Ernest Hemingway is my homie. Literally, we are connected in a deep way. For one thing, we have the same birthday, and that’s about all the real things I can think up.
Hem was a sick, sick writer, and if you don’t think that, then you are a retard. He was on the front line of savagery. If you don’t like him because he is too macho and manly, quit whining. If you don’t like him because you think he is a homosexual homophobe, you might be right, but you still can’t touch him. If you think he was a misogynistic drunkard buffoon living out his fantasies through the destruction of the people around him who loved him…you’re probably right. But, that still doesn’t change the fact that the words he wrote changed the way people think about stories and characters, and that he was larger than life, and that he changed my life in a huge way.
Shout out to my Hawaiian Home-Dog Captain Walt P. Wenska. WORD UP.
What the fuck was Hemingway doing? He went to war, but he couldn’t fight because he had poor vision “supposedly.” So he drives an ambulance, gets his leg blown the fuck up, and acts like a badass, dragging someone back to base out of the fight, Forrest Gump style. Savage acts of heroism in the face of death? CHECK.
After that, he went home to Minnesota and started working at a newspaper. His mom was a psycho religious bitch, and they hated each other, and he left. “Soldier’s Home”… I don’t remember the lines, obviously, I’m at work. But it is sick. Alienation, depression, talk about existential fucking dilemmas, Hemingway was down like Charlie Brown. Except it adds a little to the existential flavor when you have been covered with other people’s blood, seen bodies of young people ripped to shreds by machine guns (an exciting new invention of the times) and just had an overall mind-blowing, world-shattering experience.
Anyway anyway anyway, at the bottom of all these, we have Hemingway. What was his favorite past time, may I ask? Other than hunting, fishing and writing, Hemingway was a motherfucking Booze Hound. Key West, FL was his spot, and he would walk around town boozing it up, go writing and shit, and go out in the ocean fishing for sharks and other big ass fish. Basically, he lived the American fucking dream. He got paid a shit load of money to write about his adventures, and he became famous and well-read, despite his obvious, painful emotional difficulties and hang ups.
I’ll admit it. I can’t even get my head around this shit. Ernest Fucking Hemingway, I mean…he is the Man, hands down, no questions asked. No questions asked.
If and when I can come up with a cohesive argument about why Ernest Hemingway was the most savage writer of the last century, I will. But today, it’s probably not going to happen.
Instead, let’s go down the old road of putting up pictures to get a point across. Here’s what Ernest Hemingway was all about.
Fishing
Hunting
Drinking
Writing
Making Babies
Talking Shit
Boxing
Going on illegal rum-running and people-running missions between Cuba and Key West.
I’ll stop there. The last one, illegal people-running is some ridiculous shit. Let me tell you a story, about a story, that made me realize something about E. Dog. One of his short stories is about a guy in Key West who runs a fishing boat, who also knows people in Cuba. He splits his time between the two countries. When he’s in Cuba, he gets propositioned to do a people-smuggle mission from Cuba to FL, and he accepts. The deal was brokered by a shady Asian, and blablabla, we are on the boat, on the coast of Cuba.
The character (an obvious projection of E-Dog) pulls up to shore, and gets all the Cubans loaded onto the boat, there’s like 10 of them or so. Then, he goes out to a different boat to meet up with the Asian dude to get his money. The Asian dude gets on Hem’s boat and gives him the money for taking the people across to Key West.
Then, after Hem gets the money, he kills the Asian guy by strangling him to death, and then takes the Cubans back to shore (Cuba), and makes them get off the boat at gunpoint, because there’s no fucking way he is about to smuggle some goddamn Cubans back to America.
I feel like it is some time for reflection. I have just returned home with beer in hand from the corner store, just narrowly missing a vicious storm blowing through Richmond. This is the long awaited L.A. post, however I will begin with a few thoughts about the course this blog is going.
