there’s nothing i can add…

… to roughty’s masterful la blog.  absolutely nothing omitted that i feel worth mentioning.  in fact, he went into detail in places i would have left out completely — namely, my vomiting incident.  you loyal readers (who are apparently enthralled with pegasii {search term}) had grown accustomed to seeing me stone sober, cradling lovely trout, perch and bass in my adept fishing (and masturbating{search term}) arm.  this is only half the real suityourself.  the other half is the drunken, light-weight puking on stoney’s roof.  by the way, i doubt seriously that stoney has bothered to drag a hose up there and wash that shit off.  hope those infamous la pigeons were hungry for roast beef sandwiches, bong ashes, whiskey, coca-cola and half-digested xanax(sp?) {search term} pills, cuz that’s what they are eating off the roof right now.

did i say there was nothing i can add to roughty’s blog?  well, nearly nothing.  i would feign go into some detail about the culture — if it can so be called — in los angeles, califreakia.  let me start (as i do every day) with the weed sitch.  it is, as i stated earlier, all true.  you can buy it if you have a prescription.  i don’t have a prescription, so i could get busted out there as easily as i could right here in good ole virginny.  stoney, on the other hand, is immune.  he’s legit.  too legit, in fact, to quit.  leave it to the rich blond fucker to have all the luck that the rest of us working men (just me) really deserve.  i have these pictures of ornately arranged bongs {search term}, blunts {search term}, rolling papers {search term} and big, fat, kine bud nuggets {search term} that i should post as soon as possible.  not today.  no camera.  you can continue to wait in vain.  the weed is chron-drizzle-fo-shrizzle.  the youngsters out there are just how they were when george harrison {search term} described them some 40 years ago.  dropouts and losers.  while sir roughtonious and i were traversing the boardwalk one morning, we walked past this band of raggidy fucks who were between the ages of 16 and 22, probably.  they were “protesting” in some way i guess.  they all had some shitty cardboard signs that read, “give me money for prescription weed!”  these busted-ass looking fuckers all had some mangy white-boy dreads {search term}.  you know the kind.  they’re dreaded at the ends, but just real teased-looking nearer to the scalp.  this is because white boy hair doesn’t naturally dread.  you have to either put some wax or something in it or work really hard at it consistently for a long while (see Dankkkkkkkkkk’s dreads from long long ago), and these kids had either run out of wax or motivation, cuz they had these fucked up looking dreads, and coupled with their sweat-stained, tie-dyed greatful dead {search term} t-shirts, they suited out as one of the mottliest crews i’d ever seen.  i smirked at one of them (see “pffffft,” and he asked me for a dollar.  news flash, asshole, if you can’t afford a weed-card, you’re most definitely not going to have the money to support your fledgling tree-habit.  here’s an idea for you.  try cutting that shit off your head, taking whatever money you begged so far and buy a new shirt.  after that, how about getting a job?  this has been the bit about the youth culture.  i didn’t see too many other “kids” around.  most of them were either sleeping under cardboard boxes on the street or eating at restaurants where appetizers cost 400 beezies.  needless to say, i did not fall into either category.

now for a little bit on the rest of the society out there.  service industry is made up almost entirely of mexicans.  as i said before, the kids are either filthy rich or lazy as shit and worthless in both cases.  this leaves a huge void in the marketplace for service industry people — people who know how to work for a dollar even if it means messing up that fresh hair-do or breaking a nail.  mexicans fill this void.  yussir.  all the mexicans i saw were pretty nice to me.  i didn’t try to bust out the spanish on them.  i’m sure they get that enough from tourists just like me, so i just grinned at some of them, exposing my yellowing teeth and my blazed-out red eyes.  surprisingly, lots of them grinned back.  i am not the most sophisticated guy on the block, but i think their grins were, in general, sincere.  could it be that they were happy to be in america and making those big green american dollars?  i dunno.  i like to think so, but who knows?  maybe they just thought if they grinned at them, i’d give them some money or something.  maybe they thought i was a movie star…  yeah, that’s probably it.  yup, that’s the one i’m going with.  as far as other people in the la working world, i didn’t really see many.  again, most of them are either much too rich or much too poor to be seen in any of the places i visited.

