Faster Than the World

Here's the list thus far, compiled from the comments and including our two picks. You have until tomorrow to add more to this list and then we'll put it up for a vote. List has been updated to include comments from this post (well more like a conversation between turtle and COOP) Also, see note below the list. (We will update the list as necessary)

Stooges - Raw Power
Sham 69 - Tell Us The Truth
Ramones - Ramones
Ramones - Rocket To Russia
Sex Pistols - Never Mind the Bollocks
The Clash - The Clash
The Clash - London Calling
The Clash - Give Em Enough Rope
Elvis Costello - My Aim Is True
Elvis Costello's Armed Forces
Elvis - This Year's Model
The Jam - Setting Sons
The Jam - In The City
Talking Heads - 77
Buzzcocks - Orgasm Addict
Buzzcocks - Singles Going Steady
Dead Boys - Young, Loud and Snotty
Devo - Are We Not Men ?
The Cramps. Lucky 13.
Stooges - Fun House
Specials - Specials
Velvet Underground - Loaded
New York Dolls - New York Dolls
The Dickies - The Incredible Shrinking Dickies
Dictators -- Go Girl Crazy
Dictators - Blood Brothers
Angelic Upstarts - Teenage Warning
Generation X - Generation X
X Ray Spex - Germ Free Adolescents
Stiff Little Fingers - Inflammable Material
Germs - GI
Damned - Damned Damned Damned
Damned - Machine Gun Etiquette
Gang of Four - Entertainment 1979
Television - Marquee Moon
The Cure - Imaginary Boys
Public Image Ltd. - First Issue
Cockney Rejects - I'm Not A Fool EP
Vibrators - Pure Mania
Saints - (I’m) Stranded
Adverts - Crossing the Red Sea
Undertones - S/T
The Fall - Live At The Witch Trials.
Radio Birdman - Radios Appear
The Tubes - The Tubes
The Tubes - Young and Rich
The Tubes - Remote Control
Blondie - Blondie
Nick Lowe - Jesus of Cool/Pure Pop for Now People
Nick Lowe - Labour of Lust (Hey if Elvis Costello's on the list, then Nick Lowe needs to be here.)
Dave Edmunds - Rockpile (See Nick Lowe)

Side note: Keep in mind this is all for fun. If you want to email us and get all pissy about how we aren't "honoring" the real pioneers or talking enough about the history of punk or genuflecting to your idols and you want to school us on what the scene was like back then and make us feel like we are doing a disservice to punk rock lore by not including this band or that band and how we are forgetting that you singlehandedly saved the world from the bourgeios status quo because you were immersed in the 70's punk rock scene or whatever and how it is our responsibility to preserve your history and your ideals, well, as the most punk rock robot in the world would say:

Remember: we aren't making this list. You are. If you have any comments about how we forgot something, don't get all fucked up about it and point fingers at us. We gave you the oppurtuntity to chime in. If you just didn't bother, not our problem. And if you have the time to send an email complaining to us, you had the time to leave a comment with your albums. Pretty simple.

Posted by Michele Christopher at 11:47 PM | Permalink | Comments (44) | TrackBacks (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

We had such fun with our Best Punk Songs poll that we decided it's time to do some more polling. This time around, we're doing albums. I know we've done the best punk albums of the 80s before, but that was just by us, for us. Now we want you. Well, we want your input. And your votes. This time, we are doing Best Punk Albums and we are going by decade.

We aren't going to start in the 60's or any kind of pre-punk stuff. We both talked about even not including the 70's in here and decided that we have to include them. You toss your favorites in here. Just for the decade we are doing. Then we will have a poll on that decade the next day. The winner will advance to the next round. The next day (or so) we will do the next decade. The same thing. You toss anything in you want. What you like, liked or just want to fuck with us with. The next day we will have a poll. When we are done, we will have four winners of each decade. Then we will pit them all against each other in a free for all cage match to see who wins.

So for today we have the 70's. Maybe we'll hang this for two days. Who knows. Depends on your response.

Here our two picks for Best Punk Albums of the 70's.

Stooges - Raw Power (1973)

“Do not adjust the speakers, man.” That’s what I remember my cousin saying to his brother about this album. It might have been when it first came out, maybe a year or two later. Going back that far, it gets fuzzy. But my cousins babysat for us a lot and they always brought over records to play for me. It was their way of “bringing me up right.” It’s how I came to love the music I do.

I don’t remember much about how I felt upon first hearing Raw Power. I didn’t come to really love or appreciate this album until much later. But I do remember Michael saying that. “Do not adjust the speakers, man.” And I know what he meant. This album was amplified, mixed loud and produced in such a way so that the guitars stood out above everything else. Raw power, indeed.

Some people think this album sounds messy. Some, like myself, think the complete opposite. It’s focused. It’s a tightly wrapped package of adrenaline, destruction and power. Raw Power kicks ass and takes names. It comes out fighting and keeps pummeling you, and even when in spaces it cools down a bit, it’s still packing a huge punch. Iggy’s vocals are so tight, so intense and the music so overlayed with noise and distortion and you may think that sounds messy, but it works. It is real raw power. This is what destruction sounds like. Whether that’s self-destruction or not was the question of the day when this album came out. Was this a band falling apart or a band just getting it together? Guess it depended on who was listening. For a slew of future punk rockers who claimed Raw Power as an influence, this was a band that knew how to make destruction sound good.

I’m not gonna pretend this isn’t an ugly album, because it is. But punk rock was never meant to be pretty.

*yea, i know all about the bowie remix controversy thing, but getting into it would take too much away from the idea at hand here -M

Raw Power
Search and Destroy

Sham 69 -Tell Us the Truth - 1978

You guys could prolly figure out I was going to do this. Being a young kid in California when all the skinhead shit came around, you could probably assume I would do this. I never hated this band like I did Skrewdriver or the 4skins. That shit was just evil. This was a different band. They started this, but for some strange reason in California it turned, well, weird. The Sham guys just wanted to have fun. You could always hear them having fun on the album. It was always awesome when they went on tour. They went out of their way to put out "Sham" shirts with silkscreened flowers on them. Just kind of of a symbol to knock this skin shit off. I don't care about your shoelaces. I don't care about their color. I don't care if you wear Docs. I don't care if you have a shaved head and I don't care if you have a mohawk. We aren't your spokesmen for hate. We just want to drink beer and play darts. Don't bring us into this. We stopped giving a fuck about your issues as soon as the first beer was poured. I'm not saying they weren't pissed. That's were they got their power from. They were tired of everything and just done with everything. The attituted was like, "You guys are all fucked and we hate you all."

Sure they made some statements like whomever was innocent or some kind of Borstal Breakout, but who even knew where that was much less knew how to spell it? A song about some kind of something that was covered by so many bands? It's gotta mean something. So many people covered it. What does it mean? Social statement? Meh. Gimmie another beer and let's go watch TV. Turn the stereo up and see what band covers it next. My favorite song on here has to be "Hey Little Rich Boy." Just cause I used to be playing before I had to hit the bus. I would get burned by rich kids with fast cars. Passing me by. Walking down the street looking for a bus. All I thought was, "I don't need a fast car to get me around. I can take a bus to the other side of town." True thoughts of someone who was beat down but never, ever would fall to his knees and he wanted you to know that. You would never beat him. -T

Borstal Breakout
Hey Little Rich Kid

So here's where you come in. Give us your choices. Best punk albums of the 70's. Just list them and go ahead and tell us why. List as many as you want. Rock the vote.

This is the 70's. Stick to the 70's! Just for this one! The 80's vote will be this weekend followed by the 90's shortly after and, welp, you guessed it....00's shortly after.

The Battle Royale has begun.

Update: We both already reviewed a great album from that decade: Ramones s/t (1976).

Posted by Michele Christopher at 9:28 AM | Permalink | Comments (36) | TrackBacks (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Well, it's time again. Time to be honest. Both of us have been feeling off today, and you can prolly tell in the songs we have playing. I'm not saying it's Alice Cooper or anything like that. Although that wouldn't be so bad. But, we are on a slow kick tonight, at least I am. Sometimes you need to slow down a little. Deathpunk and grunge. That's what we have tonight. This thing usually go something like "You want to do a song tonight?" "Ok, right now. What are you listening to?" For the first time Michele got really lucky with this. Finally.

Here is tonight's edition of What Are You Listening To Right Now, or whatever we named it earlier.

For those of you who don't know, this is when we pick the song that is playing at the moment the other other asks the question. Sometimes you really get some weird stuff, but most of the time, it's all pretty cool. But, we just describe how feel about the song. We also ask you do the same. If you have the guts. Pretty simple.

Turbonegro - Age of Pamparius

I will never forget the first time I heard this. For the first two minutes or so I’m thinking - what the hell is this? Some prog rock shit? I thought this was supposed to be punk rock? Waiting for the song to build up, he’s whispering something about denim and apocalypse dudes..and then....finally. It kicks in. Yea, this is what I was expecting. This kicks ass. This is awesome. This is........what the fuck did he just say? No. Couldn’t be. Did he say something about pizza? This song is about pizza? Thinking I’m getting old and my hearing is gone, I grab the lyrics. Yea. Pizza. This song is about pizza. Ok, it’s about a pizza place. Pamparius Pizza. In Norway. They wrote a song about their favorite pizza place. That’s kinda cool. It’s a kick ass song, really.

You got nothing to lose at Pamparius
gonna wear them happy shoes tonight
You got nothing to lose at Pamparius
Gonna bake a motherfucking pizza tonight

Dude, I’m pretty damn happy when I can belt out a line like “Gonna bake a motherfucking pizza tonight.”

Anyone else's stomach suddenly start growling with hunger? -M

Tad - Jack

Or is it Jack Pepsi? I know they had a cease and desist for the album cover, but I'm not sure if they had to change the name of the song. This was on a small single along time ago. The cover of this single brought out the Pepsi lawyers and I think the name is "Jack" now but I'm not sure.

Anyways, a song that hits me. I'm not saying I did any of this stuff, but I can relate to just getting so blasted out of booze and drugs that you do these stupid things. Steal a car and go drive on a frozen lake. Doing 360's on the ice while slamming back whiskey and Pepsi. Smiling at each other. This was life. This was fun....Oh shit! What was that sound?!?! We're going thru the ice!!!! The way he tells it, it's not like he is singing. It's like a story. Like the things I tell you. Except without ice. I don't like ice.

The best part of this song is when Jack leans over to him and just tells him, "OK, man. You need to settle down if we are gonna make it thru this." I have no idea why that line hits me so hard. Maybe cause I have said it so many times to my friends. Not the ice part thou. I'm stupid, but not that stupid.

I don't like ice.

And now I want pizza. - T

Posted by Michele Christopher at 10:44 PM | Permalink | Comments (11) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Thanks to turtle for this way cool shirt. He's always doing stuff like this. Finding ways to make me smile. He rules like that. It's why I love him. Well one of the reasons, anyhow. And he makes me smile a lot, which is really neat. Smiling is good. Turtles are good. Being in love is good. New shirts are good. It's all good!

Hellacopters Fire Fire Fire
Hellacopters Bore Me
Hellacopters (Gotta Get Some Action) Now!
Hellacopters 24H Hell

Posted by Michele Christopher at 9:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

No one's first show or gig was something incredible. We know that. I know that. Sometimes it's completely unbelievable when someone tells you the first show they ever went to was something like Woodstock or Monterey Pop. Sounding like they were the one right next to the shooter at Altamont. I mean theoretically, it could happen, but if that was your first show, man, you need to get out more. We here at FTTW know that ours will be a little bit, um, lame. Well, not in my case. Cause I had cool parents. But, we strive for the truth here a FTTW, so now you will get to read what our first shows were. We defined these pretty much as the first time we were covered in people, got our ears blown out and smelled the air of a crowd. All the smells, sounds, and feelings. This should be fun.

Neil Diamond - Cow Palace, San Francisco

I always get off lucky on these. Don't ask my why, but with all these "What are you listening to now" and video game posts, I always seem to get off easy. Sometimes I feel bad for Michele. Well, not really. But, I always think it's funny that I get the cool shows, video games and songs playing. I think it has something to do with that little black cloud that follows her around and rains on just her.

As I said before, I somehow, ended up with cool parents. They weren't cool when I was in High School or when I was living on sofas, but they were cool when I was a kid and somehow they are cool now. Don't ask me. You would never hear me say something like, "You want to go play golf today, dad?" like ten years ago. I don't know what happened. You would never see me without a shirt on around them ten years ago. They think tattoos are the devil's work. But now I think they just gave up and accepted me for who I am. Although, they always try to convince me to get them burned off. They even took pictures of my back and sent them into a tattoo removal shop to ask how much it would cost to remove them. I found out later the bill came and the subject was dropped.

But I digress. The show was in San Francisco. Some place called the Cow Palace. My parents wanted us to feel the power of Neil. See the city lights. See what it is like to live in the big time. Ok. I'll go. Well, I really had no choice. I was still a little kid. Wherever they said I go, I went.

Back of a car. Traveling. Listening to some punk rock music thinking how bad this was going to suck. I was like twelve and hated the world. Yeah dad. I see. Theater District. Yeah dad. I see. Market Street. Yeah dad. I see. FAO Schwartz. Yeah dad.

So basically a pissy young kid who really didn't want to be there. And if he didn't want to be there, he was going to make sure his parents knew about it. At least I can admit I was a little asshole back then.

Cow Palace. Well, that name just sounds lame. Cows? Oh, this will be interesting. I'm not a fan of cows but it would be kind of funny to see cows on stage. Actually, that would be neat. Some guy I don't know singing on stage with cows moving at him slowly. If you have ever experienced a slow move stampede, you will know what I'm talking about. They gang up on you and just walk step by step. I'm not fucking around. Put a city boy in a field of cows yelling at the cows while drunk and stoned. See what happens. They see the fear in your eyes. The cows feel this fear. They know you are weak and vulnerable. They will gang up on you. Like 200 of the fuckers. Walk at you slowly. You can see the look in their eyes. They are thinking that if they take you out, freedom will be theirs. No more of this cheap hay crap. They are making a jailbreak and you are the only one that stands in their way. Looking back at the farm hand. Asking the owner of the farm if this is normal for cows to do. "Fuck no, boy! Move your ass out of there!" Running away while looking at the saddened cows who couldn't keep up with you. Their hopes dashed. Their dream destroyed.

It's kind of funny.

But anyways, that's kind of what I thought was going to happen that night. I was a kid. I didn't know. Well, I hoped it would happen. Cause that would be kind of funny.

Getting in the arena was a different story. I think this is when I started my dislike of parking next to cars and huge shows. I admit it. I am a huge basketball and hockey fan, but all my teams sucked this year and I didn't bother to go to any games, so I never really deal with the amount of idiot parkers there are in this world. Take a middle age woman, load her up on cheap wine, give her the keys to a car and tell her to park in a giant parking lot. Now multiply that by 1000. You can see why I don't like those parking lots now. If you are going to be driving around drunk, fuck man, at least be good at it. Don't rub your crotch with a cheap buzz while singing "Girl, you'll be a woman soon" while trying to park. There are kids around for christ's sake.

What was I talking about?

Neil Diamond. Sorry about that. I go off sometimes.

Dragged into the show. Even back then, I kinda had a feeling my dad didn't like these type of things.He didn't and still doesn't like going to shows. How do you think I end up seeing all these bands. He doesn't want to go. Mom does. "Turtle, here are two tickets. Here's money for dinner. You two go out. Take her somewhere nice and make sure she has a good time. Just remember to not talk about me, ok?" How do you think I saw Neil so many times? Dad backed out at the last moment while mom was a rabid fan.

But tonight it was different. It seemed like he went out of his way on this one.
We had tickets that were 2nd level up, behind the show. Well this is fun. It wasn't a big deal. I wasn't going to have fun anyways. I could’ve been in the front row and still not have cared. Maybe if I got a hotdog things would be better. But until then, this thing sucks and I want to know where the damn cows are. At least if someone was trampled I could get a few shits and giggles out of this. Cow trampling trumps Neil Diamond any day. Well, that’s what I thought until he started.

I'm going to go on record as saying Neil Diamond, that's Mr. Diamond to you, puts on one of the greatest shows ever. He really owned the place that night. Sure, it was filled with middle age hairy old women, but it was still cool. I'd say the crowd was a hundred times better then the crowd at the Cher show I took my mom to for her birthday. Imagine asking someone in a sailor suit if he is a fan of Turbonegro and him asking you if that's a new sexual position. One thing I learned about Cher fans. Don't ask questions. Just keep your head down.

I got off track again.

I always get off track.

Neil put on an amazing show. I was struck by his style. His music. That was he could hypnotize an audience. To this day I've seen Neil Diamond twenty-three times. I started following his tour around and scheduling shows in the same area he was in. I've seen him with my mother, gamma, punk rock friends, normal friends, taken dates to see him, being drunk at a bar and hearing he was playing that night. Neil called all of us. He wanted us and needed us like we needed him. It was amazing.

There was one disappointment though.

I never saw any cows on stage. -T

I can’t believe I’m doing this. It’s not just that I’m dating myself real bad here. It’s the whole shame thing. I mean...well, here goes. My very first concert.

David Cassidy - Nassau Coliseum, Long Island

Not the Partridge Family. No, this was solo Dave. On his own. No Shirley Jones or Ruben Kinkaid watching from the sidelines. No Lori banging away on the tambourine. No magic bus. Just David and his flowing hair and penetrating eyes and sultry voice and.....oh yea, I was smitten. Big time.

Come on, look at him. He was hot, in that 70's kind of way. So when my aunt said she was taking a bunch of us to see him at Nassau Coliseum, I got pretty excited. A concert? Way cool. I may have only been about ten at this point, but I was already supplementing my Teen Beat reading with heavy doses of Creem magazine. So going to a concert was high on my list of things I needed to do. At ten, that list is pretty short. Eat ice cream for dinner, burn down the school, go to a concert, marry Lief Garret. The simple things.

On the other hand, we’re talking David Cassidy here. Not something you read about in Creem Magazine. Sure he was gorgeous and beautiful and dreamy, but I didn’t really care for the music. I had already moved on to the Who. Looking at the guy was ok, but listening to his love ballads for two hours? Was it worth it? Well, I was going whether I wanted to or not. My aunt bought the tickets. We were David Cassidy bound.

Nassau Coliseum is a hockey arena. It’s a basketball stadium. A concert venue, it is not. Even though the place still brings in the big shows, it was not built with music in mind. The acoustics are terrible. If you aren’t sitting in the first ten rows on the floor, everything sounds like shit. But I guess when you are going to see an act like David Cassidy, it doesn’t matter. And really, I was kind of excited to be there. A concert. A live show. This was pretty cool, even if it wasn’t The Who.

We got to our seats and you could feel the excitement in the place. Every local girl between the ages of seven and say, 20 was there. All holding signs and banners. Carrying flowers that they wanted to throw on the stage for David. Later, someone would throw a bra on the stage. Girls. Crazy. I remained stoic and quiet. I wasn’t going to swoon or scream or rip my panties off and throw them in the air because I didn’t do stuff like that. Ok, maybe once I wrote to Lief Garret asking him to marry me, but no one knew that. I sat back in my chair and waited for the show to start. I’d spend the time focusing on David. Quietly. Looking at his hair, his gleaming smile, his swaying hips. Just being my cool self. Staring, but not swooning. No swooning. None at all. Nope.