As Stoney has alluded to many times in the previous weeks, my Pegasus post is kicking ass on searches and page views. It’s cool that people are coming to the site, but Stoney and I have come under fire from the other Stonies for whoring out for page views. This cannot be further from the truth. This blog was started as a venue for Stoney and I to bullshit with, but shortly turned into a way for the four of us to have fun and keep in touch when we cannot see each other everyday like old times.
That is all well and good, but we have abandoned that principle, and somewhere along the line the bickering started, like it did so many times during school. We always got over it before, and I have no doubt we will do it again. Let’s get this straight, WE ARE ALL TO BLAME. I’m tired of the bickering.
Furthermore, we have been ganging up on Dank lately, and I will be the first to extend the olive branch. The Stonies all know of the phone conversation I had with Dank last week, and let’s be honest, Dank needed a kick in the ass. I said it, it’s done. Let’s leave Dank alone. For this to work, Dank, you need to thicken your skin homey and not take everything so personally. You have known us long enough, we’re assholes, we’re sarcastic, it’s time you take that into consideration before getting bent out of shape and making rash decisions.
Damn. Sorry for that diatribe dear readers, but we need to get this wounded ship back on course. We will get over this little hump, we have done it many times before, and I am sure we will do it again.
I have been thinking about what I can say about the Stoney reunion in LA for some time now. However, whenever I envisioned how I would describe the experience of seeing two of my best friends for the first time in two years, it never sounded right. I decided it was time to just sit down and write, no matter the outcome. I love the sound of the rain hitting my windows, I am watching the Mets on my computer as I write (they are up 5-0), the Braves are losing 4-2 on the boob tube, and I just cracked my next beer. If there is a better time to write, I don’t know when that will be.
So, will things be different with us upon the reunion, or will it be boozing and smoking as always…
I have arrived, the Venice Beach sign in the background…
Here are some reflections on my recent LA experience:
Car rental companies WILL fuck you in the ass. Maybe I am being unfair to LA, seeing as this was my first experience renting a car. But fuck Thrifty. Suit and I were expecting to split our car at the quoted price of $289, yet upon receiving the bill, it had inexplicably increased over 100% to a whopping $619. That’s bullshit. Letters to my Congressman and the California Chamber of Commerce are pending.
The Drawing Room will fuck you up. Now this place is a bar. It’s dark, has shitty (literally) bathrooms, has a seedy crowd of people who tell the best stories, and the drinks are tall, stiff, and CHEAP. Enough said.
Forget playing darts in LA. This shit blew my mind. There are no, I repeat, NO dart boards in LA. What is a drunken Irishman supposed to do with his time? I can understand the reasons behind not giving out free, sharp objects to boozed up degenerates, but where does LA get the nerve? Do you guys think you are more dangerous than any other major city in America? Please.
Yeah yeah, you can argue that I can use those plastic electronic dart boards, but fuck that. You can take those darts and shove them right up your ass.
You want to see a fight? Go to the dog park. Don’t go to Compton, or Long Beach if you want to see a fight. All fights start at the Venice Beach dog park. Seriously. No, seriously. I witnessed threats of bashing in illegally parked cars, and the always common, “I’m gonna fucking strangle you if you can’t control that dog” threat.
Dogs also love to fight there…
Oh yeah, and hot, slightly older women with small dogs will hit on you and your camera skills at the dog park. Or maybe that’s just me…
The dog park is a haven for drinking and smoking of all kinds. As you can tell, we spent a lot of time at the dog park with Stoney’s mutts. But you better believe we were never far from our beer, cigarettes, or trees.
Trees will spontaneously sprout out of nowhere when you are chasing a frisbee. We Stonies always loved throwing the frisbee around in Williamsburg, so naturally it was an activity that needed to be addressed while in LA.
However, in my effort to catch an errant toss from Stoney, apparently a tree materialized out of nowhere. I wrecked the shit out of the fence, but never lost my composure, and didn’t even hit the ground after a head on collision.
Suit’s new arch nemesis is the LA rooftop. Poor, poor Suit. He had no idea what he was getting himself into on the first big night of boozing and blunting. Let’s view a progression of Suit’s night shall we?
