. Not just the media attention or his posthumous rise to iconic status, though that fucking droopy dog looking image that wound up plastered on shirts sold at Spencers and Hot Topic still pisses me off. I mean that the act itself really just pissed me off. I know that he was mentally ill and suffering from drug addiction and Crohn's disease, so his judgement was fucked, but he had a wife and kid and countless other people who gave a shit about him. Instead of getting help, he ate a fucking gun.
Even before he offed himself though, my interest was shifting away from mainstream music and more towards punk and hardcore. As I mentioned in my last post, I was listening to the Sex Pistols a lot, along with Crass, punk and hip hop era Beastie Boys and the Dead Kennedys, and my sister had just introduced me to Green Day and the Bouncing Souls. A few months later, I'd run across Rancid, who had a much bigger impact on me.
....
Five years later, on the anniversary of his death, I was running a punk, oi! and hardcore radio show on WRBC. These kids kept calling in, asking me to play Nirvana and sobbing when I would refuse. It almost would have been funny, if they weren't so persistent and whiny.
Friday, October 17, 2014
Damage Case #2: Never Mind the Bollucks, Here's The Sex Pistols
Let's talk about the Sex Pistols for a moment, shall we?
Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's the Sex Pistols is, in my opinion, the single best example of punk rock ever recorded. Sure, there are plenty of faults with the band, their formation, talent, originality, convictions and image. They were a punk-themed boy band manufactured by a guy who had previously managed the New York Dolls and failed to coax Cock Sparrer into the role he wanted. I don't think any of that is up for debate at this point.
The thing is, once you get past all the hype and Sid & Nancy bullshit, you have this timeless, genuinely awesome album. It's abrasive, brash, offensive, ballsy and angry. It delves into subject matter like abortion and the holocaust that are still taboo nearly 40 years later. In fact, it's such a solid album that it's kind of the punk equivalent of Dick & Jane. It's often the first punk album people explore and, frequently, that leads to people who have been fans of the genre for a while to start taking it for granted. I was totally guilty of that.
....
My first encounter with the Sex Pistols came one summer night when I was ten years old. My older sister, Kate, and her pen pal from Bangor were watching Sid & Nancy in the living room, and invited me to watch it with them. I was still very sheltered and the drug use in the movie made me really uncomfortable. I eventually walked out, not quite sure why anyone would want to watch people shoot up.
A few months later, however, I saw Return of the Living Dead at a Halloween party at my family's very liberal church, and decided that I wanted to be a punk after all. I asked Kate if she had any of the music from the ROTLD soundtrack. She didn't, but she gave me a tape with the Great Rock N Roll Swindle on one side and Ministry's "The Mind is a Terrible Thing to Taste" on the other.
I never made it past the weird Malcolm McLaren opening on Swindle, and just skipped over to the Ministry side because it was the loudest, hardest and fastest thing I had ever heard. Dumb decision, maybe. Whatever. I later played the Ministry side during my 6th Grade Christmas party after my teacher proclaimed her hatred for the New Kids on the Block Christmas album and asked if anyone else had music. I think that makes my misstep forgivable.
Over the next few years, I'd hear the "Anarchy in the U.K." and "God Save the Queen" pretty frequently on mix tapes, WRBC's Hardcore Happy Hour or while hanging out with my sister and her friends, but they weren't really that interesting to me.
Then I turned fifteen.
Fifteen was an ugly year for me. The summer of my fifteenth birthday opened with me finding my mother convulsing in a pool of blood after she had a seizure and split her head open. Meanwhile, my father's PTSD stemming from Vietnam had gotten to the point that he had to spend most of the Summer at the Togus VA hospital. No one really happened to notice that I was pretty severely traumatized by the whole experience because my family was just struggling to get by.
On top of all that wonderfulness, my parents had enrolled me at a private school that had claimed to be better equipped to handle my attention deficit disorder than Lewiston High School. So on top of suffering from severe insomnia, depression and a complete lack of self-worth, I was suddenly having to adjust to a new school that, among other things, was full of wealthy, waspy pricks.