The house lights went down. The stage lights went on. A small ripple of noise started moving throughout the crowd, getting louder and more vibrant by the second, culminating in an ear-piercing, blood curdling, unison scream of 12,000 horny, love struck girls as David Cassidy took the stage. Girls fainting. Crying. Screaming. He broke out into song but you couldn’t hear it over the screaming. I told you the acoustics there were bad. The screams of joy and love reverberated throughout the arena, and completely drowned out the music. No one seemed to care. He swayed and danced and moved and pointed at the crowd and smiled and swayed some more and the screams got louder and the girls got wilder and.....oh my god. What? Was that me? Was that me that just made that sound? Did I scream? I think I did. And then....I swooned. Good lord, I was swooning. I was screaming. I was ready to run down to the stage and throw myself on the altar of David Cassidy. I was one of them. One of the crazy girls. I was half mortified, half caught up in the frenzy. Ashamed but excited. When that one girl threw her bra on the stage I got a hold of myself. Ok, I would never do that. I’m not gonna be that. I am not going to grow up to be a girl who whips out her tits at a concert. But when he broke out singing “I Think I Love You” I knew that if I didn’t control myself here I could be screaming my way down a slippery slope to dancing naked on the speakers at a Who concert.

When I got home I redeemed myself by listening to “Tommy” five or six times while reading a Creem Magazine article on Blue Oyster Cult.

My real redemption would come two years later when I attended my first real rock concert. Twelve years old. Back to Nassau Coliseum, this time with a neighbor and her kid. KISS. That’s right. KISS. From the first time I saw this band on - I think - Don Kirschner’s Rock Concert I was hooked. Make up. Theatrics. Rock and roll all night and party every day. This is what all my time spent honing my rock fan skills had led up to. This was the big time. This would wash from my soul the still remaining black karma from my antics at the David Cassidy concert. KISS. Rock and roll. I had joined the KISS army and I was ready to serve.

I don’t know what I was expecting. Something completely different from the Cassidy show, that’s for sure. A different type of crowd. A different type of reaction.

The house lights dimmed. The stage lights went up. Maybe there were some explosions and laser beams and whatnot. KISS took the stage.

Oh Jesus, the screaming. The screaming! Not just the girls, but the guys, too. Screaming and I swear to christ, swooning. Girls holding up signs declaring their love for Peter Criss or yelling out things they wanted to do with Gene Simmons’ tongue. Guys whipping off their shirts and screaming out “Fucking KISS! Fuck yea!” in some orgasmic frenzy. Bras on the stage. Panties on the stage. Girls swooning. Swooning! What the hell? Not what I expected at all. I was confused, lost, frightened. This was rock and roll, not David Cassidy. This was the real deal, the stuff I read about in Creem Magazine. Why aren’t you throwing beer bottles at each other and lighting fires and kicking chairs around? Why the FUCK are you swooning? Shit. I had this all wrong.

It wasn’t until many years and hundreds of concerts later that would realize KISS was nothing more than a clownish boy band. Like four David Cassidys with make up and heavy grooves. A manufactured, press-ready, photo friendly boy band. That I had the same experience at a David Cassidy concert as I did at a KISS concert is rather telling, don’t you think? - M

Neil Diamond - Cherry, Cherry
Neil Diamond - Shilo
KISS - Rock and Roll All Night
Ism - I Think I Love You (one of the greatest cover versions of a song you will ever hear)

Related; Timmer is asking about songs that rip off Neil Diamond

Posted by Michele Christopher at 11:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (19) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Tonight's music list is a bit different. This is guilty pleasure time. The time when we publicaly admit to liking certain songs that may make you guys question our punk cred, or just question our taste in music at all. But hey, you have songs like these too. The ones you roll up the car window to sing. The ones where you hide the CD when that hot date comes over. We all have them. Some of us are secure enough to admit them.

1. Journey - Separate Ways
How can you not sing this song when it comes on? I can’t be the only one who takes the nearest thing that resembles a microphone and does a Steve Perry grimace while banging my fist against the wall motion. You have seen the video, haven’t you? Some people call this video and song the ultimate in cheese rock. And they are right. But I love it. - M

2. Dramarama - Anything

This song was just neat cause it was a guy so in love he would would do, well anything. Kinda pathetic really, but it always came on when I got carded for beer. "I'll do anything, anything, anything!" But, instead of pleading for a girl's love, I was pleading for a twelve pack of Pabst. - T

3. Bon Jovi - Dead or Alive
This is how you measure a guilty pleasure song: does it make you burst out singing even when your heart and soul are yelling a big Darth Vader “Noooooooooooooooo!”? When this song comes on I am a fucking cowboy. Riding a steel horse. And when he gets to that part, oh yea you know what part, it’s all I can do to keep from pumping my fist in the air. Cause I’ve seen a million faces. And I’ve rocked them all. Maybe Bon Jovi was kinda lying to himself there, but we all sing it like we mean it. - M

4. Len - Steal My Sunshine

You guys all know you had a crush on the voice of the girl in the background. The repeatitive cries of "If you steal my sunshine," turned all your heads. Sometimes you listen to a song and just have to think about the lyrics. What the fuck was slurply goo type..... What the hell was she talking about? - T

5. Def Leppard - Pour Some Sugar on Me
Sometimes you go years and years singing a favorite song, not even bothering to really listen to the lyrics or think about what you are singing. And one day, you will have a moment of clarity, maybe in your car in the 7-11 parking lot, singing out loud with the window open, when you'll realize just how incredibly stupid a lyric "do you take sugar, one lump or two" is. But that doesn’t stop you from hitting repeat. Again. - M

6. Judas Priest - Breaking the Law

Hey, I'll admit it. I am a closet metal fan. I used to have all of their albums around my room. My dad always asked me if I thought the singer looked "funny". I never got that. This song doesn't do a whole hell of alot. It's kinda stupid actually and basically is about homosexual sex, so sometimes I feel a little weird singing it out of the car when I'm driving. But, meh. I'm secure in my masculinty. I'm just pissed that Rob Halford snuck so many glory hole references in his songs all these years and never let us in on the joke. - T

7. Poison - Talk Dirty To Me

I’ve been trying to convince people - and myself - for years that I hate hair metal. It’s become painfully obvious to me recently that is a blatant lie. Still, I’m sitting here wondering if I’m really ready to admit that I have so much fun singing this song that it’s on six different mix CDs I’ve made for my car. CC, pick up that guitar and talk to me!

8. Iron Maiden - Run to the Hills

Wait. I thought these guys were from like some island way on the other side of the earth. Or like Spain. Or at least Mexico. Why are they singing about Indians and early frontier battles? Hell, I need to write a song about eating jellied eels or eating bangers and mash. Hey, if they can write about us, I can write about them. "The teeth were bad in the midnight sun! The eels were old so we had no funnnnnnnn!" See! I can do it! I'm just kidding. But I always thought this song was funny because the video made it look like they were making some kind of statement or maybe they were just drunk.

9. Nysync - Bye Bye Bye
Shut up. Just. Shut. Up. It’s catch, ok? And I once had a small, lustful crush on Justin Timberlake. After the breakup of the band, though. When he looked more like a man. And before I started figuring out he might not be all that manly. It was a quick crush. Lasted through maybe one set of batteries. That’s it. I swear. And I know all the dance steps this song. Yea, I just said that out loud. Kill me now.

10. Madonna - Tell Me

Hm. Turtle pulls his head into his shell on this one. Yes. I love this song. It is one of the best songs I had heard in awhile. The way the music stops and starts. With the skipping and the stopping of the guitar in the back. I love it and that's all I'm going to say. So there. - T

11. Van Halen - Panama
Ok, so I am a Van Halen fan. Mega VH fan. DLR era only. Don’t even mention those other cocksuckers to me. Anyhow, this song. Well, when you’re listening to it with some family members in the car on the way to a distant relative’s funeral and everyone is all quiet and suddenly you burst out with “I reach down between my legs n' ease the seat back,” it becomes a guilty pleasure. - M

12. Neil Young - Old Man

I don't why this song has always moved me. I basically hate Neil Young, well hate is a pretty strong word, but this song was the one thing I ever liked from him. Just a sad long look at what someone had lost already and what an onlooker knew he was losing now. Plus it makes Michele happy when I sing it too her. Hey dude. You can't go wrong with that. Sad songs turn girls on. Don't ask me why. - T

13.Air Supply - Making Love Out of Nothing at All
Fuck you. They are one of the greatest bands ever. Don’t look at me like that. Stop it. They rule. Come on. This guy sings his fucking heart out for you, man. The beating of my heart is a drum and it's lost/And it's looking for a rhythm like you. Jesus, this guy has got it bad. How can you not feel it?

So that's the end of our list for tonight. Mock us accordingly. We know. We deserve it. But in the end, you know you want to steal our sunshine too.

Posted by Michele Christopher at 8:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (21) | TrackBacks (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

ok. So I'm missing her. Michele's compy is down and I get bored fast.

So I did this to tell her.

I love you, Michele

Yeah, I get sappy everyonce in awhile.

Posted by Turtle Jones at 2:46 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Video games. Well, I am starting to think that one of the writers on this site has a little bias for them. Seems that she has a thing for them. Notice I said she. You guys figure out which one of us it is. But, today we decided to do another round of video games! Yeah! But, we limited ourselves today. Anyone can pick out their favorite stand up machine. It takes some steel balls to admit your favorite system and game. Cause then we will know how old you are. And then we can make fun of you.

So for this morning's reading pleasure, we have our two picks and our feelings about them.

Here we go.

Mortal Kombat - SNES

By the intro, you can probably figure out who is the gamer and who is the pool player here. Video games were always just there for me. Gimme pinball action or a pool table any day over video games. But, sometimes you have to realize that you might not have a pool table in your house when you need one. Or, maybe you could.....

Four of us in a band. All living in a shitty apartment with no money, sleeping on the floors while the equipment took up most of the space. The most fun we had was betting how many roaches would be under a plate when we woke up in the morning. Just guessing a number and picking it up to watch them scatter. Counting them. Four roaches! I win! No dude, there were five. What? We are counting the babies too? No one told me this!

Fun was fun, but we needed to get out. More people started living on the sofas. Beer cans covering the floor. I watched someone have sex one night with a roach crawling up his back. I really wanted to tell the girl underneath him that what she was feeling wasn't his caresses. That was "Bob the Roach" crawling up her arm. But "Bob the Roach" needed love too, so I just went to the bar and let them have a threesome. All the while thinking, "We need to get out."

I picked up the paper the next day and started looking for houses. The prices were higher than Superman smoking Thai stick, but we had to do. After you have lived in that kind of crap for years, it gets kind of old. No one really cared because basically it was a drop off zone for people who had too much to drink and couldn’t walk home. Yes, it was right next to a punk rock club. We chose our apartments wisely. But, when we first got this place there were only two of us. Now at least four were on the floor every night. We needed to change this.

A plan was formed and I contacted a landlord. We shall just call him slumlord from now on. A big house that he said he was demolishing next year, so break anything we wanted. Smash the windows or break the doors. Didn’t matter to him. He wasn't going to fix it. Dude. Oh dude. That's the worst thing to say to us. Jesus. You are looking, no begging for trouble with that one. He explained it was a very popular house in the 50's and 60's. I surveyed the rooms and noticed the size of them. Little house in the ghetto. The rooms could barely fit a bed in. There were five of them. The layout looked more like a whorehouse then a Victorian. So I asked him why the rooms were like that and why it was so popular back then.

"Well it was a whore house."

Thus The Whore House was born.

One big parlor. A sitting room. Some dark and scary room in the back. A kitchen. Five bedrooms running down the corridor. We figured out we could put a TV in the main room. Along with all of our sofas. A sofa on the porch. We could clean out the backyard and put a stage, but we needed two things. Something to fill up the sitting room and another roommate. I had a friend at the time that served our needs. He wanted to move out of where he was living and he had a huge student loan. Plus he kissed our asses. Hey, I wasn't the model of perfection you see here now. He came over to look at the place and immediately moved in. Loaded up the main room with stereo sound, sub woofer and consoles.

But we still had a problem. The sitting room. Hm. We still went out to bars every night. Still played pool at after hour bars all night, but we lived in the ghetto now. Walking there was a bitch. I mean you really had to think if you wanted to go to the bar to play pool or just drink beer at home and make fun of each other.

Too long of a walk. Too much time. Meh. My friend decided we would fill The Whore House sitting room with something this glorious house of prostitution deserved. A pool table! Hell yeah dude! Grab that student loan and grab your checkbook! We are going to do this! So we bought a used one for about $1000 and took the feet off. It took six off us to get it in the van. Have you ever lifted a pool table? We had to go up a flight of stairs with it. One step at a time. Talk about hernias. Six guys in the middle of the stairwell screaming about "How many more steps, god dammit!" With the top guy lying to us about "Just one more! We can do this!"

Full size pool tables are heavy.

The legs were put on. The table was set just outside my room, but that's another story for another day. The Whore House shined! Video games in one room, surround sound blasting punk rock throughout the house, pool table right over there and in the back all our gear was stored. The Whore House was back. The sofas out on the porch and my car parked on the lawn. Located right next to a Muslim temple. Oh yeah. Your new neighbors just moved in. We break things. This was a place when two o'clock rolled around and the bar was closing, people would start asking where the after party was. All you would hear was "The Whore House!" Honestly, some nights I did dread hearing that. So much so that we held a weeklong protest. We put a note on the door with a sign that said, "If you do not live here or did not call before you came over, do not knock on this fucking door."

Didn't work too well thou. Cause then people would call and say things like "Hi, turtle!" and then I would hear *click*. Great. "Hey guys. Someone’s coming over and I have no clue who the fuck they are."

See, this is the part of the story I'm going to get a little off on. Like I hadn't already. The house had a strong division. Three types of people. And we didn't associate with each other. Gamers. Pool players. And people who just wanted to use our instruments in the back room and try to set up their own little gig.

We barely spoke to each other.

But there was one game I played. Well, I kind of had to play it. Mortal Kombat. The only reason I played was when I was knocked off the pool table. There was a line like ten long to get on the table again. Shit. Let's go see what going on the other room. I would sit and just watch these guys play Mortal Kombat. It looks easy enough. I'll put my name up. The sheer joy and excitement these guys had for just kicking people's asses. I never screamed like that from playing pool. These guys were excited. Let's try this out. Oh yeah. I forgot to tell you guys. We had chalkboards everywhere. For everything. The only ones that were really followed were the game list, the pool list and the dartboard list. The dishwashing list was kind of a pipe dream to begin with so no one ever looked at it. It did end up with some pretty cool abstract art on it the end. But, that's another story. So I put my name on the game board. Thinking to myself, "Well hell. Maybe I should just go outside and sit on the couch and wait my time out." But that didn't happen. A scream of "turtle's here!" rang around the room. Covered the house in screams. This was like I was in some bad prison movie. I was in the wrong part of town. The controller was handed to me. The other names were crossed out. My roommate was the leader of the Mortal Kombat gang so he took the other controller. I was the leader of the pool gang. This was like a gang fight. The pool game stopped and people came over from the pool area. The music stopped and people swarmed us. Beers were cracked and I lit a cigarette. He loaded up his chew and asked me if I was ready.

I looked at him dead in the eyes and said, "Ok, hero. Lets do this."

Man, I got my ass kicked that night.

So maybe I don't like Mortal Kombat that much. -(T)

Yea, video games, it’s my thing. I called this one. I’ve been playing them since the day my parents bought us this magical game called Pong. From there it was a slippery slope. Pong was the gateway drug to the harder stuff that would consume my being for years to come. And if Pong was marijuana, then the Odyssey was cocaine. The Atari? Giant rocks of crack. Oh yea, I was hooked but good.

There were plenty of great games for Atari (Yar’s Revenge, Pitfall, Combat, Rampage) but one game ruled above them all. One game which would lead to a lifelong fascination with other games like it, one game which had an antagonist so mean that he haunts my dreams to this day, one game that I played so often I can probably navigate it with my eyes closed.

Adventure for Atari.

Sure, it may seem simplistic and crude now. But back then? This was a thrill a minute. Going from room to room to find all the objects, figuring out what to carry and what to drop, navigating the mazes, finding keys, opening doors, hunting for the chalices, slaying the...the.....what was that? A dragon? A duck? We took to calling it a Drucken. I know it was supposed to be a fierce dragon but really. How much did that look like a duck? Maybe even a chicken? So at first I laughed at it. I mocked it. That thing is supposed to keep me from my quest? Surely you jest. Well, I learned my lesson. Do not mock Yorgle. See, Yorgle had this way of appearing out of nowhere. He was a stealthy bastard. But what made me respect/fear Yorgle and (and then Grundle and Rhindle) the most was that godawaful noise he made as he attacked you. It was terrifying. Some kind of chomping noise that seemed to echo in your ears and vibrate in your stomach for seconds after it sounded. That sound was like a iron gate crashing on your soul. I’d hear that and panic. He was right on top of me! Can’t let him eat me! Chomp! Chomp! Arrow, use the god damn arrow, you moron! And I’d have maneuver my character - well, my square - til it was in just the right spot with the arrow facing the duck dragon dude as he bore down on me and, ohhh yesssss. Right in the gut. The game made a satisfying noise as the dragon was slain. I’d stare at Yorgle for a second, gloating over my victory, saying out loud “chomp this, asshole.” Sigh of relief. Shake off the nervousness. Onward, soldier. There is a chalice to be found.

Adventure awaited in the other rooms. Not just adventure, but secrets as well. Who doesn’t remember the first time they found that Easter Egg? Finding that magic dot in the black castle and figuring what you had to do with it...well, I’m not so sure I figured that out on my own. I think there might have been a gaming magazine involved. Electronic Gaming maybe? My memory is fuzzy at this point. We’re talking 1978 or so here. For all I know I could have discovered the secret through some portal that opened up in my mind some smoky, stoned evening. The payoff of this secret part of the game? You got to see a room with the programmer’s (Warren Robinett) name. Whoa. Mind blowing, I know. But at the time, Atari had refused to let their programmer’s take credit for their games. So Robinett snuck that in there. Way to go, Warren.

There were also little quirks like different ways to get around the bat or make it so the dragon can't eat you. I loved finding this stuff out. I loved the whole idea of being on this quest, challenging myself to go farther, to push that dot to it’s maximum capability, to finish off all three playing levels of this game and then start all over again because I never wanted it to end. I thought how cool it would be if they would expand the game because I wanted more. More dragons to slay, more treasure to find, more quirks to discover.

Eventually, Nintendo answered that call. Super Mario, baby. Clearly the successor to Adventure. My sister and I bought a Nintendo the week it came out and subsequently spent the next month at least glued to the tv set, giving up sleep, real food and interaction with civilization to guide this little fat dude through some magical world that looked eerily similar to my last visit to the mystical world of LSD hallucinations.

Super Mario Bros. was Adventure times infinity. It had all the magic of Adventure - the quest, the hero, the villians, the scrolling from screen to screen as you tried to find your way around. But it was so much more. It was that expansion I was looking for. More worlds. More hidden features. More surprises. You never knew what would happen next. Would this brick bring a star or a mushroom? What will happen if I crouch down on this pipe? You can go up into the clouds!! Every time you played, there was something else to find, another clever trick or hidden surprise. I had so fully integrated myself into the world of Mario at one point that my sleep deprivation hallucinations took on Mario-like qualities. That garbage can in the road was a Koopa Troopa. That wasn’t my mother screaming at me to get a life and get out of the house. That was Bowser! Man, was my mother pissed when I threw a hammer at her that one time.

As much as I loved Adventure, it lacked one thing that SMB gave me. A life lesson. Sure, you can find a lesson in Adventure if you think hard enough. Stay away from dragons that look like ducks? Go left in a maze when your mind tells you to go right? No, nothing compares to the metaphor for life that appears when you finally complete your Mario mission. Do you get confetti and a ticker tape parade? No. Do you get a hero’s welcome in the Princess’s land? No. You get this:

Thank you Mario! But our princess is in another castle!"