a note on commerce in la, they have pretty much the same type of stores there that we have here.  grocery stores, liquor stores, clothing stores, drug stores, electronics stores, home furnishings stores, etc.  as always, some of these places are over-priced, and some are more reasonable.  however, the most reasonable one out there was much more expensive than the most over-priced on in virginia.  likewise, the cost of living is steep.  housing is hardly affordable, even for two gainfully employed folks like roughty’s and my hosts — stoney and lady t.  just like nyc, la is a place i’d love to live so long as i was dirty-rich.  for regular middle-class people, it’s a nice place to visit.

the physical environment was everything i had hoped for in some ways but not as cool as i had hoped in other ways.  temperature was perfecto!  never too hot.  sun always shining.  cool in the morning and evening.  perfect.  sandy beaches and lovely palm trees.  some good looking women — maybe a slightly better ratio than virginia.  however, i didn’t get to see too much of the country, not-developed areas as i had hoped.  i know they exist, because when we went to the greek theater, it was sick-to-deff.  lots of wildlife possibilities and such.  i feel like cali. is as wild as they say, but i just didn’t get a chance to see it.  we stayed in the suburbs of the concrete jungle.  next time, i plan to check out all the wild places and make a better judgment after that.  as far as animalia goes, i saw some lizards, some pigeons and sea-gulls, a bunch of dogs, a cat inside a window, a crazy shark/ray and that is about it.

enough, for now, on la.  now onto more pressing matters — baseball.

 

braves {search term}are poised and ready to strike out at roughty’s shitty mets (who blew the hell out of that 5 run lead roughty alluded to in an earlier post).  dankkkkkkkkkkkkkkk’s redsux are pulling the usual choke-job.  stoney’s dodgers have fallen off a little bit.  the rest of you need to pick a fucking baseball team, cuz you’re missing out on the best season in generations.  get ready, because in two weeks i’m going to be writing about how my beloved braves are in first place and roughty’s favorite player has broken his leg or sustained an equally devastating injury.  all i hope is that pedro martinez gets called up to the bigs soon.  i cannot wait to see him get shelled by the big bats of the atl braves.  it’s going to be dangerous for him, though, so roughty ought to kneel down and say a prayer that pedro doesn’t get killed by a line-drive off chipper’s bat.

speaking of sports, stoney has been awfully silent lately about

michael vick {search term}.  maybe he feels bad for always being such a fucking racist who hates all black people.  he should.  michael vick has been framed, and everyone with half a brain knows it.  it’s just that the white man can’t stand a talented black man having any money, so they’re framing him.  michael vick is the shit. 

 

if he gets suspended, he’ll just go into seclusion for a couple years and work on his skills like luke s. did in one of the star wars {search term} movies with yoda on degoba.  after this, he’ll just have to win three superbowls instead of the 2 he was planning on before.  there’s no way he’s going to jail, and if he does, i can smell a “longest yard” three-quel.  yall need to stop being jealous of michael vick.  just because you’re racist doesn’t make him guilty.  if i were vick’s attorney, i would use the self-defense ploy.  after all, pits are dangerous.  

 

“if mike got bit, you must acquit.”

now, back to one of my fav. topics — john from cincinnati.  as i mentioned before, the show takes place in one “IB.”  imperial beach is the southwestern-most city in the united states.  i thought maybe it was in la, but no.  it’s nearer to san diego, i guess.  no wonder stoney and the rest of his idiot friends had no idea what the fuck i was talking about.  anyways, the show’s first season is over.  the finale was anti-climactic, to say the least.  in fact, it was close to a let-down.  no secrets revealed, no aliens, no death, no jesus christ, no nothing, really.  just dylan mckay and zach morris dicking it up like they did in the early 90s.  they are setting us up for a second season, so i hope the numbers allow this to happen.  john from cincinnati is the best show you’ve never seen.  trust me.  how about one more clip just for good measure?

(look close for zach and dylan)

peace out squabblerinos.

Venice Beach: The Freakshow

As i have visited californ-i-a twice now and long to join me fellow scallywags in their pirate adventures in la la land, i feel a tribute to their base is in order.  well, i have been to many parts of the city including the four parts jp has seen in his two years there. 

dodger stadium is sweet, but roasts in the desert mountains.  roughty, make sure you bring your spf 75 and slob it on with every pitching change, which will most likely be every inning as both clubs will sorely mistaken their inadequate rotations and bullpens with fatigue, weather, or some other ludicrous excuse. 