It was not looking good after a day of getting fucked up and eating cheesebugers.
BAM! Sorry, Suit. You knew this little golden nugget was going up, you were warned. This is classic not only because it is a perfect picture of the incident, (notice the culprits here- Budweiser and cigarette) but because Suit NEVER gets fucked up to the point of selling Buicks like this; or he never let us see it before.
Suit, you are toast.
Apparently, 411 is not a taxi service. We had just gotten blazed at the Sonic Youth concert at the Greek Theater in North Hollywood. Walking the mile back to the car at the Drawing Room was not an option. Stoney then proceeds to take my phone, call 411, and yell, “Yo, we’re at the Greek Theater…pick us up!” You can only imagine his surprise when the operator hung up on him. See also: Stoney spouting expletives at the operator as he was dumbfounded to why she hung up on him.
The “Macho Burrito” will end your night. We dines at Campos Taco many times, as it was around the corner, and the prices were right. But after a day in the day, drinking and stinking, the Macho Burrito put this humble Irishman out of commision; along with Stoney’s toilet.
Breakfast beers are essential to the start of any day. This has nothing to do with LA, this is essential whereever you are. But I have a picture of the first breakfast beer of the vacation.
Skaterboarding/riding bikes down Venice Beach to get to bars in Santa Monica is a lot more fun that you can imagine. Being in LA, even though I hate the sun, it would be a waste of time to stay indoors. It was fun to get out and check the local freakshow, and get a little bit of exercise.
However, I got more exercise than I bargained for. First of all, because Stoney…
…got too fat. And I…
…smoke too much. Stoney had the great idea to skitch a ride on the back of my bike while he was riding his skateboard. For those of you who don’t know, that is me doing all the work as Stoney grabs the back of my bike seat and coasts down Venice. Tough work over the course of almost 2 miles.
I would much rather ride my…
…than have to go through the torture of pulling Stoney’s fat ass again.
Stoney’s dogs love me MUCH more than him. It’s true Stoney, don’t deny it. Those bitches curled up with me every night, and would fight over who gets the best spot in bed with me. Niiiiice.
Ralph’s will make all your dreams come true. For those Lebowski fans out there, you will remember The Dude’s, Ralph’s card as his only form of ID. This is where Suit and I picked up all our groceries, and are now full fledged members.
Lady T is a master photographer. Most of these pictures were taken by Lady T. I generally don’t like taking pictures, or carrying around my camera for photo ops. It just seems fake and coerced to me. Lady T is the opposite, so I let her have free reign over my camera.
Now THAT is a scowl readers. So god damn sexy Lady T.
We suck at skateboarding, but at least we try. There was a lot of skateboarding in Stoney’s alley. Stoney has a better feel for the board, and more balance with it. Yet, while standing still, I can get off the ground, and even flip the board from time to time. I chewed pavement pretty hard one night, and my legs was sore for the next two weeks because I cannot skateboard drunk (or sober apparently).
Two female dogs WILL hump each other. It was comical on the first day, then it just got a little ridiculous with the amount of lesbian canine humping going on.
Dodgers Stadium WILL fuck you up. Holy dogshit, Batman. It was viciously hot at the Mets game. We were in Row A on the second tier on the first baseline, just sitting, and baking. The combination of beer, greasy Dodger food, being stoned, and hiking a mile up the stairs almost made Stoney pass out at the game. And of course, the only game we go to in the four game series, the Mets lose. Worst.
Stoney and I are still dead sexy.
Here are a few more random pictures of our reunion.
See that light? That’s Stoney’s apartment from the dog park. Just one block from the Pacific Ocean readers.
Well there it is. The long awaited tour of our reunion. Great times had by all, and we can’t wait for Stoney and Lady T to make it to the east coast, slackers.
Fear not ye who stare in dumbblankfacerificatio. This blasphemous affront from he with the royal nose and created royal lineage will be met with brutally harsh impunity. He will be crushed with my iron gauntlet as I mold his flacid will like a piece of wet clay.