What?

What the fuck? Another castle? I spent a month of my life giving up sleep, food and bong parties so you can cock tease me with this ending? I was dejected, furious and saving my money for the next installment of the game.

It wasn’t until many years later that I realized just how awesome that ending is. See, that, my friends, is how you learn coping skills. That's how you learn to handle disappointment. Put your kids in front of Super Mario Brothers and let them play their little hearts out until they think they won, and then those lowly mushroom retainers appear with the bad news and your kids will have learned one of life's greatest lessons. Disappointment sucks, but you must go on! I taught my kids how to play SMB at an young age just so I could let them know early on in life what if feels like to have the rug pulled out from under you. To work hard at something to achieve a goal and then to have that goal swiped from you at the last minute. The disappointment. The anger. The realization that life fucking sucks sometimes. It will all come in handy later on: "I know you completed the entire project on time and you did a great job, but I think I want you to write me a ten page essay, too." THANK YOU MARIO! BUT OUR PRINCESS IS IN ANOTHER CASTLE! Oh, thanks for spending eight hours slaving over a hot stove to cook this amazing dinner for me darling, but do you think you could go back in the kitchen and bake me a pie, bitch? THANK YOU MARIO! BUT OUR PRINCESS IS IN ANOTHER CASTLE!

You just can't beat a video game that's not only fun to play, but gives you a harsh dose of the realities of life to boot. -(M)

KMFDM - Mortal Kombat
Del the Funky Homosapien - Proto Culture
Voodoo Glow Skulls - Trouble Walking

Posted by Michele Christopher at 6:03 AM | Permalink | Comments (17) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I hereby declare Faster Than the World to be

The Official Site of Little House on the Prairie.

Yea, the Ingalls family might not be too pleased with the myriad sexual references to their brethren, but they say there's no such thing as bad publicity.

So, to make this official, a download for you:

Theme to Little House on the Prairie.

Yea, that's how we roll.

Ok, so I'm bored. I took a half day off work today and spent the second part of the afternoon getting my ass kicked in Super Mario Strikers by a wise ass 13 year old.

Posted by Michele Christopher at 3:21 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

No it's not Mr Rogers. It's FTTW photo time! See, we do other things here. We have other hobbies. Sometimes we need to change up. So today, it's picture time. We know pictures inspire different feelings in everyone. Sometimes you look at them and wonder what the hell they were thinking, while other times you ask yourself if that person is you. We know this site is about punk rock but if you drink a lot, pics and punk kinda sound the same.

This photo was shot at Roscoe Cemetery, Roscoe NY, August 2005 by Michele. She managed to create a feeling that I love and I hope you love to. See if you can get some feeling out of it before you comment and read our takes on it. Think of this like a Rorschach test. But less ambiguous. And no butterflies. Because those things always end up to be butterflies. Or vaginas.

Here are our thoughts on this photo. As always, we write without seeing each other's first or comparing. Look it over and tell us what you get from it.

Life, death, aging, abandonment, intimacy. At one time these stones were upright and proud, markers that stood on a high hill, the words etched upon them telling the most basic story of someone’s life. Born. Died. Time went on, the stones became weathered and worn, the ground beneath them shifted and sunk. The people who used to leave flowers and polish the marble were long gone, maybe moved away or just got bored with the taking care of the dead and their artifacts.

As the earth moved, the headstones moved with it, sliding and leaning and shifting until nature brought them together. They form a sculpture of everything life has to offer; lovers leaning on each other, a parent hovering over a child, people at rest, in motion, moving and then settling down. To stand in a worn down part of this crooked cemetery and look at these grave sites and see lovers in an intimate moment is to see life where there is death. Born. Died. Born. -M

Sometimes things happen. Sometimes things go right and sometimes things go wrong. No matter what. You have to move on. You have to go on. Even in death. I'm not trying to be vulgar when I say that the tombstones have an eerie resemblance to a couple making love. It's just too deep. I mean really. This picture is kind of the like the circle of life. Life, death and sex. Having children has never been a big goal in my life, but with these two it makes me think. Someone is always going to follow you because of what you have done. Nothing will ever end except your life. Your lifetime is short. Have fun while you are here. Cause the game has started and you don't want to sit it out. Live your life to the fullest that your life will offer you. Cause like these two, it will end. You will be forgotten. You will be just a memory. Something that was forgotten long ago.

But, you always know that what they did deserves recognition.

I don't know if it's the missionary position of the stones, but just looking at reminds me that in the end, even the dead need to get laid. Well, that was a joke. What I meant was, what it reminds me of is the strive and determination of the human race. No matter how shitty everything is we will still keep going. And if that means getting some?

Well hell yeah.

I told you we get deep sometimes on FTTW. -T

You can see more of the "crooked cemetery" here.

Accused Grinning Like an Undertaker
Bags We Will Bury You
Flipper Life
Dag Nasty - Never Go Back

Posted by Michele Christopher at 10:12 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Tonight we have decided to write something about the greatest TV moments we have seen. Inspired by the jokes of Michele and some of you readers, we have decided some of the high points in pop culture that deserve to be remembered. So we here at FTTW will pay tribute to some things that we all remember. Sure, you all know I basically only watch two shows, so feel free to bag on me. Michele has a more defined taste. So we are both picking three things and basically giving an overview of why they are so important and why they made this country so great. Cause without crap TV, we wouldn't have punk rock. Don't ask me to explain that cause that is deep, man. Really deep.

Ready?

I had a lot of shows to choose from here. I was raised on tv and, up until about four months ago, watched a ridiculous amount of television daily. So I had a plethora of tv shows to dig into. But then I thought, anyone could pick the best moments from Taxi or Barney Miller or even the Simpsons. I need to do something else. Knots Landing? Mr. Belvedere? Cop Rock? Leave it to Beaver? Yea, I watched all those shows. I don’t have very discerning tastes when it comes to entertainment. But when it comes down to it, I just want to have fun here. I don’t want to talk about the time Val and Abby had the threesome with Greg because there’s not enough eye rinse for that. Or did that even happen? Anyhow, I’ve decided to talk about my favorite moments from one of the greatest shows to ever grace your television set: The Brady Bunch.

1. Greg Gets Groovy.
I tried to have a crush on Greg just because I thought I was supposed to have a crush on at least one Brady character. Everyone did. Bobby was too young, Peter was too much of a douche bag and I always thought Greg was just too much of a dork for me. I thought about crushing on Sam the Butcher or Mr. Brady, but I just couldn’t get a good fantasy scenario going on. But then Greg got his groove on. Dude showed up in a leather, fringed vest and a white boy fro saying things like groovy and right on, man and calling his parents by their first name. I think he had a black light in his room and some psychedelic posters and maybe he was hiding some weed in his underwear drawer. Didn’t Carol and Mike seem like the kind of parents who would smoke pot before they went to bed at night? And then do all kinds of kinky things in bed with Doritos and nacho dip? I bet if they found the nickel bag in Greg’s drawer he would say something cool like “I learned it from you, Carol and Mike! I learned it from you!” Anyhow, I kind of got a little crush on Greg after this. Not because he got all hippie cool on us, but because he was so earnest about it and so sure this was his road to popularity and when all his friends ditched him and his groovy plans I felt such pity, such sadness for him that I wanted to reach through the tv and hug him. Pity crush. Kind of like pity sex, without the mess. And then he decided to go on the camping trip with his family instead of staying home in his groovy room all alone. At least everything in Brady land worked out in the end. It always did.

2. Peter Grows Hair on his Balls
Well, he hits puberty. Everyone knows this episode. When it’s time to change, it’s time to rearrange....you know you sing that with the crack in the voice and all. Admit it. You love those Silver Platters. Wait, was that their name in that episode? Or was there another singing episode? It’s not really the song that’s so special here. It’s the fact that Peter was hitting puberty. I mean, they never used the word but you knew that was happening. So you stared at the tv thinking, man, Peter Brady is becoming a man. He’s probably got hair down there now. And has wet dreams. Maybe he uses deodorant now, too. I wonder if he’s gonna start shaving soon? I wonder what his wet dreams are about? Oh come on, you thought that, too. No? Really? Ok then. The best part of this episode is when Carol pretty much sums up the Brady philosophy by saying “Money and fame are very important things, but sometimes there are other things that are more important, like people." That broke the cheese meter, even for the Bradys. At least everything in Brady land worked out in the end. It always did.

3. Broadway Joe
Joe Namath. It’s got Joe Namath. It’s got lying and deceit, too. Ever notice those Brady kids do a lot of the lying and deceit thing? Sure, in the end they always learn a valuable lesson and karma bites them on the ass, but it just seems that an awful lot of episodes were built around the kids - and even the parents - behaving badly. But this episode. It had Joe Namath. I was like 11 years old and had this huge crush on him. HUGE. When I watched this in reruns years later I realized that it was pretty damn boring and showed too much of that twit Cindy. It would have been a lot cooler if Carol was the one who wrote the letter about dying and wanting to see Namath as a last wish and when he got there he’d say “I am her to fulfill your dying wish” thinking she wanted an autographed football when what she really wanted was her tits autographed. With his seed. That would have been a cool episode. But hey. It had Joe Namath! That was pretty cool. At least everything in Brady land worked out in the end. It always did. Problems solved and families saved in just under 30 minutes. - M

Ok. Now that Michele has done her tribute to a show which brought us the likes of Sam the Butcher and Cousin Oliver. I guess Cousin Oliver rocks now. Go figure. Wonder what band he is in? See, that's a gig I would never go to see. All I would do was mock him for being Bobby's bitch. I mean hell, man. If you gotta hold on to someone's shirt for cigarettes and protection, it might as well be Greg. At least he looks like he could do some damage. I'm getting off track, again. But, I get to do mine now! Yeah. Big surpise. It's Little House on the Prairie. Here are my three favorite episodes that taught you that in the matter of one hour, cripples could walk again, alcoholics could get cured and shoplifters would get a stern punishment for their misdeeds. If only they could play the lotto, life would be heaven. Maybe they did in one episode. Anyways, here are mine.

Mary Goes Blind

Or was it Laura? We never quite nailed that one down. A running argument between the two of us is who really went blind. All I know is someone went blind. Someone couldn't see anymore. One of those damn kids.

It's no big secret to any one of you regular readers that I am a big Little House fan. Because I write in the middle of the night, weird things come on. I'm asleep when all the cool shows come on, so basically all I get is Little House reruns and "24". And dude, talk about having a messed up head. Falling asleep to Jack Bauer shooting some Russians for stealing nerve gas then waking up to Willy stealing some candy will fuck with anyone's head. That sounds like some gay porno. "Willie and Jack Stealing Candy." Man, I think I have a career in gay porn scripting. "But Jack! I need more candy!" " Willy, you need to put that lube on cause we are running out of time!"

I think I need to get something to eat.

Anyways. Laura went blind! This was a great moment that started tons of jokes. Anytime anyone was having too much fun at someone elses expense you always had to look at them and ask them how they were having so much fun when there is a little blind girl running around. A confused look. "What?" Mary is blind! "I think you mean Laura, dude." Really. I thought it was Mary. Oh well. My head is still into Jack Bauer having anal sex with Willy.

The Final Episode

Ok. If you haven't got it by now, I like Little House. Bite me. I think it's a good show. There is always some kind of huge moral in the story that showed you that this was the right thing to do and the right way to live. NOT THIS ONE! So some rich investors bought up Walnut Grove. So we couldn't get it back. So we were all getting run out of town. Well screw this. I got some dynamite and I got some time. Let's blow this fucker so high that jesus will be wondering if he can get a piece of pie at "Nellie's". Great last epidode. Micheal Landon always had a thing for theatrics but this one out did them all. Show was being cancelled. Well that sucks. We have to clear the lot out. Well that really sucks. They are gonna start tearing things down next week but we have one last show to film. Well the hell with them! Let's blow this set up! Blind people and cripples and alcoholics and school teachers and orphans and pre teen pregnant women and trouble makers and good wholesome people all sat around and watched.

And they blew that fucker up.

Charles and Nellie

You all knew her and you all hated her. She was the one who would act smug when you fell down. She was the one who would laugh when you were down. She would put things in your way just to trip you up. She was hated by most. Feared by many. But known to all. But, there was something with her. Something about the way she skipped down the dirt road. Something about her sneer. Her laugh. Her talk. No one would ever think she was worth loving

But one man did.

Charles Ingalls found her one day when she was swimming in the local pond. He watched her. A growing feeling in his crotch. Putting his hands down his pants. Pulling out his Mighty Mormon Machine. With his penis in his hand, he stared at her. Knowing she had just turned 18. She was legal now. He slowly started rubbing his cock. She was 18 now. Drooling saliva out of the side of his mouth. He made a sound. She noticed him. She saw the look in his eyes and swam over to stare at him. Looking at him. Gazing at his penis. Pulling her naked body out of the water and walking over to him. The sun glistening off of her body as she touched his face. A look in her eyes that said "You need to stop milking cows and let me milk your penis." Her touching him like only a woman could. Charles taking her hand and leading her to blanket he had put down for his afternoon nap. Laying down in the summer heat. Getting on top of her. Telling her how he always found it kinky when she pushed "half pint" into the mud. He told her it always made him happy. He couldn't wait till she was alone. He was going to plow her wheat field. He tore off his pants and entered her. Making love til they both passed out. Sweat pouring down. Dripping off Charles' brow and running down the side of Nellie's breasts. On the bank of the pond, the two had become one. She was satisfied. And he was too.

Nellie became a woman that day.

Or maybe I'm remembering that episode wrong.

I watch this crap when I just wake up, so lemmie alone. - T

Posted by Michele Christopher at 9:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (15) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I just had to put this song up here. See comments on this post for explanation.

Mojo Nixon - Elvis is Everywhere

lyrics

Elvis needs boats!

Posted by Michele Christopher at 3:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (9) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

This is the 14th in a series. Tales of an anonymous punk rocker. This whole series came out when Michele and the Turtle met and some stories were exchanged. This is the product of both their ideas. Turtle writes them, Michele provides some inspiration and crossed the i's and dots the t's. We hope you enjoy reading them as much as we enjoy putting them together.

A Kidnapping

Late night. Really late. Like four in the morning late. Wandering around with a stack of papers. Not hand bills. Flyers.

We were in your town. We drove here. You may not wanna see us. But you were gonna god damn know about it. Late night things like this made you addicited to this kind of adrenaline. Blood racing and heart pounding. This was fun. Shirtless. Tired. Going on nothing but pure adrenaline. In a new town. We have one day. Maybe less. Maybe a few hours. Maybe even less than that. We need to do something. Grab something. Get those guns and that stack and lets go. Let's hit the college and the schools. We wait until the dead of night. Nail everything in sight. We can do this. Where is the college at? You know? You do? Well guess what? You are coming with us. Get in the van cause we are going to do this now.

The band was halfway shot so we left most of them on the floor back at the place to sleep. Loading up on methamphetamine, we grabbed a hostage who knew the town. If you didn't know, speed and adrenaline make a fucked up head. But, anyways. Our hostage knew how to get around town. He could give us instructions to get there. Where are we going? Tell us. Like a torture scene from some bad WWII movie. "You have information we need to know! The school closest to the club! Where! Where is it? Where is the club! Where is the club at?! Where! Tell us where the local dive bars are! Where! I don't care if it's four in the fucking morning. Tell us where! Now! We have ways of making you talk...." You get some seriously angry people looking at their watches and feeling like a vampire, knowing the sun will soon rise. We didn't want to know where we were or see any light unless it was lit with a streetlamp and sometimes that streetlamp was to much. Light hurts.

Let's just get this done and then go home and sleep. You need to load this up. This thing right here. You ever see one of these? This is called a tack gun. And before you ask, yes they were all stolen from painters. You know what these are. These are flyers. These are what the tack guns hit. This is why we are here. We are here to get these bills up. Tack guns help us in our goal. The reason you are here is to point us to where we need to go. Where is the club. Point and everything will be ok and we can all go back and meet our friends and band members from last night, smoke a cigarette and pass out before that evil, evil sun comes up. So it's your call. Help us and sleep soon. Or act like a whiny "I need to go to sleep" bitch and drag this out longer.

It's your call.

Be here til five, six, seven, or fucking eight.

It's your call.

Get us to where we want to go and you will get you home sooner.

God, that sounds like a threat.

Scratch my head as we head to the crappy parts of town. Basic fact. We didn't draw the cream of the crop fans. We went to the punk rock dive bars hitting up kids who shouldn't even have beeen out in the streets much less be near a bar. No sorority girls here. Which kinda sucks. Cause they always wear sweats. I always wondered about sorority girls. Why do they always wear sweats? I mean I'm not gonna sit around and say I dress the best, but when you see like 20 of them all in sweats with the name of the school or the chapter on their ass, you always have to ask yourself why can't you just go out naked? They didn't put much effort into this so why should I have to? I mean, if I get bitched at for eating food in a restaurant while being shirtless because it looks bad, why can't I point at them and say,"Hey dude, I might be shirtless, but they are all wearing sweats! What the hell is with that?!? Think about that before you toss me out of your half ass fast food joint."

I always got tossed out. Still, I think I made my point. But I'd always lose.

Group of Girls in Sweats v. Some Shirtless Dude Covered in Tattoos.

Oh yeah. I'm taking a walk. I'll leave now.

Back to the story.

We couldn't hit the nice areas of town. Well, we could've. But it wouldn't matter. They wouldn't really care. It would be just like another "Garage Sale" sign that would be ignored and left up two weeks after the sale was over. That would just be a waste of time. Just doing something for the sake of doing it has fucked me over way too many times. I'm not gonna sweat at five in the morning in front of surburbia when I can barely move and when all the residents cared about was where the new Java City is going in. So I take my time now to think about what I am doing. I've spent too much time spinning my wheels till the sun came up to think about this anymore. We were gonna hit three places. The club, which is ok for promotion. The school, which is better promotion. And then the dive bars. The best for promotion.

Drunken punk rock bars rule. You can smell the Pabst walking up. They rule. You know you need to bring out the flyers when you see one of these.

It's always too bad when you find them too late. After they are closed. Unless it was Nevada, you were kinda out of luck at two in the morning. But it happens. But, there still are hangers on. I hate to say it, but gutter punks. They hang out till the sun comes up. Hm. They have friends. What to do.....Kick 'em and stick 'em! When they roll over, push a flyer in their chest and move on. Hell if I know if it worked. All I know is kicking gutter punks is a hell of a lot fun! You like the Subhumans? You like Crass?
Well take a shower then! Hearing them in a drunken stupor telling you something about the government in some slurred language that could only be understood by someone as drunk as they were. "The system is killing you and me! We need to fight the real enemy!"

Ok, stinky. Just show the flyer to your friends and we can call this a night. I don't need to know how CBS has brainwashed me while blood is dripping out of your nose because of the amount of shitty cocaine you did the night before. Slow down there, crusty. Just take the flyer to your friends.

If you have never done this, this activity is illegal in most states and in Canada. Not really illegal, but meh....it is breaking the law. Leaving them up gets you in trouble, but by that time, we were gone. Out of town. Maybe it's not in Mexico. But I was always to busy looking for a Velvis to really care in Tijuana. But, you had to do it though. Not kicking crusty punks, that was more for fun, but posting. This is something you do late at night. Usually the night before. You take a shitload of flyers, not bill size but full size and nail everything in fucking site. This is what we did. This was the way it worked. Nail everything in site. Whoever couldn't make it that night had to do it the next night. Drop off the tired crew while the others went out. Grabbed who ever could tell us where we were at. Shove them in the car. Hand them a beer. Start the engine. Tell them that they have a few choices. Learn how to use this gun and learn how to jump as high as you can and how to swing your arm in mid air and don't god damn land on me. I don't like staples in my back or bodies crashing down on me. So hit it right the first time. And don't land on me. Please.