East L.A. and the DR:

Sweet as well.  I feel suit will find a home in the drawing room and the relative diversity in relation to the rest of la in the former paradise that stoney called home.  you must absolutely show the former kingdom in all its glory and cold showers.  this was the first place i found in my visits to la with true, unsuperficial culture.  remember my 4:00 am walkabout in search of a sip of any liquid in my half drunken, half hungover stupor as stoney had neither drink nor refrigeration.  i walked at least 7 blocks to be dissapointed by powered down vending machines that i had to beg the grocery store owner to turn on to get an orange soda that t and i shared (what up, t) .  on my ramble i encountered at least two hookers with one clearly disguising a dick.  my day consisted of walking around east la and eating gut bombs for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  i was happy to escape my previous experiences of yuppiness disguised in kewlness. 

hollywierd:

weird and extemely superficial with a bunch of douches disguised as hipsters and guns and roses impersonators. 

venice:

i was accurately described by lady t the wonderous freak show that is venice beach.  of course we were all fucked up and noided out, so we sat at the public bathroom and gazed out upon the circus.  there was definitely a small degree of reality here in their rejection of superficiality, but their conscious objection seemed superficial in itself.  of course i am superficial as hell, especially then and enjoyed pretending to be normal for a minute, despite my schizoid drug induced psychotic personality disorder’s ‘outside looking in’ perspective.  there is culture there that is not completely obsessed with the image driven falsity of the rest of la. 

the rest of la:

gay and expensive, but worth seeing for the experience

stoney’s debaucherous court of self-destruction:

 one of a kind as always and enjoyable beyond any measure.   

a lonely wish:

where’s waldo? hint, short bags that were still a deal

Let the Games Begin

Suit and Roughty get here in about an hour.

Here is where Suit is, mid-flight.

Let the games begin…next post will be the real deal, the raw oysters, the whatever the fuck.

Jealous much?

Venice Beach = Stoneyville

Well, faithful readers, that fateful day has arrived. Suityourself and Roughty McRoughton will board their respective airplanes sometime early tomorrow morning, and embark on a spirited journey of flight. Destination: Los Angeles, California.

Luckily for them, the airport is a breezy 15-20 minute drive to my house, so they will get to avoid that notorious LA indigenous denizen and citizen: Massive Traffic.

Instead, they will be greeted by a cool, offshore breeze, a ride over the hill into Southern Marina Del Ray, and then a backdoor entrance into one of the major epicenters of “cool” in this grand country of the U.S. of A.

I present, Venice Beach, California.

If it seems that I play up Venice a bit too much, there’s a goddamn good reason for that. It’s the fucking shit. It’s the bomb diggidy 100% most badass place in the world. This weekend, me and my Old Lady were straight cruising the beach, mad relaxing. It was fucking sweet. If you come to Venice and don’t like it, or have negative things to say, then I say to you, “Go somewhere else, because this 5-square mile of heaven is mine if you don’t want it.”

Favorable destinations for those who aren’t down with Venice include: Dallas, Phoenix, Newport News, Newark and the home of the gayest baseball team in the history of the world, Boston.

The two savages arrive on Tuesday, and the schedule is clean until Friday, July 20. Sonic Youth is playing at the Greek Theatre in Griffith Park. It will be….sick. The Drawing Room is walking distance to the show. Ding Ding.

Birthday Celebration = Drawing Room + Dodgers/Mets

Then on Saturday, back to the DR for pre-gaming ahead of Roughty’s sob-fest. Roughty, fuck the Mets and Mr. Met. You are toast. Turbo recently ate my Dodgers hat, the big vagina-ed slut. Maybe one of you bitches can cough up 30$ for my new shiny blue one. We’ll see.

Of all the things I think that Suit will like the most, I have to go with the weed. If Suit is still himself, the first thing he will want is a fresh bag of the sticky. I will accommodate him and his wishes, and readily supply the goodness. Maybe he’ll want two beezies. Only time will tell.

From there, I imagine on Tuesday afternoon we will crawl the beaches, in search of cheap booze and adventure. It shouldn’t be too hard to do. Maybe Suit will strap on the rollerblades to get things moving a bit. I have a surfboard, too… You down, pussyknocker? Didn’t think so.

Suit has never been West of the Mississippi. I’ve got some serious news for you, biotch. Namely, “I don’t think we’re in Virginia Beach anymore, Ma.” No shiet.