The King’s claim to royal lineage is false and ridiculous. My children, King Stoney was once a young grasshopper in my School of Debaucherous Edification. This State sponsored program reluctantly admitted the Prince to imbue the naive Prince with the necessary rejection of extravagant material objects and extravagant g.p.a.’s . What the young Prince did not realize is that this propagandalistic program of debaucherous inundation and and murdering of reason was to weaken the privileged for our worker’s revolution. My arduous work of the last few months, day in and out, working into the wee hours of the night, was for the building of my barnesian army.
I am a man of the people. My father, a poor dirt farmer who struck oil through his rural education, rose through the ranks of the privileged like the early Blogres lineage that King Stoney claims. Abandoning me in his quest for the tainted coin, I was raised in the hardened industrial center of our land. I am a worker that will crush the priviliged and distribute their wealth to the people. Rise against your attacking tyrannical despot who rules with wild passion and uncontrolled partiality. Join the ranks of the industrialized worker. Sign up at your local Volkswagen dealer.
In my brilliant plan of genius, I paved the way to revolution through my puppet P.M. Sunburner. He is a weak man of the senses swayed toward the passion. He is a weakened by his addiction to the witch’s brew squeezed of the rotten teat. His ludicrous claim of peak conditioning and corpus care are being revealed by the pictures provided by Morel the Destoryer, a man of truth.
Taken after his royal decree last night
Suppressing the Truth
Destroyed by his Extravagance–Poisoned by Morel the Truthsayer
Let this be a lesson to all who oppose the strengthening of the Bloggerland. Sunburner is an example of any who stand in the way of our glorious revolution of the people. Treacherous lechery will be Punished!
In a predictable unexpected turn of events, P.M. Sunburner has disposed of his newly befriended assassin. In his ruthless ruthnicity, the P.M. beguiled the attacker into a partnership of death. No, not the scythe to his iron hand, the attacker became the victim of his glorious impunity. The colossal hand that now makes Blogres strong and empowered to meet the agression of any would-be agressors has come down on any who oppose it.
It seems that shortly after the Toast of Sunburnable Brotherhood the P.M. threw the attacker off of the Royal Balcony where he plummeted to the marble floor, falling to his death. The P.M.’s delight in destroying all those who oppose the Bloggerland will assure the people of his pledge to protect the people from the royal despotism with brutal force. “I will destroy all those who oppose my shepherding of the followers of the Book of Savagery”, said the P.M., “But, I will usher in a newer, stronger Iron-age in which our land is impervious to the flacid assaults of limp troglodytes.”
The P.M.’s promise of a stronger land rising from the ashes of the former King’s debaucherous disregard for public affairs was compounded by a State exposition of strength, physical prowess, and the P.M.’s superior body type. “Not only through genes, but arduously hard repetition, can you too approach my chiseled greatness. I take care of my body, I am believe in preserving the sanctimonious temple which is the human body. I am outlawing all manufacturing, sale, distribution, consumption, and even speaking of substances harmful to the realization of your goal to approach the human specimen that is me. Any caught consuming drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, or polska kielbasa will immediately be executed. Do not fear my children–I will liquidate the threats to our ever-lasting security. Everything Must Go!”
–Morel the Destoyer–
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Exactly the type of citizens his gloriousness wants. Both the violent teens and the complacent videographers. Don’t forget to check out our new thirteen year old punani section. Now in boxes of a dozen– baker’s dozen that is. –Costco 😉
The drama of the foreign invasion has escalated in the last few hours as P.M. Leopold Sunburner was attacked by a would-be assasin while giving his second decree.
The identity of the attacker has been revealed. In a tribute to the long forgotten fighter of injustice, El Kabong, the defiler of the sanctity of the sanctimonious new P.M., was stopped not by security, but the iron hand of Sunburner.