But, there was a problem. Sometimes "Good Samaritans" would pull your flyers down. They would wake up and walk their fucking dogs in the morning. Little, old short men with an agenda? I don't know. All I know is driving down streets I know I posted the hell out of these streets three hours before. Now? No posts. What happened? Who pulled these down? It's only been three hours? It's nine in the morning? They are all gone?

It's happened too many times for me to think it was a drug induced hallucination. They were there last night. I know it.

Just another lesson learned on the road.

Sometimes you can break your ass all night to get your show promoted, but in the end, some little old man with a cane and some shitty dog can ruin a whole nights work.

7 Seconds - Red and Black

Posted by Turtle Jones at 10:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBacks (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Thanks to my friend Lester Norton (aka Solonor) for spending way too many hours last night/this morning fixing up the messed up coding on this site. It is now viewable in IE and all the errors are fixed.

Lester, in his usual way, will accept no payment for his work so instead I will take this opportunity to let you know that he has a CD out. It's called "Like Sailors Do" and it "blends blues-flavored rock with strong country and folk roots."

I can tell you from listening experience that he is a very talented musician and you'd be doing yourself a musical favor by heading over to his site, listening to some samples and then picking up the CD.

He's really an ok guy for a Red Sox fan.

Thanks, Solly, from turtle and myself. You didn't have to do that but you did. And for that, you rule.

Thank you.

Posted by Michele Christopher at 9:19 AM | Permalink | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

When turtle said, let’s do the Impala, I got all excited. Yea, my grandpa had an Impala! Oh, wait. Look at these pictures. No good. Grandpa got his Impala long after they stopped being cool looking. I mean, gramps wasn’t exactly a “let’s go cruising in a muscle car” kind of guy. He was more of a “let’s drink this jug of wine and then ram my piece of shit car against the garage wall because I’m so drunk I thought I was on the street and not still in the garage” kind of guy. Yea, by the time gramps got an Impala, they had transformed into something a nun (or a drunk Italian grandfather) would drive. Nothing like this beauty, which I am writing about tonight:

That’s a 68 Impala Super Sport. Oh yea, I have a thing for those SS cars. There are a lot of variations of the 68 Impala, it seems, but this one is my favorite.

Take a good look at that car. You know what that reminds me of? A greaser. No, not a greaser like Kenickie or the dude Travolta played in Grease. No greased lightning here. This is Outsiders greaser. Remember The Outsiders? Sure you do. We all read it. Or at least you saw the movie. What a cast. Matt Dillon. Tom Cruise. Rob Lowe. Emilio Estevez. Leif Fucking Garret. That movie was a wet dream inspiration. Plus, I loved the book. Seventh grade, I read that book once a week for the entire year until I knew it by heart and the pages were all crudded up with nicotine and Cheese Doodle stains.

Ok, car. We are talking about a car here. Ok:

Bob Shelton: You guys know what greasers are? White trash with long, greasy hair.
Ponyboy: You know what a soc is?
Bob Shelton: What?
Ponyboy: White trash with mustangs and madras.

So this Impala, it’s total greaser. Can’t you picture Dally in this car? Or was that Darry? Matt Dillon....Patrick Swayze...hmm, I’ll take Dillon. Yea he made some crap movies (Herbie Fully Loaded? Did he owe someone a favor?) but he made Singles and that rules over Roadhouse * and that dancing movie any day of the week.

I’m having some attention deficit problems here tonight. Sorry.

The car. Yea, I can see this baby full of greasers. Johnny and Dally up front, smoking cigarettes and bitching about life. Sodapop and Ponyboy in the back seat, cursing out the window. Ready for a fight. A rumble. Have you ever been in a rumble? I was. Almost. Sorta. Remind me to tell you that story some day. But the Impala. All greaser. No socs allowed in this vehicle, please. In fact, this car was made to destroy socs. Yea. Like Death Race 2000. Socs are worth 500 points each! Dally gunning the engine, spotting Cherry Valance standing in the middle of the road, flipping her hair. Gun the engine. Step on the gas. The car is a blur of black fury as it heads towards that stuck up bitch. Sodapop and Ponyboy laughing maniacally. Johnny...well, that’s Ralph Macchio and he’s not that great an actor so he’s probably making the same goofy face he makes in all his movies. Maybe he’s yelling WAX ON, WAX OFF! Well, too late for your zen chants, Ralphie boy because this 68 Impala SS (see how I kept on topic there?) just made road pizza out of Miss Cherry Valance. Scooooooooooore! LET'S DO IT FOR JOHNNY, MAN. WE'LL DO IT FOR JOHNNY!

You know, it kind of upset me that Leif Garrett played a Soc in that movie. He was my first major crush. I had so many teenage fantasies about him that I had to start thinking about Leif Ericsson instead of Garrett when I went to bed at night in order to not go blind or grow hair on my palms or whatever. He should have traded places with Patrick “Oh look at me I can dance!” Swayze in that flick. That would have worked.

Shit. Impala, Impala, Impala. Damn cool car.

God damn, I made some strong coffee today.

Stay gold, Ponyboy. Stay gold.

*listen, I've disparaged Roadhouse before and got reamed out for it. I don't care. I'm really not afraid of you Roadhouse fans. Afraid of Patrick Swayze fans? I don't think so. And though turtle thinks Swayze is the most underrated actor of our time. I'm gonna have to laugh at that. Hello? Kurt Russell? Overboard? Hell, I'd put Roadhouse up against Big Trouble in Little China in a steel cage match any day of the week. -M

Impala. An Impala. Why did I say Impala? I must have had some kind of dream. A lot of you know that I didn't grow up in the best places so sometimes when Michele asks me about my past, it brings up memories of when I was younger. I don't know why, but sometimes these thoughts get carried into my dreams. Maybe that's why I thought of this car. Telling anyone about how you grew up is always going to bring back memories. Since this is a site about cars and since tonight was car night maybe that's how it got there.

Or maybe it was watching an old Snoop Doggy Dogg video.

The 1962 Impala!

Oh yeah. These were the true lowrider cars. When you saw these roll by you had a feeling there was power under there, but why bother using it if you don't have to? Las muchachas todavía estarán allí. The putas will still be there. Why rush? They will still be where we are going. They aren't leaving. Let's get some 40's and just cruise for a while. Slow the car down and just ride. Everyone sit as low as you can and let's just cruise.

This car is basically an ocean. No, I really mean it. If you have every been in one of these, you feel like you are just floating. Just moving along, drinking and floating in the ocean. Just happy your head is above water so can see if the policia or la migra was around. Cause that river's cold and I don't want to swim it again.

Oh, this has nowhere to go but down.

But this car was a machine that basically was machismo defined. Something that said, "You see this? This is the same size of my cojones." Well, maybe it didn't say that. I might have just been thinking about it. When you rode in this car, you felt cool. The big thing turned out to be the hydraulics . Who in the hell ever thought up this idea? Cars can do that? Raise one wheel off the ground? Bounce? Really? That is cool. When you saw that happening you knew to either walk away or go closer. The car bouncing was pure machismo. "Oh, yeah. You think this car goes up, you should imagine your chocha on my pigna. The way this car moves, is the way i make love, baby. Hard, long, high and on asphalt."

Well, maybe the asphalt part.

But just a really cool car that if you rode in it, you needed a hat. I think thats how I got my hat fetish. But, you had to have one. You needed to pull it down. Not a baseball hat or shit like that. This had to be a cool "Friends Approved" hat. Those are expensive. But you look cool in one. You also had to have a wife beater. Before anyone was let in the car, they were issued a wife beater. Kinda like a nice restaraunt won't let you in without a jacket, this car demanded a wife beater.

This is a cool car that did incredible things and taught me the true meaning of machismo.

Coche loco.

*listen, Michele obviously doesn't know the impact of such a great actor. Patrick Swayze has defined the bar fighting movies. Instead of arguing with her, I will simply feel sad for her missing the fine action movies from a man who has brought us such great movies as Ghost, Dirty Dancing, Red Dawn and, of course, Roadhouse. So the next time your car overheats and you know to piss in the radiator to cool it down? Swayze and the Wolverines taught you that little trick -T

Manic Hispanic Brand New Impala
Get Up Kids Stay Gold Ponyboy

Update: A '64 Impala, just for Pril (see comments)

Posted by Michele Christopher at 7:10 AM | Permalink | Comments (8) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

It's that time again! Saturday's are always kinda slow. It's getting late and basically we were bored. Michele is eating chicken, wishing she could have waited for one more song to admit to being emo and I'm just eating a crappy turkey sandwich while listening to punk rock watching how hot this town is gonna be tomorrow. So see, there's not a lot going on. Since we did the sex thing earlier and it being basically just a post with no reader input, we kinda thought it would be fun to do this again. Turn on your ipod, CD player, whatever you have and honestly tell us what you were last listening to or what's next on shuffle.

We did it. Why can't you.

These were our two.

Iggy Pop - Repo Man

I always get lucky. Maybe it's cause I only listen to cool tunes cause I'm cool. Or maybe it's cause I rock hard. Or maybe it's cause I only have a CD player and most my CDs have been stolen over the years. Well, that's not really true. I still have a ton, but I don't organize them for shit. Yeah, I know, big surprise. So what was I listening to last night? Crap. I hate this feature of the site. Hm. Hey! That's Iggy Pop! Yay! Thank god I don't have to review Neil Diamond! Although that would be pretty cool. But Iggy is pretty cool too. A really confusing song that has only one or two relevant lines to the movie. I don't know if this song was out before the movie or they hired him to do the title track. If you didn't know, Repo Man was a movie from the 80's starring *gasp* Emilio Estevez as Otto and Harry Dean Stanton as Bud. Both Repo men looking for this one car. With something in the back that killed people. I think it was an aliens. But the soundtrack is basically a blueprint of LA. Early punk rock and Mexican music. The music. Not the alien.

This is becoming more of album review. I'm getting off track.

The song really only holds a few clues about what it's about. A poor kid on drugs who is nothing? He just gives up? Becomes what he hates? Steve Jones from the Sex Pistols played guitar. I think. But, the only lyrics you have to remember are "I was a teenage dinosaur, stoned and obsolete I didn't get fucked and i didn't get kissed. I got so fucking pissed. Using my hand for an ashtray. Now i'll tell you who i am i'm the repo-man". That's the only words in this song that could possibly tell you it was in this movie.

And that's at the end of the song. The rest of it is about toadstoals and wizards. So don't ask me the deeper meaning of it. Cool song though. -T

Well, turtle just asked me that dreaded question. No, not that one. This one: What are you listening to right this minute? Yea, it's that time again. Winamp Russian Roulette. And at this moment it is.....

Lagwagon May 16

Ok, not so bad. Still haven't caught me listening to navel gazing emo yet.
Lagwagon is just one of those bands that usually makes me think happy thoughts. Maybe it's his voice. Maybe it's the way most of their songs don't really follow a standard pattern of verse/chorus/verse. Their songs always have a sense of airiness beneath them. This one in particular. And the one day I thought about the words I was singing (I had been really enjoying the music, the whole feel of the song, more than the lyrics up to that point) and I wondered. Hmmm. May 16th seems like a pretty crap day here. Someone packed up and left. Someone is a little...angry? Disappointed? Resigned? And then I read an interview where they said the song was about a loss of friendship. So yea, I was right in a way. And that kind of sucks because now when I hear the song I don't feel that sunshine-day-everything-is-groovy feeling anymore. I just feel a bit bad. Plus, it reminds me of playing Tony Hawk til 5am for three weeks straight when I had a really bad case of insomnia and I sucked so hard at that game. So yea, this song is all about vicarious disappointment and having sleep deprivation hallucinations while falling off virtual skateboards for me. -M

So we did it.

Why don't you tell us what's playing in your world right now?

Posted by Michele Christopher at 9:22 PM | Permalink | Comments (9) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

The following is a response to something Kali wrote called 10 things boys need to know about having SEXXX. Turtle was writing up a response and then kind of went all out with it, so we’re just posting it here. Ten Things Chicks Need to Know About Having Sex. And when we say chicks, we mean it lovingly, of course. Hey, at least we didn’t use broads.

Just note that you need an open mind and a sense of humor to enjoy something like this. If your definition of sex involves the missionary position and making babies so as not to waste a drop of the sperm that god bestowed on you, you’re not gonna find this the least bit amusing. Really, this list will either make you grab the butt plug and a sock and head for the bedroom or it will make you want to punch a turtle in the nuts. Tongue. Cheek. Feel it?

Now where did I put my Jackhammer Jesus? (nsfw!)

Here we go....

Ten Things Chicks Need to Know About Having Sex

1. Teeth are bad. If you don't know, I'll tell you. Those things are weapons. If they can tear a piece of steak, they sure as hell can hurt a penis. If you think it's hot to bite on a man's cock and look into his eyes while you are smiling, you are wrong. That's our cock. What you have in your mouth means a lot to us, ok? Take care of it, please?

2. Perfume comes in three odors. Strong. Super Strong and "What the Fuck Are You Wearing" strong. When you go into the bathroom and do some girl thing and lather up on the perfume like you were getting baptised by John, just remember: sex smells better then Calvin Klein. Actually, I don't know this for a fact. He could smell pretty good. But, that's beside the point. The smell of sex and cum and sweat turns us on. We don't think it's sexy to have to hold our nose while asking if you like anal.

3. Candles are good only if we have known you for years. Well, a long time. At least three days. Jesus Christ. I don't want some kind of Satanic ceremony around me when I just wanna cum. "Sure babe. They look great. Um, notice how my cock is hard? Can we move a little faster here?" If the candles don't light on the first try, um..... fuck them and take off your clothes. Hey dude, I'm all for romance but when the chips fall down, romance can suck it, cause Mr. Happy needs a ride.

4. Lingerie is good. I love it. There is nothing better then getting ready to wear it when she leaves for work.

5. Faking orgasms isn't cool. You don't need to push my ego up any more. I already think I am a sex lovin' fully loaded ass grabbin' machine. If you don't come, don't tell me you were too busy thinking about the last episode of Little House on the Prairie or you hade a long day or how you thought your accent was messing me and my rhythm up. Just tell me I fucked up and didn't hit the spot.

6. The G-spot. Does it exist? I'm not a woman. So I don't know. All I know is that if you feel something you like, please, find the ability to tell us. We won't get offended.

7. Sometimes rough sex is great. Sometime making love is better. We are men. We really don't know. We do what we do. If you want to have a romantic night out and spend all night telling us how much you love us and how you want to be with us fovever but don't tell us, then don't act surprised when you can't get thru the door without our fingers tearing your panties off. Hey dude. That's not our fault. You need to tell us this is a "slow down night." If you don't, your eyeballs are gonna be popping out as we push in before you can get the "I" in "I love you" out.

8. Guys can cum fast.Oh yeah. I have a speed record for masturbating. If you want to cum, you have to tell us and slow us down. We move fast and really don't care. If I met you at a bar? Meh. Let's just do this this and go eat cold pizza. Once the ball hits that hole we drive our carts away and play the next hole. Move on to a different course. See. Golf analogy. I'm good at those. But anyways. Slow us down and we will make you scream. In a good way. Not like in a "Poseiden Adventure" way. I don't want to think of Gene Hackman falling to his death on a boat when I am having an orgasm. That would just be....weird.

9. Fun is fun and we are the first to experiment with new stuff. But, we know you girls are kinky too. Everything you have thought of that turns you on? We have thought about it, too. So go for it. Stick that up where it shouldn't go. Push that in there! Plus, you know that all chicks have a secrect fantasy about strap ons and Mrs. Huxtable from the Cosby Show. No? Well, maybe that's just me then. "Cliff? Cliff are you here? Momma is wearing the Happy Switch tonight! Cliff?" OK. I can see that's just me. Now.

10. I think this one is pretty obvious to everyone. If you don't like something, tell us. If you like something, tell us. We lost our mind reading abilities when we cancelled our membership to the Church of Scientology. Tom Cruise sold that motherfucker out and L. Ron Hubbard was getting kinda weird so we lost our ability to give you a mind reading. We need to know. Tell us. We are kinda smart. I mean we know things now like not to wipe our dick on your newly cleaned drapes. Yeah yeah yeah. But hey, at least it was better then using your cat. But we didn't know! You didn't tell us! The bottom line is we need to know cause if you haven't noticed lately, we have an outty and you have an inny that looks like some kind of weird Japanese oyster. Sometimes, I swear I'll find a pearl in there and some girl with an accent will tell me that it was her time of the season and we need to sell it to get beer money. What? I didn't know that. You guys do that with those things? Cool. Looks like rent is paid off for this month.

-T

Your tongue is still in your cheek, right?

* Turbonegro Get it On
Buzzcocks Orgasm Addict
Dwarves - Let’s Fuck
Mr. Bungle Girls of Porn
NoMeansNo Big Dick
RKL Beautiful Feeling
Speedealer Double Clutchin Finger Fuckin

yea i went kinda crazy with the songs -M

Posted by Turtle Jones at 3:27 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | TrackBacks (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

A good man has shuffled off his mortal coil today. A man who has had so much impact on our culture he deserves to be honored on our site. We know we usually bag on a lot of pop culture icons, but this guy changed a lot of us. Most of us. How many of you haven't masturbated about Farrah Fawcett or made a "Da plane! Da plane!" joke? Too old for you? Then how about a 90210 reference? Dylan couldn't stop drinking but Brenda kept loving him.

Today is officially Aaron Spelling Tribute Day!

So Michele and I will both take on a few of his shows and ask all of you to remember a good, really nice man, who changed all of your lives. Well, maybe not if you didn't watch TV.

Maybe it's just Saturday for you.

So enjoy it! Next time you make a reference to Tattoo yelling at some plane, think of this man. For he was the one who put that reference in your mind. Hats off to Aaron Spelling today and flags at half mast. Our leader of campy TV and cleavage has died. No more car chases. No more gun toting chicks with their tits hanging out. No more midget asking if he was doing "ok" to his boss.

The car has broke down. The chicks have buttoned up their shirts and put their guns away. The midget has gone home.

Aaron Spelling
April 22, 1923 - June 23, 2006

What to say about this man? A truly nice man who grew up telling stories so as not to get his ass beat walking home from school everyday. Sure, it's nothing that I would have done, but since he was a multi millionare and I am just a scarred up punk rocker, I am gonna say maybe talking instead of fighting was a better way to do this thing called life.

I don't know.

All I know is this man's motto in life was that if someone came up to talk to him he would stop and listen. Cause they were the ones who made him who he was. And they deserve his attention.

But anyways. Today I am gonna pay tribute to my favorite show of his.

Beverely Hills 90120

Or was it 90210....

Always got that mixed up. I loved this show. I was in college when this show started. And yes, community college is still college, thank you very much. Actually, that might not be true.But anyways, I started watching this when I was in college. Oh yeah. Party on turtle. But really. It was on at like 8 on Tuesdays. We would sit around each night and wait for the sun to come up til that one day of the week for it to come on. That damn intro song made everyone run to the fridge to grab two more beers cause this might be the one Donna gets fucked. C'mon Donna give it up this time. C'mon Donna. This virginity thing was overrated. C'mon Donna. Spread those legs for David. I'm running out of beer and it looks like he is about to blow a gasket if he doesn't get some sweet lovin' soon.