I really don’t have anything else to say. Bring your sleeping bag. Bring your video games. Roughty, bring some tissues, or maybe a towel to wipe the tears away at the Dodgers game.

Bring my birthday presents, too, fuckers…..

It’s on, Venice Beach, 2007.

July 4th, Venice Beach

Salute, Americans. Not often do I get misty-eyed about the greatness of this country, but sometimes I do. I’m proud to be an American, born and raised in this country of freedom. As silly as that sounds, it’s pretty fucking true. I get to sit here, read all sorts of shit that’s going on in the world on the internet, get paid decent money to do a job that’s relatively easy for me, eat food, drive my car, write on this blog about stupid shit, and just do whatever the fuck I want. I can do whatever the fuck I want, and a lot of that stems from where I live and the society around me. I love it.

Anyway, I’m skateboarding down the pier at Venice Beach, cruising and enjoying the holiday crowds, when Arnold the Terminator and his weird wife Maria Shriver come biking by me. Fucking Arnold. So there he goes, with 1 of his kids, followed by about 4 secret service people. It was sweet.

I turned around and just kicked it with the secret service guys, and skated for a mile or two, chilling with the Governor.

The shit was pretty fun. I didn’t talk to him or yell at him, because I respect privacy, and it was obvious that he was just out to enjoy the holiday with his vacation. I just trailed along, having a good time, and watching people’s reactions….some pointed and shouted, some told the person they were with, but I’d say more than half the people didn’t even notice him. He was straight chillin, Venice Beach style. To any and all who are curious, Venice Beach is the fucking coolest place in the goddamn country. NYC is the bomb shit too, BUT the beach lifestyle is far and away more relaxing and fulfilling than the cramped city. Yes, Venice is part of a huge, sprawling shitstem of a city, but once you hit Venice, you are literally in a different world. It’s sick, and I love living in a place that I am excited about. The last few places I have lived have given me negative vibes, and contributed negatively to my life and lifestyle. Not so with Venice. I am exercising, getting sun and generally just big pimpin it, living large and lovin life.

Why don’t you live in Venice? I don’t understand why everybody doesn’t live here. It’s the shit.

In other news, I’d like to announce that I am now legally allowed to carry up to 8 ounces of marijuana on my person, in my house or in my car. The dude who gave me the run down emphasized one point, though, “Don’t medicate while driving.” Thank you, sir, I will follow your advice, and medicate only while not-driving.

How am I ever going to leave a state that allows me to smoke weed at my leisure and pleasure? No more gay weed dealers, no more short bags, no more nothing. I can go to the fucking weed store and buy my half-pound, and be content with my life. It’s fucking ridiculous. It’s a sea change. It’s a paradigm shift. It’s sliced bread.

It’s Venice Beach.

heading west…

…is a frightening prospect.  pretty worried over here.  what if the moviestars like the oompa loompa are too sophisticated for me?  shit, what am i saying?  more sophisticated than ME?!  ME?!!  i know.  you’re all saying to yourselves, “suit, why are you worried?  you are the classiest mutherfucker since don johnson.”  well, i know.  i know.  i mean, it is my divine providence after all.  i’m like lewis and clark.  except more like clark, cuz i’m not going to shoot myself after i get back home. 

all the same, i’m a little worried.  they might be on a different level of consciousness, and maybe i won’t even be able to communicate with them.  worse yet, i might wreck the rental car or get my wallet jacked at lax.  shit, they might blow up my damn plane  — atlanta to lax.  sounds like a lot of fuel in that boeing. 

no good stressing out, though.  that’s why, with this post, i’ll chronicle some of the main reasons why i’m looking forward to l.a.

1.  crossing the mighty mississippi — never done it yet and am looking forward to it, big time.  a big milestone for a waterman like me.

2.  going to another mlb ballpark — dodgers stadium should be fun.  as long as they sell beer and caps, i’ll be all good.  a mets’ loss (or, better yet, a terrible injury to beltran) would just be icing on the cake.

3.  seeing my ole pal roughtonious — live 2 hours down the road from him and have to go to l.a. just to touch bases with a guy i used to see 5 times every day.  p.s. roughty, i apologize for stealing all those subway station sandwiches from you.  i always blamed in on stoney, but it was really me sometimes.  also, while i’m apologizing, sorry for laughing at you for the sj punch to the grill.  you did have it coming, though…  pffft.