His foiling of the attempt was not accompanied with a bum rush of security or the summary execution as expected, but a peace offering. It seems the P.M. recognizes the assailant as the now dishonored and disgraced former American presidential candidate. Aligned closely in their political persuasion, they ironically have become great friends and confidants. A proposed consulship and extermination of the exiled King is rumored to have and still be considered.
We, the Royal Press, will continue to bring you the continued late breaking newsworthy news. Heil Sunburner.
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Similar to the blietzkreig’s lightning attack of speedy fast quickness, a foreign invader has conquered vacantly empty Blogres. The invading invaders advantageously took advantage of King Stoney’s debaucherous debauchery on a weekend retreat into the depths of the dark wooded forest of ghouls and plentiful fairy dust. The Minister of Defense, Roughty McRoughton, and his army of little green Alesman sensed the plot afoot and attempted to meet the insurgent infidels but was impeded by the River of COX’ s Dam break and flooding of the southern swamps of the South end of the Kingdom. The sole availabe resource to meet invader was the King’s Huntsman, SuitYourSelf the Busy, but the woodsman was off hunting the woods for herbs, berries, fish, and small game. Now, all that stands in the invader’s way is the Blacksmith, Twitch the White, also the Court’s Rebuter empowered solely with the title of Premier Commenter.
Travelin’ by day in their own land, the conquerors arrived in the early hours of Blogres and seized the Book of Savagery–the incredulous edict of the King and his court. With this powerful empowerment the invader gained total controlocity in the unthinking subjects longing for the gift of endowed savagery. They will now listen in dumbblankfaceirification to the holder of the Book of Savagery.
His Awesomeness, Chancellor Ixniamak, the head of the new government, has issued his first decree:
Mouth-breathing, grass smoking, wannabe Fuckenstein polska opposition like this will be eliminated:
Do not fear, my children, I will be victorious in battle
Your Loving Father and Chancellor,
We, the Royal Press, promise to bring you all the details. We hope we can bring you an exclusive of the Chancellor’s ceremonial Sulfuric Acid baby-head baptismal. We will exploit all means to bring you the most suffering, death, and destruction of any news organization.
–Morel the Destroyer–
Brought to you by Apple, Pickers of the Tree of Knowledge, (censored by the Committee to Kill the Human Spirit):
Yeah, yeah, yeah. I underastand it is not Friday, the designated day for my weekly video. However, I have been indisposed with my sister’s graduation. As a side note, Colin Powell was the speaker at her graduation, and surprisingly, he was quite funny.
So I will amend my slacking by posting my weekly video a bit late. This is of a French rugby player named, Sebastien Chabal. France’s rugby team is shit, however with this guy on the team, I am surprised the opponents don’t forfeit out of fear for their lives. If for some reason my ninja powers failed me, I would definately hire Sebastien as my bodyguard. There is no bullshitting with this guy, he is out for blood.
I saw this video at the end of last week, but today I learned that the second guy Sebastien demolishes broke his jaw, and just had surgery to wire it shut. He is now eating out of a straw. Savage. Goddamn rugby is awesome. Kick his ass, Sea Bass.
Sorry for the sabbatical readers, however I had my sister’s graduation to attend. See also: drunkeness. She is the last of the Roughton clan to emerge from the depths of high school, and will be joining me in my city at the end of the summer.
I have been preparing for a move, and while gathering up all the extraneous bullshit that encompasses my life, I stumbled upon an unlabeled CD that I had stowed away some time ago. With no idea what the digital contents were, I thought to myself, “Well, only one way to find out.” So, I popped it into my computer and was amazed at what I found. These were photos taken in seemingly an ancient time, the time of Williamsburg. The photos chronicle a special time, and portray many budding savages.
Some of you may remember this time as the time the Red Sox were down 3-0 to the Yankees in the ALCS. This was a time when Red Sox fans were coming out of the woodwork, those fairweather jackasses who cannot call themselves fans. 9/11/01, 12/7/41? Please, this was the day of infamy. The date: October 13, 2004. The places: 1420A and Paul’s Deli. The occasion: the last horse – your humble narrator – crosses the finish line into legal drinking age. However, this occasion was the Queen of England of birthdays, merely a ceremonial position, seeing as I had been boozing quite steadily for a while. Yet, it still must be celebrated in full pomp and pride.