Suddenly, the Sex Pistols music made a lot of sense to me. Beyond everything else, they were a symbol that I could hide behind when I wanted the entire world to just fuck off and leave me alone. But they also had some pretty great songs. I could relate to "No Feelings" and "Pretty Vacant", that desire to kick people in the head, mocking people's joy, ridiculing how hollow the beautiful, happy people around me seemed.
One of the worst parts about the school was that the bus ride in and out took nearly an hour. I'd have to get up at five and wouldn't get home until nearly six thirty most days. I spent the bulk of those rides slumped up against a window near the back of the bus, drowning out the world with my walkman. "Never Mind the Bollucks" was one of my albums of choice for those rides.
...
Eventually, I stopped listening to them. Maybe I burned out on them, or maybe I just scratched the CD too much for it to play in my stereo. Whatever the reason, I don't remember listening to them very often between the ages of seventeen and thirty-two.
One day, while cleaning out my apartment during my move from 77 to 48 Congress Street, I was listening to the Casualties station on Pandora, when "No Feelings" came on. Suddenly I was hearing the song with an adult set of years that had been actively listening to and learning about music for a good fifteen years, dissecting and interpreting its meaning and appreciating how influential it had been for so many bands I'd fallen in love with since. It was like a revelation. I dug out my damaged copy of "Never Mind the Bollucks" and attempted to burn it onto my computer. I managed to copy most of the songs, and downloaded the remainder. It held up. Hell, I liked it better. It's been on a pretty steady rotation ever since.
Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's the Sex Pistols is, in my opinion, the single best example of punk rock ever recorded. Sure, there are plenty of faults with the band, their formation, talent, originality, convictions and image. They were a punk-themed boy band manufactured by a guy who had previously managed the New York Dolls and failed to coax Cock Sparrer into the role he wanted. I don't think any of that is up for debate at this point.
The thing is, once you get past all the hype and Sid & Nancy bullshit, you have this timeless, genuinely awesome album. It's abrasive, brash, offensive, ballsy and angry. It delves into subject matter like abortion and the holocaust that are still taboo nearly 40 years later. In fact, it's such a solid album that it's kind of the punk equivalent of Dick & Jane. It's often the first punk album people explore and, frequently, that leads to people who have been fans of the genre for a while to start taking it for granted. I was totally guilty of that.
....
My first encounter with the Sex Pistols came one summer night when I was ten years old. My older sister, Kate, and her pen pal from Bangor were watching Sid & Nancy in the living room, and invited me to watch it with them. I was still very sheltered and the drug use in the movie made me really uncomfortable. I eventually walked out, not quite sure why anyone would want to watch people shoot up.
A few months later, however, I saw Return of the Living Dead at a Halloween party at my family's very liberal church, and decided that I wanted to be a punk after all. I asked Kate if she had any of the music from the ROTLD soundtrack. She didn't, but she gave me a tape with the Great Rock N Roll Swindle on one side and Ministry's "The Mind is a Terrible Thing to Taste" on the other.
I never made it past the weird Malcolm McLaren opening on Swindle, and just skipped over to the Ministry side because it was the loudest, hardest and fastest thing I had ever heard. Dumb decision, maybe. Whatever. I later played the Ministry side during my 6th Grade Christmas party after my teacher proclaimed her hatred for the New Kids on the Block Christmas album and asked if anyone else had music. I think that makes my misstep forgivable.
Over the next few years, I'd hear the "Anarchy in the U.K." and "God Save the Queen" pretty frequently on mix tapes, WRBC's Hardcore Happy Hour or while hanging out with my sister and her friends, but they weren't really that interesting to me.
Then I turned fifteen.
Fifteen was an ugly year for me. The summer of my fifteenth birthday opened with me finding my mother convulsing in a pool of blood after she had a seizure and split her head open. Meanwhile, my father's PTSD stemming from Vietnam had gotten to the point that he had to spend most of the Summer at the Togus VA hospital. No one really happened to notice that I was pretty severely traumatized by the whole experience because my family was just struggling to get by.
On top of all that wonderfulness, my parents had enrolled me at a private school that had claimed to be better equipped to handle my attention deficit disorder than Lewiston High School. So on top of suffering from severe insomnia, depression and a complete lack of self-worth, I was suddenly having to adjust to a new school that, among other things, was full of wealthy, waspy pricks.