4.  feeling comfortable in another city — when you’re a homeboy like me, you really get confident when you go someplace else and can function like a reasonable human.  not sure if this will happen, but i’m thinking positive.

5.  not leaving my wallet in the bar — stoney will remind me this time after the “off the wagon” incident in greenwich vill.  if not, he’ll have a new permanent roommate.

6.  going to the actual locations where some of my favorite movies were shot — training day, friday, don’t be a menace to south central while drinking your juice in the hood.

7.  going to all my favorite places from 90210 — the beach where brenda met dylan, west beverly high, the radio station where david silver learned about speeeeed.

8.  meeting lady t. — after all the hype, i’m ready to meet the genuine article.  if she can make our boy take nudie pics off the blog, she must be a wonderful person.  —editorial sidebar — yes, i’m kissing ass, boys.  this is what you do before you go and share a teeny living space with somebody you never met before.—

9.  the pacific ocean — another one of those things i never saw before.  should be suhweet, gnarly, bodacious and that hang ten sign you do by sticking out your thumb and pinky finger and jiggling your hand around.  maybe i’ll finally get to see the monster swells like on point break.  i’m paddling out, bra!

10.  smoking west coast rocks — i heard they’ll make you grit your teeth until they fall out.  i already packed up my tire pressure guages and steel wool.  yall know how we do.

most of all, though, there’s number 11. scratching the shit out of my pal stoney’s cd collection — i’m sitting here listening to let it be, and wouldn’t you know it, the shit is scratched right to hell — right in the middle of the long and winding road, no less.  why don’t i take it out and put in something else like the love below?  oh.  that is scratched to shit as well.  oh.  what about all your sublime cds?  you guessed it.  looks like someone ran them over.  bob dylan discs?  fuuuucked up.  broke a cd player with one of them just last week – seriously.  why are all my cds scratched?  i’ll tell you.  it’s this blog’s fearless leader — mr stoney.  it’s almost as though he destructulated my shit on purpose.  oh well, iain’tmadatcha.  all i’m saying is you better hide your shit, holmes.  for real.  i’m bringing some rusty nails and broken glass for the whole collection.

all jokes aside, i can’t wait to see my friends again.  the only thing that would make it better is if dankkkkk could come.  what am i saying?  i know he could come if he really wanted to.  (peer-pressure’s a bitch, muthafuckah.) 

Alien Sightings and More

the return to the blessed muse,
the vile whore who has so diseased my mind
and tortured my toenails,
the return of the said witch
has inflamed my soul
twisted my hairs and senses on end
i present to you, a beginning
from an old dear hero

A Satyre Against Mankind
john wilmot, earl of rochester

Were I (who to my cost already am
One of those strange, prodigious creatures, man)
A spirit free to choose, for my own share,
What case of flesh and blood I pleased to wear,
I’d be a dog, a monkey, or a bear,
Or anything but that vain animal,
Who is so proud of being rational.

The senses are too gross, and he’ll contrive
A sixth, to contradict the other five,
And before certain instinct, will prefer
Reason, which fifty times for one does err.

Read it all here.

And, for all of you celebrity nuts…DING DING. Yesterday, cruising down the beach on my beach cruiser, I saw an alien posing as a movie-star.

Famous Alien Sighting for Today

I knew she was an alien because she had really big eyes and see-through skin.

Here’s a question for all you Alien lovers. Which famous alien first got The Beatles stoned?

Animal Holocaust – You Can Help

First off, in a previous post about my new dog’s large V, I prematurely called her “BooBoo,” because that was her name at that point. However, BooBoo was just too generic, and didn’t bring out the things we wanted it too. 

My new dog’s name is Turbo Dinosaur. Chompy Dinosaur is her older sister, and because they are sisters, they should have the same last name. Turbo just worked as a name too, for some reason, so there you have it. Turbo Dinosaur, bitches.

Turbo is not a perfect girl. Her main problem right now is that she takes a piss in the house about every 15 minutes if we don’t take her out. If we go to the store or get something to eat for an hour, she doesn’t piss, but if we are both here, she has to go to the bathroom about every 15 minutes. Last night was rough for me, I was literally about to lose my shit because I had a headache and was exhausted, and Turbo kept taking a piss in the house. After the millionth time, I quit cleaning it up, and just laid down in bed in total defeat. It was a sad sight, no doubt, that I lost my cool over an abused dog’s ability to hold her own piss, when she’s been abused and neglected for her whole life.