Dylan. Rebel hard and smooth. Alcoholic who had stolen the heart of Brenda. A man who lived what he spoke. When he said a man doesn't talk about his sexual conquests, I kinda had to look at myself and ask myself if I was a man. His sex might have been dull if he didn't want to talk about it. For me it was like "Hey dude! She can put her ankles behind her back!" Yeah, I'm a pig, I know. But Dylan stuck to his word. He had stopped drinking before 15. He was cool as ice. I never really understood how you could become a problem drinker before 25. I mean, I drank since 12, but I never had any realization that I had a problem til 29 or 30. He caught it right away. He had a problem. Vodka in little bottles, Brenda, and his attitude. That was what would do him in.

Brandon. Always looking on. Giving his advice of what to do right and how you did it wrong. This guy always had the answers. Like a sad parent, he would always just look on, thinking "I told you this would happen." Not the most exciting character on the show, but he was the rock. Brandon held this group together. Cat fights happen and blood would be spilled, but someone has to keep their cool when the shit comes down. Where do you go and who do you look to? Brandon. The only time he would raise his voice was when he was pulling you out of your car after you were so drunk you flipped it and the gas was about to ignite the car.

All of the characters on that show had so many issues and flaws. The show was magic. Pure magic.

It was like telling you a life story. Inviting you in on their exciting lives while you couldn't be bothered to get off the sofa to get another beer. This show also had one of the greatest characters of all time in it. Joe E. Tata as Nat Bussichio! I defy any of you to tell me you didn't laugh when that name hit the screen. His last name was Tata! Oh, that was funny. Tata. He was Brandon's mentor. The man who swooped in when everything was down and offered a sentence or two while serving you apple pie. That was Nat. Did I tell you his last name was Tata?

Plus the parents in their were pretty cool, too.

All they needed was a character named Michele with a thick Long Island accent and this show would be annointed by god himself as not "Cool", but "God-Like Gool." God does that. He commands the Emmy's.

An entire show about teenage sex, guns, alcohol, rebels, motorcycles, breaking and entiring, rap music, and cool haircuts.

Gold

So thank you, Aaron. That was a great show that I will always remember.

So today, if you hear about his death and think he really didn't matter? Think again. He did matter. Donna finally had sex, Tattoo pointed at the plane, and Starsky and Hutch had a really cool car, and you had a smile on his face.

Thank Aaron Spelling.

Thank you Aaron.

RIP -T

Geez. Aaron Spelling. Look at the list of everything he’s ever done and you can really forgive the guy for forcing Tori “Mother, May I Sleep With Danger” Spelling on all of us. I mean, this guy was responsible for the bulk of my tv viewing for most of my life.

Yea, I’m into cheesy tv. Hey, we all have our guilty pleasures. At least mine doesn’t involve a girl going blind on a prairie.

I’m going over the list of everything Aaron Spelling was involved in and man, if I didn’t feel sad and humbled to begin with, this sure put me over the edge. Did you know he produced the classic tv movie Boy in the Plastic Bubble? Yea, dude. John Travolta in a bubble. A story of survival and love in which Travolta and his girl next door ride off on a horse at the end. Sap. Cheese. Campiness. The Aaron Spelling hallmarks.

Jesus. This guy was responsible for more than half my daydreams, fantasies and ridiculous life goals. I wanted to be a crime fighter with hair like Jill Monroe. I wanted to be as cool as Julie Barnes and as smooth as Linc Hayes. I wanted to sail on the Love Boat and find romance and exchange witty banter with the clever, hip bartender. I wanted to hang out with Huggy Bear and hmm.....no, we're gonna stop there. You really don't need to know what my version of Fantasy Island was like. Just remember that was the late 70's and I was doing a lot of drugs and I can't be held responsible for what may have transpired in my head between the time Tatoo yelled "da plane" and the time I had become a morphed version of Farrah Fawcett and Peggy Lipton, all sutlry hair and big tits, yet incredibly cool and smart, and Jim Morrison was sent to my room, gift wrapped.

Spelling was a master of overdramatic cheese. His tv movies had titles like "Little Ladies of the Night" and "One of My Wives is Missing." You could bet your last dollar that if there was a movie of the week coming on with a title like "Satan's School for Girls" I was cancelling my evening plans to sit in front of the tv and enjoy some Aaron Spelling schlock.

S.W.A.T. Let's talk about S.W.A.T. I saw this show and thought, this is what I want to do. I want to dress in black and carry an arsenal of weapons around. We all did. So that's why we started playing S.W.A.T. at night instead of sitting in front of 7-11 making fun of hippies. We would all just scatter through backyards, chasing after each other, pretend weapons in hand. The fun wasn't really in catching anyone. It was in that one moment when you put your back up against the side of a house and held out your arm as if you were really packing and peeked stealthily around the corner, looking for a "bad guy." Yea! Jackpot! Some kid from down the block was standing right there and you shoved the fake gun in his face and said.....what? We were like 13 and 14. We weren't about to make fake gun sounds. So we did the next best thing. We just clocked each other upside the head with our hand as if it were the butt of a gun. Hell, we had no idea what S.W.A.T. people really did. We just knew that it looked really cool on tv. And we liked hitting each other in the head. Hey, it was more fun than ridiculing hippies. Because the hippies never even tried to come back at us. But the kids we played S.W.A.T. with? They would clock you right back in the head. Man, that was fun. Thank you, Aaron Spelling. Without you, I probably wouldn't have that permanent bump right at the base of my head.

Thank you, Mr. Spelling for all the campy, sexy, cheesy, sappy tv shows and movies you gave us. Without you, my teenage years would be devoid of concussions and bizarre fantasies about what Starsky and Hutch did when the cameras weren't rolling and I wouldn't have ever wondered about simulated sex between a guy in a plastic bubble and his next door neighbor. For all you contributed to American culture, for all your hard work at ramping up the cheese factor on my tv screen, for your giving Shannon Doherty a place to show off her bitchiness and Heather Locklear a place to show off her legs, for all the lingo I picked up watching the Mod Squad and the Love Boat scenarios that played out inside my head during various acid trips, I salute you and thank you. RIP, Aaron Spelling. -M

Theme songs:
90210
S.W.A.T.
Charlie's Angels
Love Boat (by Reel Big Fish)
Fantasy Island
Starsky and Hutch

Posted by Michele Christopher at 10:18 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | TrackBacks (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

And we continue to roll with the offensive songs list.

See. This is the part of the page I have a few issues on. Most of my songs never offended me, but would offend someone like my mother sitting back in a lazy boy recliner. So these reviews really, really have to make me think. So we need contributions from readers like you. Like PBS, this site needs readers like you. That's funny. I can picture Bert asking Ernie "What song offends you, Ernie" and Ernie saying "Fuck you! You one eyebrow yellow motherfucker!"

Well, that was a weird thought. But, we need your help. Keep thinking of song that would turn people around to wonder "Are they saying "fuck my dead Gramma?" Well not those exact words, but you get the point. How long will this list go? As long as you want it too.

But, for now, here are tonight's offerings.

Butt Trumpet - I've Been So Mad Lately

Ok. Someone got dumped and used. This is pretty obvious here. She got taken over and left in the dust to pick up the pieces. So she wanted to make a song of it. So she was pissed. So she wanted everyone to know. So she likes to use bad words. Can you blame her? "Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you." I think this was Bianci Butthole singing but it's been so long you can't quote me on that. The funniest part about this song is that she was so cute. Seeing her scream "You can eat the corn out of my shit" was really like watching a comedy. Like a kitten playing with a mouse before she eats it. A tall bass player with legs running up to her neck screaming to the crowd "Hell damn shit damn fuck damn shit piss!" Oh yeah. Someone had one left her high and dry. And she was gonna let everyone know what a dick they were. "You took all my thing's and you left me nothing!" Oh yeah. This songs got nowhere to go but down. But hey dude. She was angry. But, the eating corn out of shit line is classic. -T

TSOL - Code Blue

Goth punk? Hippy punk? Some band that The Meatmen always made fun of? LA homo band? I don't know. They were a little, well, out there, but that was before my time. I think they are reformed with a new singer now, but I don't know. Some bands do that. Play with the original set but with a different singer. That's just wrong. Anyways "Code Blue". Not a whole hell of a lot i can say about this one. Girls talk too much. They don't like cum in their hair and what's worse, they complain about it when someone shoots a load in it.Too much talking. Too many rules. Well screw that. I want someone who shuts up and just lays there. I want a dead body that reeks like chemicals. Just to do to what I want with. I don't want to hear your opinions and I don't need you advice. Just lay down and be still. Sure, she stinks like formaldehyde, but at least she doesn't make any noise while you fuck her. -T

Dr. Know - Fist Fuck

I really like this song. I have no idea why. Maybe it's just that you can tell they are half drunk, maybe cause you can tell they are just having fun, maybe it's cause it comes on in a slow part of the album and just kicks you in the face. "Fist fuck! Straight up your ass! Fist fuck!" I mean hey. That's poetry right there. Saying nothing else but that over and over. "Fist Fuck!" Then some words behind it where you can tell they were trying to get the Grammy that year for the most offensive song. I still remember hearing this as a kid and being excited when the opening riff kicked. That meant the party was gonna start now. "Fist fuck!" I liked it so much, I'm really surprised I didn't end up with my cock stuck in a glory hole in some public bathroom off I-5 waiting for Mr. Right with his Mr. Mouth to find my Mr. Cock. Plus they mention Ill Duece! That's cool! -T

MDC - John Wayne Was a Nazi

I’m not a fan of John Wayne. The person or the persona. The man or the movies. To me, he was just an icon that stood for Things That Make Me Cringe. That includes westerns. Except for Clint Eastwood westerns. They rule. But let me tell you, you mention to people that you don’t like John Wayne and, for the most part, they look at you like you just said “I want to shoot the president, rape your mother and burn a flag while your kitten is wrapped up in it.” So I don’t bother getting into any convos about Mr. Wayne.

MDC has no problem telling you what they think about the Duke. In their typical spittle-angry fashion, they peg Wayne as a rape/pillage kind of guy, a nazi sympathizer, racist, homophobic legend whose death was just life’s way of evening up the score. Let’s just say they don’t really care for the person or persona, the man or the movies. I think next time a conversation comes up that forces me to state my feelings about John Wayne, I’ll just recite these lyrics. If anything, it will end the conversation right there. -M

Weasels - Beat Her With a Rake

(thanks to Scott for this song suggestion)
So I beat her with a rake, made her pay for her mistake. Yea, people are gonna find this song offensive. People who major in Womyn’s Studies at all female colleges, the ACLU, people like that. Ok, maybe just your average every day normal person might be offended by the sentiments within this song.

But. Dude. This is fucking good music. This song kicks. So what if he’s talking about beating some chick with a rake? Come on, that’s like being offended at some cheesy slasher flick. It’s a rake. It’s kinda funny. He sings it with such rock and roll passion, growling out the words like some rock god singing about drugs or cars instead of this dude singing about killing his girl with a garden accessory. It’s kinda fun to sing.. I can totally envision this song being played in some huge arena, maybe as the encore to a night filled with pure kick ass music and we all have our lighters out, holding them up high, singing So I beat her with a rake, made her pay for her mistake....but that’s just me. -M

Now, here's a couple of other songs chosen by Scott of Strange Reaction, for your listening pleasure. Notes by Scott.

Child Molesters - 13 Is My Lucky Number
Benedict Arnold and the Traitors - Kill the Hostages (offensive at least when it was released)
Helen Keller - Mein Death Kampf Shuffle
Curse - Shoeshine Boy (tacky song about a child murder)
Tad - Nipple Belt (maybe not punk rock, but any song about an Ed Gein trophy should get listed)

Thank you, Scott for that shitload of offensiveness. If you've got more songs to add to the list, do it. This will be an indefinitely continuing kind of thing, so you never know when we'll pick up your song and go with it.

Update: Just a disclaimer here, because I'm noticing some weird things in our referrer stats - please take this post and others like it in context. We are just looking for the most offensive punk songs. Inclusion of songs here does not mean we condone the subject matter of said songs. I thought that might go without saying? Apparently not.

Posted by Michele Christopher at 11:34 PM | Permalink | Comments (7) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

We here at FTTW have always let you in on our passions in life. You know almost everthing about us cause, well, we write about it every day. You know we like cars. You know we like punk rock. You know we may not have been straight edge kinda kids. You know we have now turned our allegiences to Brazil in the World Cup. And now here's another thing for you to know about us: We both have a passion for horror movies. So we are starting a new feature here to go along with all the other stuff we offer: reviews of classic horror movies. Like all of our reviews, you know damn well the movie we choose to write about is just gonna be a backdrop for a story and our post will go completely off topic and somehow, some way, Charles Ingalls will find himself in one of these reviews.

So, for your reading pleasure, the first installment of movies, monsters and mayhem. We start off with two of the classic horror movies of all time. Enjoy them. - M/T

Nosferatu, eine Symphonie des Grauens (1922)

I'll be the first to admit it. I don't know what that means. No clue. And yes, I'm too lazy to put it in a translator. I think that's French. Or maybe German. Or maybe I took too many drugs and it really says "Free Chili Cheese Fries with the Purchase of an Extra Large Coke." I dunno. All I know is that this movie is silent. Maybe that kinda drew me to it. Silence and vampires. Don't get me wrong. I'm the farthest from goth you could ever get. Apart from me crying when I run out of toliet paper, I'm really not that sad of a person. But this movie was goth. As Goth as you could get. And it was silent. And if it wasn't? Hey, I don't like to read movies. But, at least this wasn't a talkie. Listening to people while I have to read is almost unbearable. There is only one foreign movie I can stand that I have to read and listen at the same time. Well, two, but "Run, Lola Run" gets kinda old really fast. The other one being "The Seventh Seal." That one was just cool. Playing Chess with Death. That's kinda cool. But, I won't go into that cause Bill and Ted already took my idea for a remake of that and threw it in that stupid movie. Don't worry. Lawsuits are pending. I'll get my payback.

What was I talking about.....

Oh yeah.

Nosferatu!

This movie was just absolutely creepy. I mean I know I watched it in altered frames of mind, but I never got over it. Was that stop action? Why is this so weird? Why did this do this to me? Why did I always see this movie and just think "Well that was weird?" Why?

LSD! That's right! I never watched this movie sober. I was always on something. What was I on. Beer? I'm passing out. Cocaine? I'd need to get more cigarettes. Speed? Hey dude, lets go play pool. LSD? Well, wait dude. This movie is kinda cool. It's kinda funny when you sit and think about it. This movie that had so much influence on great directors and everything about the history of film making and great actors were influenced by it and al you can think about is that everytime you watched it you were so balls out tripping you could be having a conversation with Timothy Leary while staring at a screen with this black and white vampire.

"He looks like a rat, Tim."

"Think of the bigger picture, turtle. Think of it as a mind altering experience that takes you to a new corner of the world. This will change your mind and open your world. Tomorrow, Yoko Ono will come over and she will sing you love songs and watch you sleep. This movie is life and death. Nosferatu is life. Nosferatu is death. Do you understand the meanings of life and death, turtle? Do you understand now?"

"He still looks like a rat, Tim."

LSD and vampires. Stop action and tripping with Timothy Leary while he was threatening me with calling Yoko Ono to get her to come over if I didn't understand the meaning of life. That was this movie. Completely void of anything but a creepy dude and some reading type wordy like thingies. Don't get me wrong. This movie was awesome. And also, please be aware that I am not advocating using illegal drugs while watching this. If they add to your amusement of this movie, rip it up. But dude. Rats follow him around everywhere he goes. Not Timothy Leary. That vampire guy. Well, maybe rats follow Leary around but I don't know. Is he still alive?

But really.

He still does look like a rat.

Pretty creepy for 1922.

And fuck you Timothy Leary. -T

Night of the Living Dead (1968)

Ok, let’s start here by telling you that I really, really want to be a zombie some day. Some people want to be firemen, some people want to be rock stars, I want to be a zombie. I’m really rooting for this whole bird flu thing to take off in the hopes that it will end in zombie infestation and I can just give up my being to the flesh eaters. Oh yea. You think I’m fighting the undead? No way. Why fight off the zombies? Why spend days running from them, trying to fend them off, beating them, shooting them, cowering in fear in the basement (shit, we don't even have a basement) when eventually, they are going to win? Once the zombie infestation starts, that's it. It's assimilate or die. You can shoot as many brains as you want, but in the end, the undead will outnumber the living and you may as well just let them bite you early on rather than attempting to put up some brave and noble fight for survival.

Had they realized this in Night of the Living Dead, things would have worked out a lot differently. Maybe if Barbra and Johnny and Ben had a “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em” philosophy, they could have avoided all that family-eating-family tragedy. No one wants to see that. Give yourself up at the start and you won’t find yourself staring down your zombified teenage daughter gnawing on her father.

Yea, I would give up that easily. What can I say? I'm a joiner. I follow trends, I don't set them. It's just so much easier to hold out your arms and accept what fate hands you than to fight it. It's easier to convince yourself that being a zombie wouldn't be so bad after all - no work, no taxes to pay, abundant food supply and, best of all, I could go on the hunt for people I hate and zombiefy them. How cool would it be to sink my undead teeth into Yngwie Malmsteem’s fleshy neck?

Anyhow, Night of the Living Dead. Yea, social commentary, racism, class warfare, women are weak, blah blah blah. I’ve heard it all. Dude. It’s a zombie movie. People get eaten. Teeth are bared. Kids eat their parents. Brains explode. The living dead! Braaaaainnnnnnnssssss! Who the fuck cares if George Romero was giving us a subtle lesson in social mores? Jesus. There are zombies. They’re coming to get you, Barbra! For all I care the movie - and all Romero’s movies really - could have contained within the dialogue the hidden codes to figuring out the order of the universe, the secret life of Jesus Christ, and how to get eternal life in Legend of Zelda and I still wouldn’t care. Well, maybe I’d care about the Zelda thing. Because eternal life would rule. Take that, Ganondorf!

Stay on topic here, Michele. Night of the Living Dead.

Listen, there’s not much to say here. It’s a classic. I don’t know anyone who hasn’t seen it. It paved the way for zillions of zombie movies after it. Without the cheesiness and stilted dialogue and awkward social commentary of Night of the Living Dead, we wouldn’t have Dawn of the Dead or Day of the Dead or Return of the Living Dead or even Shaun of the Dead. And then where would we be? If it weren’t for Romero, I would be just another aimless human being, a worker drone living out a meek existence just waiting for death to come take me away. But, no. I have a goal. I have a plan. I’m going to become a zombie someday! Come on, bird flu! Work your viral magic! I can’t wait for the day I wake up only to find my children all bug eyed and bloody, arguing over the last piece of my neighbor’s leg. Then I’ll know I made it. I will walk out the door and down the street and look for the first large group of zombies I can find. Because they always travel in packs. And then I’m gonna climb on top of the nearest building and do the most awesome stage dive ever right into the middle of that pack of living dead things, some White Zombie song playing inside my head. Yea, it might hurt at first. The flesh tearing thing probably isn’t a whole lot of fun. But in the end, I win. I get to be zombie.

We need to pay tribute, not really to this film, per se, but to the undead in general. How many Misfits songs would have gone unwritten if not for zombies? Would there be an Army of Darkness? A House of Dead game at your local arcade? See what I mean? Don’t fuck with the zombies, man. They have added more to our culture than most Europeans.

Next time you’re enjoying brains for dinner or brains for lunch, give a little thanks to George Romero, ok? -M

*that's my kid in that last picture. he inherited my obsessive compulsive zombie disorder*

Misfits - Night of the Living Dead
TSOL - Dance With Me
Fang - Fun With Acid
Type O Negative - Black No. 1

Posted by Michele Christopher at 6:34 AM | Permalink | Comments (13) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

*sidenote * Since the USA has been defeated in World Cup and we are out, we at Faster Then The World have formed an alliance with another team in our league. We want to keep the World Cup stories going on here. Hey, we knew we weren't gonna get far. We are the USA. Miracle on Ice shit happens once every thirty years. We are not stupid. But an alliance has been formed. Brazil will take us there. BRAZIL! BRAZIL! BRAZIL! Oh hell. You guys know they are gonna win anyway. But from now on, Michele will be topless screaming about Sepultura and I will be eating BBQ Chicken laughing as our dark allies take this thing. Go Brazil!