Stoney had a post earlier where he showed himself living it up in Venice Beach. Dank, the undisputed champ of blog self-portraits, has posted images of himself ranging from presidential candidate to Slim-Jim spokesman. Furthermore, Suit has shown his fly-fishing prowess on many occasions. I have yet to unveil my image upon this shitstem, so I will signal this as a new era out from under the mask. All Stonies are here in this photo array, along with some cameos from a beloved past. Let’s get the ball running with the original American Badass; Party Marty.
Stoney posted about Party Marty at an earlier date. All his musings are true; this man was our neighbor and instructor on how to lead a life of savagery. His greatest super power is the ability to summon the “Rebel Yell” at will.
Here I am, freshly 21, and only mere hours away from utter obliteration. If I remember correctly, my 21st birthday weekend was the weekend of one of my more memorable arrests. As I was be-bopping down the street after a night of boozing, a cop pulled me over – while I was walking. Upon his request for a breath-a-lyzer test he took umberage to my response of, “Kiss my ass, I’m not taking a fucking breath-a-lyzer.” See also: Stoney picking me up from jail in the morning.
The gang’s all here. All Stonies, the greasy, marinara blooded WOP Falk, and Win, shortly before he urinates on that couch for the umpteenth time.
Stoney says: “Commence drunkeness”
Dank bursting every capillary in his body in anticipation for another Red Sox game.
The Stonies, sans Suit, with two more timeless cameos. DNattyRasta, my boy always, but had many run-ins with the other Stonies. See also: short bags. DNatty is the infamous man who called Stoney a cracker in our own home. Hilarious.
Then there’s Raf, the Morrocan refugee. Once he completed his mission – move to America and impregnate one of our women – he was a little lost.
On the left is Gabe Twose, an original Y2S member. See also: fake british accent, and hooking up with an unnatural amount of ladies. And Stoney is, well….stoned. It’s not just a clever name people.
A rare image of all the Stonies together. From left to right: DankNuggets: sensitive hermit savage, Roughty: curly Irish savage, Stoney: west coast savage, SuitYourself: Jesus look-a-like savage. The amount of man-prettiness here is staggering. Form an orderly line ladies.
Here we find the fruit of Rugged Ron’s loins, Falk, studying another delicious nectar that is Budweiser. This is the creator of, “The Age Old Struggle of Savagery vs. Non-Savagery”, not a periodical to be missed.
For any 21st birthday to be successful, you must be in this position at some point. Suit is ordering me a beer. That’s how he orders beer ladies and gentlemen, don’t question. See also: Savage beer ordering scowl.
This lovely lady was on hand to wish me a happy birthday. She was a regular denizen of Paul’s Deli, and we had drinks on many occasion. But, what the fuck was her name? Note, Dan Marino’s approving gaze from the picture in the rear.
Falk, in all his glory. Lego my dago.
Back at 1420A, Stoney and former StoneyWageSlave member, HouseParty unwind before another session.
And there you have it; savagery incarnate. Suit rolling up in a frisbee.
Nostalgia is fun isn’t it? I know readers, this was mostly for the Stoney crew, a little trip down memory lane for us. Back when hair was a few inches longer, and waistlines were a few inches shorter.
Before I start, I want to mention that I did not include Pink Floyd in the Brit bands. Pink Floyd is classic, but never one of my loves. Pink Floyd, I forgot about you, but I don’t really care that much. Sorry.
The broad scope of American rock makes it hard for me to pinpoint any one thing, or to focus too long on anything. This is going to be a whambamthankyoumam kind of thing.
First, Elvis. Elvis is the fucking King of Rock and Roll. There is no other king. Chuck Berry is there too, but Chuck Berry is not the King of Rock and Roll. Elvis is the King. Without Elvis, I don’t know what would have happened. We would probably have an Elvis with a different name. Elvis, as a red-blooded American rock student, I salute you.