I made up for it today by taking her out the second I thought she was ready. I also cleaned the fuck out of my house, trying to build a framework for keeping our shit together with 2 pretty big dogs in the tiniest apartment I have ever lived in. Tiny. Possibly less than 400 square feet when it’s all said and done, definitely under 500. 

What’s the moral of the story? Nothing really, I was just bored and wanted to talk about my new dog. Last night I was ready to take her back to the pound, but this morning, after having a good time with her all morning, and taking her to the dog park, and watching how much fun she is having, I feel a lot better about the whole thing. 

Chompy and Turbo scrap in the house, mostly because Turbo tries to hump on Chompy’s business, and tries to dig a hole in her back when Chomp is sleeping.

Going back to the whole pissing in the house thing, I think progress will be made for a couple of reasons. First of all, I can’t live with a dog that is pissing in the house that much, just because I would have a freak out and kill it. So there is an inevitability factor. Second, she doesn’t take shits in the house, so it’s not like the dog is an uncontrollable force of nature, that just wants to defecate all over the fucking place with no regard. I believe she does have some regard, if you want to go there, so it makes me feel positively about her future. Thirdly, she’s a smart girl, and we are already making progress. She is learning how to tell me when she needs to go out, and I am learning how to respond. 

To sum up, I now have 2 dogs I got from the dog shelter in Santa Monica. I highly recommend to anyone who likes animals, that if you are even remotely considering getting a new dog or cat, to go to the shelter. Once you are there, those inklings that you felt will turn into something different, and you should be able to find a dog or cat that you connect with, and you will have the chance to SAVE a living animal’s life, to bring it out of a hole of nothingness. There is no reason for the Animal Holocaust which is occurring every day in thousands of shelters across the country. This is the U.S.A., bitches, and we should take care of our comrades, even if they aren’t the same species.

 

Bikers, Watch the Fuck Out!

In Venice, there is a large population of bicyclists, who are mostly middle-age rich whities, wearing their new spandex bright green and black outfits, with a cool new helmet and shit. There are also the beach cruisers, no gears, fat tires.

A common rule of thumb that I grew up learning and living, was that bikers, by law, have to follow the same rules that motorists do. If there is a stop sign, you have to stop. If there is a red light, you have to stop. It’s pretty simple, if you think about it. If other cars have the green light to go, as a biker, you should stop at your stop sign or red light, because the other cars have the right of way, and you shouldn’t put yourself at risk and bank on someone stopping during their green light.

In Venice, however, fucking moron yuppies just don’t get it. They think that because they are on a bike, that they have an automatic green light and right of way, in any situation.

This happens ALL THE FUCKING TIME. I pull up to a stop sign on a 4-way stop. Every car is stopped, and taking their turn. Then, out of nowhere, a bicyclist comes racing down the hill, and blasts through the stop sign, with complete disregard to everyone else. I have literally been crossing the street, when it’s my turn, only to have a bitch boy on a bike come out right in front of me, having blown through his stop sign.

“My helmet will protect me!!!”

Fucking idiot.

If and when I hit one of these morons who disregards the law, I will get out of the car and take his picture of him lying on the cement, next to his twisted bike, and laugh in his face.

Yuppie bikers, and self-righteous beach cruising bitches, guess what? I live here too, and I don’t give a fuck. When I first moved to Venice, I almost hit someone who did that. I yelled at him, and he acted like he was going to beat me up or something. Motherfucker, who the fuck do you think you are? Lady T was like “Calm down, blabla” but fuck that bullshit. Fucking bikers who disregard the stop sign, or TURN LEFT FROM THE RIGHT LANE, I am going to run over one of you fucks eventually, and it will be all your fault.

Consider yourself warned, all gay-fuck-shit ass bikers and beach cruisers. If you don’t value your own life and safety, then I guarantee I won’t either. I will probably feel bad for a little bit, like when the cops come and write the report, that your idiot ass ran the red light, and gave me absolutely no option but to run your shit over. But after the initial adrenalin rush is over, I will probably feel comfortable knowing that one idiot learned his lesson, and that if you are on a bike, you better fucking stop at the stop sign.

That’s right, bitch, better stop next time.

American Rock = The Blood of the Universe

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.

There will be more.