*wait, it's another side note* I just want to say this is a great story turtle wrote. Also: BRAZIL! I mean...Sepultura. Max Cavalera. Half naked women. Sepultura. Brazil, fuck yea! -M

Buf for now, let's get back to World Cup USA.

Well that was it. Pasedena done. That was the match. It was over. Meh. I just wanted another beer and a ride home. We beat Columbia and we had moved on. We were going on. But to where?

What? We play in Palo Alto next? Oh yeah! We won! I need to be there! I need to see this! It's when? July 4? Oh my god! We have to be there! Against who? Who? Awwww shit...

Brazil v USA
2nd round
Palo Alto, Californina
July 4th, 1994

Have we ever gotten this far? I know we haven't since I was alive. I was used to us getting pretty much cleaned up. But, we moved on in this one. We made the 16! Pack your stuff cause we are going. We are gonna make this. Hitting the road at four in the morning. Enough beer and drugs to last us til six in the morning. Maybe. Did we? Idunno. We will cross that road when we come to it. Packing into a van. We are on our way. Van smells. There's still cans in here from three months ago. Christ. Doesn't anyone bother to clean this thing? Anyways. Let's go. This is July 4th. We were gonna get in to this show. We do this for America. And cause Brazil can suck me.

That's the way it works.

It's usually pretty bad at soccer matches, but now it was July 4th. This was gonna get ugly. You could feel it in your bones. They knew it and we knew it. This wasn't a day of a match. This was a day of telling us how Americans suck. Not only did we pop the group, we were playing Brazil. This just got serious. This might be rough. Get ready for some fucking abuse cause you are gonna hear it today.

Sun comes up. Lost in East Palo Alto. Man, I thought I grew up in a ghetto. Burned out schools and gun and liquor stores. I was just confused. Lost. We didn't know where the hell Stanford was at. We were lost. Just driving thru slow while looking for someone to get directions from. Like Chevy Chase in "Vacation," we heard many obscenities yelled at us.Hey man, just asking directions. You don't need to tell me you kill me if I look at you again in the eyes. This isn't jail dude. We really don't need to go there today. Driving out of there after figuring out the "East" part in EPA and finding the staduim.

Wow. This town changes as fast as Fresno does. Bad to good in like one minute. East is bad. West is good. Really fast. Burned out homes and gansters suddenly turned into Victorian houses and old ladies walking dogs. We still didn't know if we were in the right place. I looked out the window to see what I could see. Old ladies. Dogs. As we kept going, the old ladies were wearing less and less clothes. The also got a lot younger. They also became more tan. The dogs suddenly turned into beer in their hands. The leash was replaced by a bottle. Suddenly they were wearing thongs. And those thongs started having the Brazlian flag on their asses. And their breasts started hanging out. Way out.

We found it!

A knowing look was passed back and forth between us. This was it. Park the car. Let's go. Shut up and park this thing. This is gonna be good.

I put my foot on the ground and stepped out of the van. Streched. Lit a cigarette and was immediately hit up by two vendors. One with beer for sale. One with plastic American flags for sale. Hm. Tough decision.

I'll go ahead and say I love America, but dude, beer. Rolled right up to you in a little wagon covered in ice. Hell, all they have to do is piss it out for you and you won the lotto. Two for a dollar. The flags could wait. I'm loading up my pockets. The flag could be great, but hell man, I wanna be numb. And red, white and blue won't do that to me. Unless it's on a tab of LSD. Then it could, but that's another story. So I bought six. Not flags, beer. That was pretty cheap really. I mean jeez dude, considering I'll be paying five bucks a cup when I get in, I might as well load my barrels before I go in. I'm always gonna be an American, but I'm not always gonna be pissed and drunk yelling at Brazilians. Priorites, dude, priorities.

So that was it. Slamming down beer, going to the match that would make or break the USA. Smelling the dust already. One more turn. What the hell was going on up here? We hear the sound, but can't see anything. What the hell is going o................WHHHHHHOOOOOOOAAAAAAAA!!!!!

ALRIGHT!!!!

This is a Brazilian street party! Holy shit! This was big! No one was going in! None of them! No tailgate! Nothing! Just a street party with thousands! Huge! Vendors! Dancers! Bands! Jesus! These guys do this right! They took these streets over! They made it just made it a big party! A huge party!!

Thousands of dancers clogged the street. Half naked and sometime topless women dancing around with big feather head dress thingies. Ok. This is where I want to be. Brazil must be filled with beautiful women. This is cool. I like this. I'm not going in till the ball is god damn dropped. No. Don't ask me again. This is where I want to be. This is where the fun is. Let me know when we have fifteen minutes to go. Then I'll go in. But untill then...here dude, I'm staying right here. Right in the middle.

The funny thing was, they weren't nice to us. They actually kinda hated us. I know I'm not the nicest person. I'm not gonna fool you by saying I'm perfect, but I always wanted to have fun. Well, I'm actually a really nice guy, but that's besides the point. Chants of "USA GOODBYE TODAY!! USA GOODBYE TODAY!!" was pretty much all I heard. Sure, words were exchanged. But it seemed all they wanted to do was hang out with other Brazilians. This wasn't like Columbia. These guys just wanted to have fun, not talk to us and mock us. But to just hang around each other? Hm. Well this is no good. They wouldn't even sell me tacos while they pretended they didn't speak English.

Well fuck. I speak Spanglish, so they have to be able to understand that.

I was told by my friend that Portuguese is their official language.

The fuck is that?

Hm. I think they are ignoring me. Yeah. I'm smart like that. I can figure this stuff out.

No churros for the turtle. No bueno big guy.

Crap. These guys aren't mean. They are just rude. Just acting like we didn't exist. "USA GOODBYE TODAY!" Loud. And we weren't even inside yet? Really. The hell with this. These guys are dicks. Let's get out of here. Let's go inside.

Entering inside. You knew this was gonna get good. If you thought the face paint was bad in Pasedena? That wasn't shit. Everyone had it on. I didn't this time. I don't know why I didn't, but I just didn't. I was just a little too drunk? Maybe? Anyways. Walking in with Brazilians and Mexicans yelling in our faces. Yes, believe it on not, fans take up sides when it comes to soccer. They make allegiences to take people out till they eventually have to face each other. So we had no one on our side. This was kinda like a bad episode of "Survivor." We knew we were gonna be voted off the island but we had to try. Looking around. Seeing huge, and I mean huge, flags coming in to drape the crowd during the game. People wearing Alexi afros and goatees. And me. With no shirt on. Wondering if I should have done more.

Oh well. Sometimes you fuck up. Maybe I should've put some effort into this.

Ball dropped. Let's do this. I won't lie and say this was an exciting game. Brazil is not known for their, hm, offensive play. Kinda the reason the English Leagues are so much more fun to watch in World Cup. Those leagues play fast. But the teams over here have a different style. Slow the ball down. Pass a lot. Wait for that once chance shot. I'm not knocking it. It works for them. But it's just not as exciting. It 's just like keep away. Meh. It works for them

We had some good chances that day. A lot, really. But it wasn't in the cards today.

Brazil 1

USA 0

We were out. Dammit. Now I gotta walk out to the van. Crap. I gotta go thru that crowd again. Crap. Lighting a cigarette waiting for the shit to start. But wait. What's going on here? Something was different. The street party was going again. Going big time. Bands were playing and people were dancing. But it was different. They didn't hate us anymore. I was being handed beer by Brazilians? They were dancing with me and hugging me? What the hell was going here? A chant was started by the Brazilians. What were they saying? Why are they looking at us and giving us food? What was that? What are they saying?

"GOD BLESS THE USA! GOD BLESS THE USA!"

WHAT?????

Are you kidding here? Hugging me and telling me how awesome we were while fireworks were going up behind me as we celebrated Fourth of July drinking beer and eating food together while half naked girls crowded the streets dancing? What? I think I found heaven. My team was out. But I wasn't angry. This is when I looked at them. Stared. Hard.

We started a chant. The USA. We realized it was over. We realized it was time to have fun. We countered them with "BRAZIL! BRAZIL! BRAZIL!" They might have won the match, but there was no way in hell they were going to outdo us in thanking them for playing us. No fucking way in hell.

Really dude, it was kinda neato. I really can't describe how amazing the feeling was. No one was going home. This street was ours. The Brazilians and the Americans. This was our town. We took this over. Palo Alto was ours. Two teams coming out of a war and shaking hands over tacos and half naked women while fireworks blasted off. We chanting about how cool the other team was. We had to come back. We had to be louder. If we didn't win, hell, at least we could have fun.

We yelled "BRAZIL! BRAZIL! BRAZIL!" at the top of our lungs while dancing with them while they yelled "GOD BLESS THE USA! GOD BLESS THE USA!" while we all ate tacos and listened to music from Brazil while the cops stood around and just looked confused. That was fun. That was two nations shaking hands.

Those were the Brazilians.

They won't let you walk away angry. Never.

Cause there is always another person to hug in the crowd, another taco to eat at that stand, and another beer to drink from your pocket.

I like Brazilians.

They rule.

Buena Vista Social Club - Chan Chan*
Sepultura - Roots, Bloody Roots
Sepultura - Rise Above (Black Flag)
Fishbone Party at Ground Zero

*We know this is Cuban music. But you guys get the idea.

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It's that time again! Album review! This is when we take an album we both have, decide what we want to review, don't talk to each other about it, then just kick out our feelings about the album. The whole thing. Sometimes you get an album that's more favored by one than the other. But, most of the time not. These reviews fall on feelings of the songs and the work in its entirety. Listen to the whole thing and if it's not just background music while you watch TV, how does it make us feel?

So that's my excuse why sometimes these get a little out there. But, you know us by now. Music and birds are our passion. Well, birds are my passion, but give us a break.

Today's selection:

nomeansno - Why Do They Call Me Mr. Happy

Punk? Yea definitely punk. But there’s so much more going on here. There’s heavy doses of funky jazz and funky doses of heavy metal. There’s weird timing changes, jagged rhythms and lyrics that seemed to have been penned by someone who has traveled through Dante’s circles of hell while on acid.

I’m not gonna lie here. This is some weird shit. It’s an acquired taste. This is not an album to listen to casually in the car or while doing some other work. Maybe later on, after you’ve studied it and buried yourself in it and picked up every single nuance within. But your first couple of listens? Devote yourself to it. Just you and this album. In the dark. With headphones. Turn off the rest of your life and submerge yourself in the music and words. You need to become one with this. And here’s the thing about this album: you either get it or you don’t. There’s no in between. Either your mind completely rejects it or your soul clings to every note.

So, why do they call me Mr. Happy? Takes you the whole album to find out the answer to that. And it’s worth the trip to get to that point. It’s like you are on a boat, no, a ship, a huge ship that’s out in the middle of vast, churning, dark waters. Think Poseidon Adventure. Not Titanic. Leonardo DiCaprio has no place here. No, we’re talking Ernest Borgnine and Richard Dawson as your captains. And you’re Mr. Happy. Why? Some little kid asks you why they call you that. And then the ship starts rocking. The ocean rises and falls, rises and falls, and one minute you’re partying, thinking you’re on top of the world and then it all crashes and you’re upside down and everything has gone to hell and you wonder if the devil has boarded this ship and is just having some fun with you. Your life flashes before your eyes and every dark secret spills forth, every ounce of bleak emotion you ever experienced - all the sadness, depression, despair, regret, hatred, fear - surrounds you like dark water but you push through all that, come up for air, fight off flying glass and fire and zombies eating human flesh and screaming people yelling at you to save them and you just kick all that out of the way, because you can. You can. You get to the end, you see the light and you’re standing on the deck and breathing in fresh air and that little kid is there and asks you : Why do they call me Mr. Happy?

Because. I’m. So. Fucking. Smart. - M

nomeansno. Ok. I'm gonna start this off by saying I have a bias for this album. This is when I was really playing bass and getting tired of everyone bagging on bass players. "Why couldn't they stand out more? Why couldn't they be more up front? Bass players suck." Go to hell. We hold this thing together if you haven't got it yet.

At the same time as this, there was also a similar thing going on with drummers. Although I don't really know how that works, but whatever. "Why couldn't drummers stand out? Why couldn't they twirl their sticks more?"

Oh. Go to hell on that one.

So we as bass players and drummers were feeling a little down.

So we went to a nomeansno show. Not cause we needed cheering up. But, cause we were bored.

nomeansno came out. Like saying to everyone "We made this fucking band. Me and my brother. You wanna see what a fucking drummer and bass player can do? Hold on cause here we go." Man! This album was blasted with things. Insane bass riffs, insane drum rolls, insane guitar riffs, insane lyrics, insane everything. This was their pinnacle. This is why they struggled all those years. To put this out and say "Fuck you. Bassists and drummers are people, too."

Not only that, when I saw this tour, there was something different about the set. Hm. Is that gonna be there the whole time? The second drums? Shouldn't someone move that? No. Two drummers. It was staying. They were gonna blow shit out with this tour. Two drummers. Wow. All I can remember is my breath being sucked out of me during "The River".
To this day, I will never forget the passion on his face as he sang, wait, not sang, almost cried, as one drummer just nailed the double bass drums as hard as he could while Rob's brother just filled in and added drums and more bass drums. The place was dropped. Faces were dropped as well as jaws. The pit stopped and we just watched and tried to get air. They didn't care. You asked why they were called Mr. Happy? They answered. They played the whole album as we sat there and watched in shock and awe.

This was amazing.

This was something to remember forever.

Walking up to them at the end of the show, thanking them for the set. Them looking at me and saying, "It was no big deal. You are welcome."

But is was a big deal.

This was an album to remember. - T

NoMeansNo Cats, Sex and Nazis
NoMeansNo - The River
NoMeansNo - I Need You
NoMeansNo - Machine

Posted by Michele Christopher at 11:40 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

This is World Cup time. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Some of you find no interest in this. Sometimes we don't either. It's just what happens. We are really not interested in seeing two teams from countries that have no vowels in their names play. I mean really. I don't care about Gkdrflp v Wsxbzl. It all sounds like someone is trying to make us say it so we would be sent back to the 5th dimension and Superman could get us out of his way. Like we were doing anything that bad in the first place. But, anyways, thanks for sticking around for this segment of the site guys. We try not to focus on the game here but to just let ourselves go. Hope you enjoy today's edition of World Cup.

Before what could possibly be the last game for the USA in World Cup 2006, I decided to pay tribute to the one thing that matters the most in any game. Oh, and yes, I still have more World Cup stories and they will continue even if our shit ass team can't get out of the group and in doing so makes us all look like fools as a Nation.

Sorry. Kinda went off there.

I still haven't even got to USA v Brazil on July 4th, 1994 story. Or the Mexican v USA with a bunch of sombreros on the pitch with Mexicans crying story.

Jesus, USA. Gimmie some time here to get these out. Get out of the fucking group at least. This only comes around once every four years. I'm not a typing machine, for christ's sake. Try not to lose in the morning, please?

Went off again there. Sorry.

Anyways, this is about something that everyone knows and craves when they go to a stadium. This is something that after you find your seat, you want, nah, you need. Something like the last line of dope or that last space on the ground to sleep or that last change in your pocket.

Ok, maybe I'm being a little over dramatic there. Sometimes I do that.

But this is about something bigger. Not about a game. About a need. Something huge. Something that no matter how much we all hated each other and went out of our way to mock each other, we still both needed. The only thing that bridged two nations together. Like a peace treaty waiting to be signed. It was just waiting for out signatures.

Hot dogs and beer! The greatest two things to ever grace a stadium! Sure I can only partake in half of that nowadays, but back then, everyone would bump into each other in line. Push someone out of the way. The buzz is wearing off and the tummy is a grumblin'. Kinda say a meek "Sorry" and then move right by. Not really meaning a damn thing you say til you could get that dog in your mouth. God, that sounds gay. But not really thinking till you could say..."Chili dog and a Bud, please." Then you could all look at each other and think, this isn't a peace treaty. This was like the Tet offensive in Vietnam. You bastards lied to us. There were no peppers on this chili dog. This war was still fucking on. Nothing was over till I got peppers. Nothing. Was. Over. Till I got peppers.

You think this was over? You needed more. This wasn't done by a long shot. You needed more and the battle was thick in the pit. Crap. Drink a little of the beer with one hand and unfold the hotdog paper with the other. Get ready for the final battle. Like fucking Normandy, this was the big part. Stand or fall. They are doing it. You had to do it. Time to fight. Welcome to one handed chili dog handling with a Bud cup in your mouth. Slurp back a little more beer and bite the plastic cup. Here we go.

The condiment truck!

Oh yeah. You needed jalepenos. You needed nacho cheese, You needed relish. You needed extra onions. You needed it all. But there was always a price to pay. No one is going to put that relish on for you. No one is going to strategically place those peppers on your dog. This is all you. And you were alone in your mission. You want them, you get them. Push people out of the way. Everyone wanted to do what you were doing. They all wanted in. But the fuck if they gonna hold your beer. This is like something they should have been teaching on "Sesame Street." How to hold a beer by your teeth while pushing angry people while still managing not spill any of the golden drink of the gods. I could see Bert doing it now. "Kids? Today we will learn how sometimes you need to be a little evil to get extra peppers. This is how you do it." And Ernie comes in with a hotdog in his hands, drunk off his ass, plastic cup in his his mouth muffling something about "Fuck you, move" or "I'm sorry. I didn't know that was your foot." Pushing Bert to the ground for extra cheese sauce.

Bert getting up to bitch about how his beer was spilled. Yelling about how Ernie ran him over without even bothering to say "Excuse me".

Teaching kids an important lesson.

Hot dogs are good.

And beer makes a man mean when he can't have the proper condiments. -T

I’m kinda glad World Cup only comes around every four years. Makes it much easier to get into it. I have this attention deficit thing going on with sports. It’s like I blew my load as a fan for the first 30 years or so of my life and now I’m all bored and distracted. Another Stanley Cup come and gone? Gee, wasn’t it just yesterday when the Islanders were a dynasty? Who is this Carolina team? What can I say, I got bored. I dumped sports. Hell, I haven’t even watched a Yankee game this season and, if you know me, that’s saying something.

But the World Cup, every four years. I can get excited. It comes and goes within a month’s time. I don’t have devote half my year to it. I don’t have to sit through a lifetime’s worth of meaningless games before we get to the good stuff. It’s all excitement, all action packed into one month. The NBA should take a lesson from this!

What would be even cooler about this tournament is if somehow they were able to take my favorite elements from other sports and combine them with soccer (football, whatever). Grand slams, slam dunks, end zone dances! Oh, who am I kidding. There’s only one thing I’m looking for here.

Old time hockey. Eddie Shore.

Yea, bench clearing brawls in World Cup. How cool would that be? Ever since they fucked with the rules in the NHL, the game has not been nearly as interesting. I miss the good old days when men were men and hockey players didn't wear helmets and if your team was playing the Flyers, you could expect at least one big, bloody fight. Ok, so I'm a barbarian. Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just that I was raised to believe that a hockey game wasn't complete until someone got a game misconduct. If two or three or even four people got a misconduct, all the better. If gloves were dropped and the fight got so huge even the goalies were pummeling each other and the refs just kind of stood back and let it all happen? That's a hockey orgasm right there. Now imagine World Cup with something like that. I mean, these guys are wearing steel cleats. No padding. No protection. No helmets.