Suddenly, the Sex Pistols music made a lot of sense to me. Beyond everything else, they were a symbol that I could hide behind when I wanted the entire world to just fuck off and leave me alone. But they also had some pretty great songs. I could relate to "No Feelings" and "Pretty Vacant", that desire to kick people in the head, mocking people's joy, ridiculing how hollow the beautiful, happy people around me seemed.
One of the worst parts about the school was that the bus ride in and out took nearly an hour. I'd have to get up at five and wouldn't get home until nearly six thirty most days. I spent the bulk of those rides slumped up against a window near the back of the bus, drowning out the world with my walkman. "Never Mind the Bollucks" was one of my albums of choice for those rides.
...
Eventually, I stopped listening to them. Maybe I burned out on them, or maybe I just scratched the CD too much for it to play in my stereo. Whatever the reason, I don't remember listening to them very often between the ages of seventeen and thirty-two.
One day, while cleaning out my apartment during my move from 77 to 48 Congress Street, I was listening to the Casualties station on Pandora, when "No Feelings" came on. Suddenly I was hearing the song with an adult set of years that had been actively listening to and learning about music for a good fifteen years, dissecting and interpreting its meaning and appreciating how influential it had been for so many bands I'd fallen in love with since. It was like a revelation. I dug out my damaged copy of "Never Mind the Bollucks" and attempted to burn it onto my computer. I managed to copy most of the songs, and downloaded the remainder. It held up. Hell, I liked it better. It's been on a pretty steady rotation ever since.
Thursday, October 16, 2014
Damage Case #1: Rancid
I've decided to just start listening to my favorite bands/albums and just write about my experiences relating to them. I'm not sure where it will take me, but I'm just hoping to get the creative juices flowing with it.
....
Two years ago, my wife came back from the local market up the street, looking perplexed. When I asked her what was up, she explained that this kid at the store had seen our two year old son's D.I.Y. Rancid shirt and felt the need to tell her that he had liked their first album, but felt that they had subsequently sold out. She was really confused as to why this fucking kid felt the need to talk shit about my kids shirt. I explained to her that he was an elitist, hipster fuck.
Rancid are, hands down, my favorite band of all time. They're the band that made me fall in love with guitars and the band that my friends and I bonded over in high school. They've consistently put out great punk albums for the last twenty years. They've done more to support the worldwide punk, oi!, ska and psychobilly scenes than any other band I can think of. They've employed friends of mine and given smaller bands chances to open for them.
But of course, Rancid committed the cardinal sin of being slightly successful in the mid '90s. Therefore, idiot kids who were still shitting their diapers when that happened who feel the need to score street cred spew canned put downs when you mention that you like them. Its a fucking bullshit attitude that runs deep through the punk community, this double standard not applied to the Clash, the Cramps or any of the older bands by people hoping to count coup.
....
I purchased Rancid's "Let's Go!" at the Strawberries in Auburn on the Friday of the first week of my sophomore year of high school. My friend Erin worked there, and I'd gone in hoping to see her. It was a random purchase. I didn't realize the Op Ivy connection, and just picked it up because of the picture of the band on the back of the cover looked badass.
I will never forget hearing the opening feedback of "Nihilism" through my headphones for the first time. It was like a sucker punch to the gut. I immediately fell in love. They were singing about their lives, their friends, their neighborhoods, feeling poor and alienated. It was the first time I really ever felt a personal connection to music. It changed my fucking life. I work in a record store today because I want to facilitate that experience to other fucked up kids.
....
It was late in the afternoon. The North Hamptom Fairgrounds were hot and dusty. I'd fought my way to the front of the crowd to see Rancid's set at Warped Tour '98. They were going on late and would only be playing a short set. The rumor I'd heard was that The Cherry Poppin' Daddies had been little bitches when it was raining during their scheduled performance time because they didn't want to damage their zoot suits. This, in turn, had cut into the time allotted for Dropkick Murphy's set. Now, this was Dropkick's only show in the Boston area that summer, and the New England punk and skinhead scene was there in full force to see them. Rancid had supposedly volunteered to give up some of their set time so that DKM could play a full set.