The 27 Club. The 27 Club is an exclusive club, reserved only for rockers who achieve amazing, superstar status through the exceptional qualities of their polyphonic debris.27 Club members all died when they were 27, at the height of their fame. Most of the deaths can be linked directly to over-consumption of drugs, or a very closely related factor.
These people did not get rich and internationally famous because of their connections, their pretty face, their money, or any other thing than how badass they were at rocking the fuck out.
There are 5 member of the 27 club. Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Brian Jones and Kurt Kobain. How many Brits are in this infamous list, the sealed stamp of approval of rockstar god status? 1. Uno. Un. One. The ratio of Brits to Americans in this most critical list is 1:4, and that ratio plays itself out all over the place.
Is it wrong to base my decision on a list of musicians that glorifies a fiery death through rock and roll? No. Rock and Roll is a force of nature, a force unto itself, a mythical beast which exerts an enormous influence on the way people perceive and act upon the world. The thing about rock and roll is, it’s not even subliminal. These people are singing songs to us, lyricizing our deepest fears and desires, using everything that they have experienced to create a new experience for us. And we willingly buy (or steal online) these people’s souls, the product of an extraordinary effort of introspection, and then projection. It is a transcendent experience to listen to a live performance of rock; “a more perfect union” can be achieved, which is not all that different from doing the nasty.
Rock and Roll is a form of art, but it is also a form of religion. I, for one, deeply believe in the power of rock and roll, and the feelings and sentiments the music can inspire. Rock and Roll has changed my real-world actions before, it has pushed itself into my life and into the lives of the people around me. I am better for it, too.
When John Lennon said, “The Beatles are bigger than Jesus,” he was fucking right. There were, and still are, more people creating a more personal, intimate, transcendent relationship with their chosen rocker, than there are people creating those same types of relationships with Jesus. If you go to church and daze off, or do whatever, that doesn’t count, and I know it, and Jesus knows it. When you go to a real rock show, and something hits you in the stomach, you choke up, you tear up…you are having a fucking experience that can never be achieved again, ever, by anyone. It was your show, the band is on for you, and if you do it right, you can come away with something that is more than just a light show or magic show. It is a religious experience.
Now that I have established that rock and roll is a religion, I move on. Every religion needs a sacrificial lamb. The Gods of Rock are not a mellow breed. They do not take kindly to negligence. They need blood, and that’s what American rockers are here to provide. American rockers are the soul of Rock and Roll. Rock and Roll was invented here, Rock and Roll grew up here, and Rock and Roll will die here. The blues are from the deep South, via Africa, and I’m not really sure where country western is from. Mix those fuckers up, and you get some rock and roll.
I could go on. I could list band after band of American rockers, and compare them with British rockers, and see who borrowed what from who, and blabla. I’m not going to, though, because it all comes down to the fact that Rock and Roll is an American past-time, and it always will be. The altar of Rock is built on American soil, and stained with American blood.
I think that the icing on the cake is a club I kinda made up…the 28 Club. Right now, Bradley Nowell (sublime) and Shannon Hoon (blind melon) are the only two I have in there. I’m saving a spot open for Pete Doherty this year; he’ll be 29 next March.
For a sum-up, I chose Blind Melon’s song, “Galaxie.” Shannon Hoon died of a cocaine overdose, a roadie found his body in the bus, right before the band’s soundcheck.
Rock and Roll = Savage
For anyone who has shit to say about glorifying the wrong things about rock and roll, or blabla, I say, “Fuck off.” If it wasn’t about dying in the name of rock, then why aren’t there a bunch of badass rockers, making real rock and roll? They are out there, but they are few and far between. I am not lamenting the end of rock, because I believe in it too much to doubt. White Stripes, Strokes, Pete Doherty, here and there we see glimpses of eternal greatness.
Stoney Wage Slave 