Fuck those pansy ass colored cards. What is this, Uno? Start settling scores the hockey way. Someone was tripped, shoved, manhandled? Fisticuffs! Yea! Let’s go! Fullbacks and wingers and strikers slamming into each other, arms flying, legs kicking like a Pantera concert broke out in the middle of the field. Ever been in a Pantera pit? Just sayin’. Add spiked cleats and athletic people to that mix and you’ve got yourself a.....what’s that word? Donnybrook? Brouhaha? BRAWL! Oh yea, here come the forwards and...what? What are they doing? My GOD! They are tearing down the goal....they are...hey! They have torn the netting off the cage and they are wrapping it around the goalie’s neck! This is out of order! You’re all out of order! Here comes Ogie Oglethorpe! Whistles being blown. Blood splattering. The sound of crunching bones and heads breaking. Punches thrown, maybe some vomit and lost teeth scattered on the pitch.

And the crowd goes wild! WILD! Listen to those chants! No more Ole! Ole! Ole! What are they saying? Potvin sucks? What? Is that an octopus on the field? Are they going into the stands.....?

And from here it devolves into a nasty mix of hooligans, police, flying beer cups and chants of Hat Trick! Hat Trick! And once they cleared the field of bodies and pieces of torn skin, they would resume the game with whatever players didn’t get thrown out and, just to keep the football purists happy, it would end in some pussy shootout.

What? You don’t think that would be exciting? Old time hockey meets English football? It’s the best of both worlds, kinda like hemaphroditic porn.

Hanson Brothers The Hockey Song
Vandals - Change the World With My Hockey Stick

Posted by Michele Christopher at 6:24 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

National what day? Skateboarding day? Fuck, I have a blown knee from skating too much. I don't even think I have a deck anymore. But we were informed of this day by a reader. I'm gonna tell you, skateboarding changed my life. It had an impact on both our lives. So today we will celebrate! Happy Go Skateboarding Day! Grab the old deck and hit the streets. Flip off cops and push by old people. A kid's wearing pads? You call him a pussy and just remember how this all started for you. Let's ride.

6am and I just popped Lords of Dogtown into the DVD player. Just celebrating a holiday I can get behind: Go Skateboarding Day!

I love skateboarding. Oh, do I skateboard? Hah, no. I’m strictly an observer here. Yea, I tried back in the day to join the crowd but I’m what they used to call back in those days a spazz. Do you they still use that word? That’s me. I’d get one foot on the deck and it wouldn’t be two seconds later before my ass was on the ground. So I watched.

We’re talking early/mid 70's here. I was barely a teenager when skateboarding fever hit our little suburb. It was like all of a sudden everyone had a board or was talking about getting a board. And you know kids. They see a trend, they follow. Skateboarding? Sure, we can do that. Everyone put down their baseball bats and hockey sticks and went to PlayWorld to pick up skateboards.

It wasn’t like today where you take your kid to some big store and he picks out a deck and trucks and bearings and wheels and all this hardware and it ends up costing about $300 and he puts it together and he skates for about two days and then realizes the only thing he really wants to do in his spare time is play his guitar so you have $300 worth of skateboard sitting in the garage collecting dust and, wait, I’m getting into another story here........no, you just walked into PlayWorld and there were a bunch of skateboards hanging up in an aisle. You picked out one you thought looked cool and then...and then........and then you dared everyone in your group to shoplift a board.

Steal a skateboard? How can you do that? It’s not like sticking a yo-yo in your pocket. This is not something that is easily concealed. But we were challenged. By Steven, an older, cooler kid, no less. Steal a skateboard. This was in the days before high-tech security systems were in place. State-of-the-art security meant there was a guy at the door with an official looking badge and a false sense of authority whose job it was to eye young people suspiciously as they entered the store, as if to say “I know what you whippersnappers are up to you and I’m going to keep an eye on you.” Except he was keeping a lecherous eye on the teenage girls in tube tops and short shorts.

So all the guys were trying to figure out how to stuff a skateboard down their jeans and not draw attention to themselves, or how to get into the employee’s only section and walk out the loading dock doors without being noticed. I had a better idea. There was only one other girl in the crowd besides me. Angel, girlfriend of Steven the Cool. Angel was wearing a tube top (that she kept having to pull up) and short shorts (that she kept having to pull out of her ass). She was tall, tan, beautiful and a perfect distraction for the pedophile security guy. Hey, I was trying to accomplish a mission here. Call it exploitation if you want. I was 13 or so. I wasn’t thinking child molestation. I was thinking “free skateboard!”

So I grabbed Angel and told her I wanted to go outside and smoke while the boys did their thing and she should come with me. I grabbed the first board I could reach and put it under my arm, carrying it casually, as if I owned the thing and was about to drop it down and ride through the store. Act non chalant. Act cool. This is your board. Your board. We got to the door and I pushed Angela ahead of me. Security Guy was standing in his usual spot and looked at us with narrowed eyes as we walked toward him. And then - I’m not really proud of this - I reached my hand out and slightly tugged on the back of Angel’s tube top so it inched down just a little bit - not enough to reveal anything (and there really wasn’t much there) but enough to make Angel adjust the top just as she was walking in front of Security Guy. His eyes moved from my skateboard to Angel’s top and his stare hovered there long enough for me to slide past Angel and walk out the door, board still tucked under my arm. I walked real fast through the parking lot, hopped over the divider that took me to the movie theater lot and breathed a sigh of relief as I dropped the board on the ground, Angel trailing behind me, completely oblivious to her part in my shoplifting scheme. I felt about fifteen seconds worth of guilt before Steve and the rest of the guys showed up and marveled at my accomplishment. I was feeling all proud and cool and accepted (hey, I was a stupid kid) as I handed the board over to Steve and told him to try it out. He dropped it, jumped on it and had just got some momentum when a car came zooming through the parking lot, headed, it appeared, right for Steve. He jumped off the board and, well, an object in motion stays in motion, so they say, and the board kept going. The crunching sound made as board met station wagon tire sounded, I thought, a little bit like God cackling at me.

Anyhow. Skateboarding.

I recently purchased
Fuck You Heroes: Glenn E. Friedman Photographs 1976-1991.

You want to know what skating was like back in those days, check out Friedman’s photography.

With the skateboard pictures from the 70's, Friedman might not have even realized then what he was capturing. The shots of shirtless skaters in shorts and knee socks, no helmets, no logos, hair flying, truly brings out the essence of what skateboarding was in those days. It wasn’t about sponsors and video games. It wasn’t sleek and slick like it is today. It was raw. It was empty pools and bare shirts and defiance. It was dirty. It was punk rock.

Punk rock and skateboarding had the common threads of aggression and subversiveness and defiance. Friedman had an eye for these things and managed to capture them on film time and again. That sounds a lot easier than it is. It's more than just getting the shot of good vert action, it's capturing the feel behind the climb.

It wasn't just a moment he captured, not even just a culture or a movement. He captured the spirit that embodied both skateboarding and punk rock, the entire essence of what those two things were. For anyone who thinks skateboarding was just about the ride or punk rock was just about the tunes, they need only look at Friedman's photos of each to see what was beneath.

So, skateboarding day. Go skate, kids. Go. I'll watch. I was almost tempted to grab my son's board out of the garage and give it a try just in the spirit of the day but, much like getting into a pit at a show, I'm too old for this shit anymore.- M

*photos 1 and 3 by Glen E. Friedman*

A National Go Skateboarding Day? Did the President approve this?

No, Im just kidding. Skateboard has a long line of memories from my past. Good and bad. Skateboarding was the thing that brought the "bad" element together. If someone skated you knew that they had some kinda of drug on them, in their system, or knew where to get it. This was early 80's. Skateboarding was not as wholesome as it is now. Not at all. You wanna know why you can't skate in some cities without breaking some kind of weird law? Ask us. We picked this sport up and we broke it down. It was our scene back then and we ruined it. The only one who kept it going after we broke our knees, dislocated our shoulders or became junkies was Tony Hawk. God, I hated that little kid. But, I give him one thing. He kept it alive. Believe it or not. The "Pussy With The Pads" actually did something good. Skateboards. God, I loved them.

But, what story to tell? I can tell you I broke teeth on pavement, built ramps, and skated til I busted out my leg and never really walked right again cause of all these god damn pins in my knee. But, that wouldn't really serve a purpose.

This is about something bigger. This is your day Skaters. So in honor of you for keeping this thing going, I will tell of a little thing that we used to have called halfpipes. This was the thing when I was growing up. The thing. If you had one of these in your backyard when I was a kid, you were a star. Kids loved you. You got free pizza, free beer, free music and free friends. Your house was now the cool place to be. This is where we will be today, tomorrow, the next day and the day after that. Sure we were gonna give you shit if you couldn't get to the top or if your ramp wasn't vert and we ended up hitting a fucking wall. But you gotta expect that. "See those things? Those over there. In your dad's garage? They are called "levels." You use those to make sure the ramp goes up straight, cause even though I am kinda semi ok at skating, if I'm shooting off towards a wall because the top of your ramp looks like some bad acid trip, I'm gonna be pissed after I hit the ground. Sure, the rush of "Fuck Yeah! I'm in the air!" Is fun, but kinda loses it's cool when right after you get the "oh fuck! Here comes the grass!" feel. So make that damn thing straight!

I might be exaggerating. Most of the time in the air is "Shit!" time, but meh, hitting the grass still sucks .

But, I digress, again.

Ramps. Keep in mind that when I was around, all the skateparks from the 70's had closed and the only thing left was street. No one really did street like they do now. Street was just to get you around. We mocked freestylers who prolly had more talent then any of us, but what can you do. Those guys and their sissy boards always looked so, so wimpy. Who the the hell would want to be like Rodney Mullen? For christ sake his first name was Rodney. Rodney. Rodney. Jesus that was lame. This was the time of building the biggest ramps you could. Going as far as you could. The pinnacle of skateboarding so far. People had started to say "Hey, they are hoodlums, but at least they are exercising." We were making it big time, baby.

They were built in the remote locations. Away from people and their prying eyes. Just off the road. Where if you didn't know where it was at, you wouldn't know we were here. And the biggest I had ever seen was only five or so hours away. And Thrasher was having an event that day. Oh, yeah. You know me by now. We were going.

The Mile High Massacre!

Holy shit! This ramp is huge! Where the hell are we at? Jesus fucking christ that thing is huge! Mile High Ramp. Located a few minutes from Tahoe City. I can't tell you were it was. All I can say is make a left at the 7-11 and just keep driving and you will see it.

Mile High Ramp.

This thing was the biggest ramp I had ever seen. Tons of people packed all around it. This wasn't what they do nowadays.The way they put on big events and you have to pay seven bucks to see skaters play with themselves. This was before all that Vision Skate Wear crap and before Gator got all weirded out and killed some girl with a tire iron cause God told him too. This was clandestine, illegal, and a shitload of fun. Pushing through the crowd I started to see familiar faces. Mountain, Hosoi, Cabellero, Lucero, and yes, yes, Tony Hawk. The deck of the ramp was painted with chalkmarks of bodies. Like police outlines. All over it. A band was playing and the whole crowd was drunk. Yes, this was illegal. But this was fun. This was Mile High. A ramp built in an area of Tahoe where the streets were paved, but no one decided to move there. No houses were built. Might as well build a huge ramp here. Why not?.

We spent the entire day hanging out with our friends and drinking beer wondering if this thing would end. We wanted to try this thing out. We need to try this thing out. Go home people. Declare a winner and end this. I want to try this thing out!

Decks were tossed in the air, something they don't do now. Yeah, get off my lawn and shit. The crowd dispersed. And it was over. We sat around waiting til we could actually get up there. Finally. A break in the crowd. Pushing my way up there just trying to get a space. Throwing my deck down to drop in. Looking at all the trees and smelling the fresh air. The beauty of Tahoe really hit me. This was a place of wonder. I wondered about things like life on other planets, why do birds sing and why is this forest so beautiful that it takes my breath away.

Then I looked down.

Oh shit.

That's a big drop.

That was Mile High.

God bless her.

So have fun today. Happy National Go Skate Day!

Enjoy it!

Grab a stick, grab a beer and go fuck someones car up!

This is your day!- T

Suicidal Tendencies - Go Skate
JFA - Suicidal Tendencies - Skateboard Anarchy
Spermbirds my god rides a skateboard

Against All Authority - Skate or Die
Faction - Skate and Destroy

I just want to thank Scott of Strange Reaction for coming through with the Faction song. He always comes up with the hard to get stuff for us. Thanks, Scott.

Posted by Michele Christopher at 7:18 AM | Permalink | Comments (15) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Well it's time. We asked and you answered. We still need more input from you out there. You wanted a list of the most offensive songs given to us by you. We made some grave omissions in the last list. We are here to make up for that.
The bands given to us so far are only a tad bit of what we need. We need you to put more in. This isn't like the 100 Best Punk songs. Some of us are really limited by offensive songs. I go to church each Sunday, so I won't listen to things that make me wince. Those god damn songs make the motherfucking baby jesus cry like he has a vibrator stuck out his ass.

Hm. Maybe I was wrong. But this is the start. How long it will go? Depends on how far you want to take it. We have the first set and we are ready to go. All reader contributions will be used. Try to stay off songs from the last list. Which, I dont think you will have many problems with doing.

Ready?

Here we go!

This might get ugly so keep your head down.

The Meatmen - Tooling for Anus

Oh you knew they would be here. In fact my entire post tonight will be all about them. Hey, these guys were good. This song started off a raw album that just got rawer...it's that a word? Anyways. Imagine being a little kid putting this on listening to two guys talk about gay anal sex and smoking dope. Wow. The song hadn't even started yet. This has gotta be good. "One rim job a year ago and he think's we're lovers" "Oh here. Suck." Oh god. This album has gotta be good. I always felt a little strange laughing at this intro just because it is so....gay. It is really funny. The song kicks and you and you end up with a song about insulting homosexuals and shooting his goo. Truly a masterpiece.

The Meatmen - 1 Down 3 To Go

I'll admit. I had no clue as to what he was saying. I had no idea what this song was about. I really didn't care. Until one day my mom walking in while I was listening to it. "They are saying what???" "What mom?" "Fuck fuck fuck fuck the Beatles?" "Really? That's kinda cool." A song about celebrating John Lennon getting assinated while asking at the same time for three more people to step up to the plate to wack the rest. I guess some people really didn't like John Lennon that much. I didn't really like the Beatles, but if the only cool band member was dead there was nothing left. Let's kill them all. Dope and Yoko Ono. Middle aged old hairy people. Thank god I don't use drugs anymore or this song would have fucked me up. Well maybe it did. You make the call. - T

The Meatmen - The "Suck" Trilogy

Camel Jockies Suck

Let's nail these all in one.

The Meatmen. Jeez guys. Let's see who else we can offend. They went out of their way to insult crippled children. Refined it on the French, then perfected it by yelling at camel jockies. Listen to all these in order and you will be bombing some children's hospital while robbing a liquor store at the same time. French camel jockies who are crippled must really suck. Jeez. That's the trifecta of sucking. The Meatmen were sorely forgotten in the last list. So to make up, I dedicated this post to making up for my mistake. And to little baby boys with an arm stuck out their ass. And to girls who have been preparing themselves with herbal laxitives who want to shit on our face. - T

I kinda wish that Anal Cunt was considered punk, because I could just say "the entire Anal Cunt" catalog and be done with this list. Ok, I'm gonna start out easy here.

Misfits - Bullet

If this sounds familiar it’s because I had this in the punk songs list.

How many ways can you offend people in one song? When I heard these lyrics for the first time I could almost hear the collective gasp of middle America. I could see scarf-wearing suburban women fainting in shock, grown men in seersucker suits and military hair cuts banging their fists in anger and demanding death to the Misfits. I mean, my god. Masturbation, eating cum out of your palm, shattered head on concrete - dude this is more offensive than the time when I was working at the record store and put out a display of Dead Kennedys record on November 22. But really, anyone totally appalled at this song only has to watch the Misfits perform it to see it go from tastelessness to, well, campy tastelessness. -M

SOD - Pre Menstrual Princess Blues

IRVING? WHERE’S MY MAXI PADS? This song is for everyone who has stage fright when they buy tampons, for everyone who still calls their period “Aunt Flo” in hushed tones, for everyone who cringes when I say things like “I’m on the rag” or “I’m bleeding like a stuck pig, dude.” For all of you who think the term “red wings” should only be spoken in hockey conversations. I'M PASSING CLOTS THE SIZE OF BASKETBALLS!! One woman’s menstrual humor is another woman’s shocked gasp. It’s blood, get over it. -M

Anti Nowhere League - So Fucking What

You can judge a song’s true offensiveness by how your mother reacts when you hit “play” on the cassette tape in your car, thinking that you had something benign like Pink Floyd (your mother’s favorite band) in there but it was the tape your best friend made for you and it was poised right at the point in this song where he snarls “Well I've fucked a sheep, And I've fucked a goat, I've had my cock right down its throat,” and your mom turns and looks at you and says “This is what paying for four years of Catholic school got me?” And she shakes her head and begs you to put The Wall back on. Ok, but “ohhh I need a dirty woman” is ok, mom? Goat, woman, what’s the difference? And just an aside, I wish I had a dollar for every time I had to say to someone: THIS IS NOT A FUCKING METALLICA SONG. Jesus. -M

See the extended entry below for a reminder of what we mean by "offensive" here.

for the sake of argument (and for the sake of this list) let's say that offensive means this: If you played this song loud enough for your neighbors to hear, they would either a) report you to the "authorities"; b) hide their children from you; c) pay Rev. Falwell $100 to pray for your soul; d) wrap their house in duct tape and tin foil to protect themselves from you or e) all of the above. Or, in more simple terms, if you sang this song in front of your grandmother she would make you wash your mouth out with soap. And you probably find the song amusing, at the very least. We're talking way offensive here. You might be thinking Blink 182's Family Reunion,, but that's just a bunch of bad words strung together. We're thinking more along the lines of Meatmen's Crippled Children Suck. Or that Guttermouth song about your mom fucking a donkey.

Offsensive. Unpolitically correct. Mean. Filthy. Dirty. Deranged. Shocking. Apalling. Disgusting. Offensive.

Posted by Turtle Jones at 7:24 PM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Sometimes things happen for certain reasons. Sometimes things just fall in your hands. Sometimes they don't. Sometimes you can feel that an indivdual is rising from a bad situation. Someone who was always there, but just hidden.

Right now I just want to say thanks to one person who I cherish. Oh you know who I am gonna talk about. This Is a tribute to the one I love and who holds half of this site together. Yeah, I just needed to do this. This post is for Michele. She made this, inpired me, and shook the ash off her wings.

The Phoenix is back.

She is flying again.

And she's cute.

Thank you Michele. Thank you for entertaining us. And for being you.

Posted by Turtle Jones at 6:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Second in our new series: What Are You Listening to Now? Which is kind of like a challenge to us and all of you to be completely honest about what's in your player at the moment. Me, I play it like musical Russian Roullette by hitting shuffle and writing about what song comes next, so one day you just may see me being completely honest and writing about Air Supply. Play it how you want it. But we're being honest with you (sometimes, like today, it works out ok for both of us), you do the same. What's on in your world right now?

Turtle first:

Hah!

Once again we came out lucky. We just hit play on the machines and wondered what we were listening to last. Well for me, it was last night. See, what alot of you don't know is I try to sleep when Michele does to be up with her. Call it romantic or call it weird. Idunno. But sometimes that doesn't happen. I can't sleep. Or slept too much. Or need cheap tacos. Or I need to get dog food. Or she has to take her daughter and get coffee while drinking water.