It was over 100 degrees, and water cost an arm, a leg and a decent view of the stage. I opted for dehydration and claustrophobia, and clutched the guard rail to see my favorite band. I honestly don't remember all that much of the actual performance because I was so uncomfortable. But at the end of the set, I found myself directly in front of Lars as he was unplugging his guitar. He had a bottle of water at his feet. Slightly starstruck, I summoned up some courage and asked him if I could have what was left of his water. He smiled and passed it over to me. It was like the kid getting the football players towel.
....
About eleven or twelve years ago, I was looking through the rockabilly vinyl at Amoeba Records on the Sunset Strip while visiting my cousin in LA. I noticed this guy on the other side of the bin dressed in a floppy hat and a loose fitting white shirt had a 101ers tattoo on his neck. After a moment of disbelief, I realized that it was, in fact, Tim Armstrong. We made eye contact and exchanged nods, then went back to browsing. Two music nerds being nerdy in Music Nerd Mecca. It was this amazing, quiet moment, something I will always treasure.
....
Two years ago, my wife came back from the local market up the street, looking perplexed. When I asked her what was up, she explained that this kid at the store had seen our two year old son's D.I.Y. Rancid shirt and felt the need to tell her that he had liked their first album, but felt that they had subsequently sold out. She was really confused as to why this fucking kid felt the need to talk shit about my kids shirt. I explained to her that he was an elitist, hipster fuck.
Rancid are, hands down, my favorite band of all time. They're the band that made me fall in love with guitars and the band that my friends and I bonded over in high school. They've consistently put out great punk albums for the last twenty years. They've done more to support the worldwide punk, oi!, ska and psychobilly scenes than any other band I can think of. They've employed friends of mine and given smaller bands chances to open for them.
But of course, Rancid committed the cardinal sin of being slightly successful in the mid '90s. Therefore, idiot kids who were still shitting their diapers when that happened who feel the need to score street cred spew canned put downs when you mention that you like them. Its a fucking bullshit attitude that runs deep through the punk community, this double standard not applied to the Clash, the Cramps or any of the older bands by people hoping to count coup.
....
I purchased Rancid's "Let's Go!" at the Strawberries in Auburn on the Friday of the first week of my sophomore year of high school. My friend Erin worked there, and I'd gone in hoping to see her. It was a random purchase. I didn't realize the Op Ivy connection, and just picked it up because of the picture of the band on the back of the cover looked badass.
I will never forget hearing the opening feedback of "Nihilism" through my headphones for the first time. It was like a sucker punch to the gut. I immediately fell in love. They were singing about their lives, their friends, their neighborhoods, feeling poor and alienated. It was the first time I really ever felt a personal connection to music. It changed my fucking life. I work in a record store today because I want to facilitate that experience to other fucked up kids.
....
It was late in the afternoon. The North Hamptom Fairgrounds were hot and dusty. I'd fought my way to the front of the crowd to see Rancid's set at Warped Tour '98. They were going on late and would only be playing a short set. The rumor I'd heard was that The Cherry Poppin' Daddies had been little bitches when it was raining during their scheduled performance time because they didn't want to damage their zoot suits. This, in turn, had cut into the time allotted for Dropkick Murphy's set. Now, this was Dropkick's only show in the Boston area that summer, and the New England punk and skinhead scene was there in full force to see them. Rancid had supposedly volunteered to give up some of their set time so that DKM could play a full set.
It was over 100 degrees, and water cost an arm, a leg and a decent view of the stage. I opted for dehydration and claustrophobia, and clutched the guard rail to see my favorite band. I honestly don't remember all that much of the actual performance because I was so uncomfortable. But at the end of the set, I found myself directly in front of Lars as he was unplugging his guitar. He had a bottle of water at his feet. Slightly starstruck, I summoned up some courage and asked him if I could have what was left of his water. He smiled and passed it over to me. It was like the kid getting the football players towel.
....
About eleven or twelve years ago, I was looking through the rockabilly vinyl at Amoeba Records on the Sunset Strip while visiting my cousin in LA. I noticed this guy on the other side of the bin dressed in a floppy hat and a loose fitting white shirt had a 101ers tattoo on his neck. After a moment of disbelief, I realized that it was, in fact, Tim Armstrong. We made eye contact and exchanged nods, then went back to browsing. Two music nerds being nerdy in Music Nerd Mecca. It was this amazing, quiet moment, something I will always treasure.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