*I just made fun of her accent*

And when I can't sleep, and she is sleeping, I type up other things on this site and cruise around on other sites. I just try to get tired. Try to wear myself out. And it works. But playing music at one in the morning really loud just doesn't happen. It usually is really soft.

So you guys get a story and I get to sleep. So it kinda works out. I've been limiting myself to writing at night to midnight, so this is just all background music. Just something to wear me out and put me down. Something that is soft and makes me wanna quit writing before midnight. The best part of my day is when I wake up, talk to Michele, then hit play to find out where I was the night before. It's kinda like the surprise out of a Cracker Jack's box.

You know it might suck. But you needed to find out what it was.

When Michele says whats on now. It's truth time.

The Business - Suburban Rebels (download)

What the hell was I listening to last night? I sit here and say how much I want to sleep then put this on? The hell am I thinking?

"Got lots of mouth when you're in a crowd
But when you're alone you don't speak loud"

Jesus.

Nice threat there.

Must have been a rough night for me. Gotta see if my dog is still around. That's the kind of stuff I listen to when I sleep? No wonder I am always speaking about jellied eels. But anyways, I got lucky. This is a great song about being from a ghetto, albeit an English one, and hating the upper class kids who thought they were like you. English ghettos. That sounds funny. I wonder if they have deep fried jellied eels and their dads all wore funny hats and cleaned words off the wall every night in their pub. Hersham 1969 still won't come off from that last night hooligan with a pen.

There is something about this song. Class warfare? Hating something you weren't in? Someone who thought they were better then you? I don't really know. But, it is something so angry that it always reminds me of growing up and being made fun of by the rich kids who were the same kids who bought drugs from me. Yeah, you can yell at me with five of your friends, but if you're alone and I see you, you seem to just duck your head. Where are the yells? Why aren't I a cocksucker anymore? What happened? Where did you go? You fight like Hell's Angels? The fuck is up? Yell at me! Dammit. Jeez. Pussy.

This is just about being someone who shouldn't be where he was. Getting called names when you couldn't do anything cause you would get your ass kicked. It looks like that gang bullshit that filled most of the California scene for too many years. I guess was the same scene in England.

*Stuck an obscure reference in there. See if you can find it!*

I guess the moral to the story is....

I listen to some weird music to sleep to.

So what are you listening to?
-- T

I don’t have access to my massive library of music here at work and that’s just as well, as there is less chance I will land upon one of those really embarrassing songs when we play this game. And my iPod seems, once again, to be dead (have I mentioned that I think iPods are pieces of crap?) so there’s no chance I will end up having to explain why the theme to St. Elmo’s Fire is in my rotation and that’s a good thing. For today’s “what are you listening to right now” challenge, I load up my smallish iTunes library and get......

Queens of the Stone Age - "Mosquito Song" (download)

Well this is kind of weird and maybe an omen of some sort? See, last night I dreamed about mosquitos. A swarm of them were buzzing in my ear. I woke up and my phone was vibrating under my pillow. Turtle calling! So maybe it’s not so much on omen as a coincidence, but if I come across any mosquitoes today I’m gonna be mighty suspicious.

This is the hidden track on Songs for the Deaf, which is the greatest album by one of the greatest bands ever. Yea, I’m kind of schizophrenic about my music. I’m all about the punk rock. And metal. And stoner rock. Yea, and 80's film soundtracks. But, Mosquito Song.

I fell in love with this song a long time ago, but got reacquainted with it last summer when I went through a hardcore Songs for the Deaf stage. I would get to the end of the CD and just keep hitting repeat on this song. Something about it. Something secret and dark and foreboding. The words. The music. His voice. Oh, his voice. All of us food, that hasn’t died. I had this CD in the car when I drove to upstate NY for a family vacation last August. Again, hitting repeat on this one song, driving through the dense mountains and winding roads of Roscoe, NY just as it’s about to get dark, the words perform a fitting tribute to the sounds that play over the music - a constant buzz that is not just one bug, but thousands and thousands of all different breeds of insects waiting for a body to pounce on, a dead animal to feast on. They come in from the waters when the lights go down, hiding from the bats that have come out for dinner. You roll up the car windows to drown out the sound, and to keep out anything that might be lurking in the woods because we all know that things lurk out here at night.

Fat and soft, pink and weak
Foot and thigh, tongue and cheek
You know I'm told they swallow you whole
Skin and bone
Cutting boards and hanging hooks
Bloody knives, cooking books
Promising you won't feel a thing
At all

This song is a horror movie waiting to be written.

So tell us what you are listening to now and hey, don't forget to go over and leave your suggestions for the most offensive punk song list.

Posted by Michele Christopher at 11:44 AM | Permalink | Comments (12) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

This is the 13th in a series. Tales of an anonymous punk rocker. This whole series came out when Michele and the Turtle met and some stories were exchanged. This is the product of both their ideas. Turtle writes them, Michele provides some inspiration and crossed the i's and dots the t's. We hope you enjoy reading them as much as we enjoy putting them together.

Touring. It wears on you. Sometimes it does. I have no idea about these bands that tour all year. What the hell. All year? I need my own bed too much for that. I will tell you I loved it. But, I won't lie and tell you that it was always fun. Sometimes, we begged for a day off. We just did too much. Did it too fast. Did it too much. That's all. We just needed a break. Just a day. Please, just a day. I needed to just sit and watch TV for a day and actually eat something and get my head right. Just a day. One day. Is that too much to ask?

I'm not saying I couldn't take it. I could keep going. I could keep moving. That was no problem. But I just wanted to breathe. Just a day. I was tired. And I felt like shit. We only had gas money, so detoxing off cigarettes was kinda a gimmie. It was gonna happen. I just had to wait til the shakes started. I knew it was coming. I just needed a break. Anywhere.

Good news!

We had a day off!

And we had a friend who lived halfway to the last gig! Ok. This was good. Day off. Small town. Not many expectations. TV. Day off. Get me there by three in the morning and let me sleep til nine. That's all I need. Just a floor and a place for me to sleep. I'm cool. Open the door to let the cool air in and let me feel it on my skin and smell it in my nose.

At the end of a tour, you kinda stop thinking about having fun. It just becomes a job. Especially your first tour.When you walk in a club and just smell beer. No one is there. Just you and the other bands. You make friends with them. You just try to have fun. But you know no one has ever heard of you and no one is going to be there on a Monday night. Obligations. You said you would do it. Break the case and get ready for a total of ...three...wait..that's four fans, to show up. And these are the same guys who made you spaghetti the night before.

Crap.

Why do we do this?

Paying the dues.

So anyways. Every once in a while you are really breaking down. Your body is just spent and you are grouchy as all hell. You don't wanna sleep and you don't wan't to play. Strange town and strange area. But you just know that you need one night off. Just one night. Just to sit on a sofa and watch TV. Grab a beer and just watch it. Just slow down for a second. Smell the fresh air and just sit back.

Well we had our chance. One day off. Thank god. One day to breathe and detox and just try to calm down. Take a shower and eat tons of free ramen. Oh yeah. If you are in a band, you get used to eating ramen really fast. And eating food out of cans gets to be second nature. If you can shove a can of chili in your pocket along with buying a pack of ramen at the local liquor store? Pure dope. Pure fucking dope. Shoplifting? Well, yeah. I guess. I made my reparations to places I've done wrong, so no one lecture me on it, ok? But it worked. It was dope so good it would kill anyone in jail who fixed it. Cause you know what that meant? Chili noodles!!!

*I've been watching alot of women in prison movies lately.

Hey. Don't laugh, dude. I still eat food out of cans, which I hear shit about from Michele, but it's what I do. I mean really, is Chef Boyardee really gonna taste that much better heated up? I mean really. Come on.

So we had a day off. Just sleeping in late. Well, sleeping in late for me really means 9 o'clock, but still, that was a lot for me. So what to do? Where were we at? Some long hair guy asked me if I wanted to play volleyball and have some drinks. Drinks? Ok. Volleyball? Hm. Maybe. We will see. Let me get a buzz going. Then we can talk.

A phone call was made and an owner was woke up. The bar was opening early. Right on. Piling into cars, not the van, that fucker was dying hardcore, but cars. Arriving at a...golf course? Oh. Really? Well, this is weird. This is weird. I need a drink. A round of Long Island Iced Teas passed around. This is good. I can deal with this now.

Wow. That's something I never thought about.

Long Island Iced Tea. I need to ask Michele what the story is behind that name. She's from Long Island. She might know. Or maybe she will just say "Kennedy". Hell if I know. Hm.

Anyways.

The liquor soaked in. One day off before the next show. Some band was playing tonight with a bunch of our friends. Well, I didn't know them, but a bunch of friends of some of the guys in the band did. But this was the daytime, Many hours before that show started.... What to do? In all honesty, I could have spent the day on the floor sleeping and just waiting for the gig to start. But, we were hanging out with a bunch of hippies who listened to local punk rock bands and ate ramen all day. They wanted to show us the town. They wanted to show us what they had to offer. Why their town was cool. Plus the owner of the bar was the girlfriend of one of the hippies! Score!

Ok. I'll tell you thing about these longhairs. They had money. I could tell. This was a kinda rich place. This area. Wherever the fuck this was, I could tell, this was a coin operated area. You could just tell. These guys weren't in a band, but someone bank rolled them. I don't ask questions in situations like that. I enjoy the free food and the floor to sleep on. But I'm not gonna say "Hey dude, you have money. The fuck are you eating ramen for?" But hey, that might be how they got the money in the first place. I don't know. I stopped asked questions about that kind of stuff along time ago. You are rich. I can't read minds. Ever since I stopped paying my dues to the Scientologists, I lost my ability to see into peoples minds. As soon as Tom Cruise joined I felt that L. Ron Hubbard sold out, so I left.

What was I talking about anyways...

Oh yeah.

Volleyball and alcohol!

I decided to play. I was in shorts. Our singer was at some skatepark. We were all drunk. What the hell? "Let's serve that fucker" I kept yelling that. Over and over. Isn't that what you say? I think it is. I think I remember that phrase from the Olympics. I think. It's kinda hard to listen when you are so fixated on girls in bikinis diving in the sand. Hey. I'm not sexist. But hey. Asses up, diving in the sand. You would have to be Abe Vigoda not to stare at them wide eyed. And he would even have a hard on. Assess in the sand, man. Assess in the sand.

*This is the part of the story where Michele tells me to knock it off*

Anyways, we decided to play volleyball. Ball in the air. Rules decided. Or, really explained. I don't know how to play that game so I'm gonna have to trust them to not lie to me. I hate doing that cause I know the type of people I associated with were all a bunch of liars, but this was volleyball.

They have to tell us the truth.

Places put and shirts came off. I guess it wasn't shirts v skins, but you guys know by now I don't like wearing clothes. That's just me. And what? I can't smoke while playing this? Um, ok. See here cowboy.... that's not gonna work. See this scar on my chest that looks like a quarter? That's a cigarette burn. I even tried to smoke while I sleep. Yeah, sometimes there are some drawbacks, but I always have a smoke. That little burn tells you I will be smoking while we play. So don't tell me I won't be able to breathe. High altitude and shit. Thanks for your advice. Hit the fucking ball. A drink is calling me. Hit the ball.

It's in the air! Here we go. Being half drunk running around for it. Ok. It went down. We can touch it how many times? Really? Three? That's all? You do know we are going down guys, right? And worse than that. There seems to be some burning hot like thing in the sky that is making everything bright. I don't like that thing. The what? The sun? S..U..N... No. I don't like that word. I don't like that thing. That's kinda sucky. It's hot.

So we were getting our asses kicked. It happens. A bunch of guys ending a tour that kicked their ass usually aren't gonna be the best volleyball players. I might be overstepping my line there, but that's my opinion. Professional time wasters can beat anyone who plays in a band any day of the week. That's what they did. Play volleyball. That's all they did. Play volleyball. That's not what we did. They seemed to take an almost sadistic pleasure when we agreed to play them.

Another ball hit at me. Fuck. I missed it. I was right at the line trying to get this. I thought it was going out. I missed it. I let it go. Damn. Then another one straight at me. I let it go. I thought it was out. Damn. It was in. Damn. OK. If he hits me again, I'm hitting it. I don't care where it goes. I'm hitting it.

Ball hit. Walk under it. Get it!

Unfortunatley for me, the sand bank dropped off at the side and hit a grass pad about one foot down. My foot fell down. It stayed. It stuck on the ground. My body kept moving. I heard a rip and I fell. I'm not gonna say it hurt. But I knew my walking days were going to be limited for a few days. I might have screwed up.

Five hours later, getting out of the hospital with a huge cast on my leg, I sat and wondered about the last show. Oh man. I fucked up.We can't make it. I can't be on stage like this. Wait! It's ok. We have a roadie that can play my stuff!
I don't have that huge of an ego. I can sit on the side to let and let this go on. He can do it tonight. I'm done anyways. Drugs from the hopsital were flowing around my body and leaving from my pores. I did the tour. Well. 99 percent of it. Someone else could end it and I wouldn't get all pissy. But man, I blew it.

Getting in the van.

Laying down.

A body next to me. What the hell? Who is this? Pulling off his blanket. Laying on the floor. Breathing slow. The lead singer? Is that him? What the hell is that? Something on his arm. A sling?

"What happened to him?"

Seems the singer had crashed into some concrete on his skateboard.Dislocated his shoulder and was hopped up on Morphine. There would be no show tomorrow. He was so high he could barely breathe. I was so hurt I couldn't walk.

That was it. That was the end to the first tour. Turn the van home and call it quits. Too much too fast. Next time we will have learned a little from this lesson. But right now, this is over. I always hated bands kicking shows. "Oh! I'm too sick to play." Things like that. That was always lame to see. I hated that. People pay to see you and you can't show up. Always seemed lame. So I always made all shows unless the place burned down. But I think we talked about that story before. If not, you will will hear it later. But anyways...

This was the only time we did that. But hell man, fifty percent of the band couldn't move without help. I think we kinda deserved this one.

Little did I know this was nothing compared to what was ahead of me.

One thing I learned from that experience, though...

I'll never play volleyball again.

Suicidal Tendencies - Go Skate
SNFU - This is the End
DRI - Couch Slouch

Posted by Turtle Jones at 6:56 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I have no idea what this sign means, all I know is that yea, it's damn good to have a Turtle.

Thanks to Kali for this. Taken from here.

Posted by Michele Christopher at 11:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

It's that time again, folks.

We asked you. You told us. We listen to your needs. See that's we do here. We want to have fun, so if you contact us with an idea, chances are if it's nothing like "shut the fuck up" we will do it. Cause that would be kinda hard to do. Shutting up is hard for us. We talk in our sleep. That would be asking a lot from us.

Tonight's idea comes from mr b and w. And thank you for the idea. Sometimes I wonder where these ideas come from and why some of you are hell bent on giving us the hardest things to review. I'm mean jeez guys, now we have to do a Meatmen review, the most offensive song list, and an Ice Cream truck in one week? Give us a little space here, ok?

In all reality and honesty.

We asked and you replied. Thank you for all your input. We can work off anything. So if you have an idea, email us. Cause you guys having fun is what makes us smile. This one is for mr. b and w. Have fun reading it and keep sending us ideas. Tonights car/truck.......

An ice cream truck!

Ready?

Here we go!

We were asked to what? Ice cream trucks?

Well, let me just tell you. I haven't had that many pleasant real life experiences with ice cream trucks. I was never a kid who ran down the street chasing after them and begging money off dad to get a "Whateverthefuck Cone." That's just not my style. I don't work like that. Ice cream is only for sad people who need to be cheered up. I was too busy watching Little House to be sad.

Don't get me wrong. The concept was cool. Ice cream. In front of your house. Right there. In front of you. Playing a little song. That song was kiddie cocaine. My friends would bolt out of the door like they just fucked the neighbor's wife and her husband came home. Crawling out windows and doors just to get to the van.

But really, where I grew up, not many would come by. The closest I got to it was a little old guy with an ancient push cart that would ring his bell as he walked through your street. It was one of those things with an umbrella. He looked so tired, you could see he really didn't want to be doing this. But rather, he had to be doing this. It was kinda sad. But for the kids, even sadder to see what he was selling.

Not ice cream. Oh no. This was the barrio. Ice cream was weak. We didn't need that. Or, at least I didn't. I never got the concept of ice cream. But then again I chomp down Chik-O-Stixs daily, so you can tell my priorties are kinda screwy.

But, I ran out there! Fast as I could! Everytime I heard his bell. And got me a hot tamale. Cause that's life. Fresh cooked tamales. Sitting in the shade just enjoying it. The corn and the flavor. Heaven.

Keep in mind this was before I started smoking. All food turned into blandless, grey material that needed to be covered in hot sauce so I could taste something.

Oh. I quit smoking by the way. Now I can tell how shitty Taco Bell tastes. Don't let me get started on Del Taco.

Wait. Wait. I'm getting off track here. I can feel it.

This is about cars. Not turtle and tamales. I must be hungry. Let's get back to the story.

THE greatest ice cream truck of all time!

Cheech and Chongs ride in "Nice Dreams". Oh my god. What a concept. What an amazing truck. What an amazing ride. It surved so many purposes. It drove them around to sell dope. It sold ice cream, well they ate ice cream, but we can talk about that later. It was a music van with kicked out cabs so they could dig shit out when they were bored. And it was kinda cool looking. Just the fact that it had Cheech and Chong in it made it cool. Plus, it sold dope. Dope to house. Kinda like Pizza Hut delievery, cept with this one you get balls out stoned and watch TV. Or turn into a lizard. Or something like that.

Oh yeah. By this time in Cheech and Chong's career, the drugs were taking a toll.

But really. Wouldn't you want a dealer to come by your house with a little song to let you know he was coming by? I mean really. All you need next is someone to hold the bong to your face and you don't need to move. This is like Jetsons technology. All you need is a robot to shave you and some little bastard named Elroy running around and your life is complete. And maybe sex with Jane. And a dog. Well, maybe not sex with the dog. That fucker was big. You might end up being the bottom if you didn't give him a Milk Bone when he wanted one. Jesus. A dog raping you. That's all I want to think about tonight.

Why do I always end up with cartoon sex analogies?

Hm.

Anyways.

That's my salute to the ice cream truck. I could tell you more about the ice cream driver who blasted "i'm your ice cream man" by Van Halen everytime he booked down our street. Cranked out his speakers. But if I do, Michele will link that god damn song. So I think I'll just keep that story to myself. -T

Maybe there was a time when I thought ice cream trucks were the stuff of innocence; running down the street with two quarters in hand on a hot summer day, bare feet getting scorched on the blacktop road, all of us in bathing suits and wet hair and sunburned faces screaming “Stop! Stop!” and then gathering around the truck trying to decide which treat to get and then later on washing off all the colored stickiness of the cherry ice pop in the pool. Maybe I remember that. Maybe.

If I did have experience like that they all went to hell when Al the Ice Cream Man showed up. I guess the regular guy that came down our block retired and Al took over. Al didn’t talk much, didn’t banter with us or make jokes like other ice cream guys I’d heard about. Al was kinda cranky. While all the other kids on the block were content to let Al be grumpy and quiet, I decided I would take it upon myself to figure out what the fuck Al’s problem was. See, I wanted the whole world to be happy. Because the world was a happy place. Puppy dogs and fluffy clouds and rainbows and ice cream men who smiled at you. Al was wrecking my 11 year old world view. I had to fix that.

So one day Al comes around and all the kids buy ices and scatter to their yards and I just kind of linger around, pretending like I hadn’t been able to choose. Al grunts at me. I smile. He makes a half smile and tells me, in a thick accent I couldn’t quite place, to hurry it up. Ok, I was 11. I wasn’t quite schooled in the ways of couth or subtlety yet. I just blurted out to him “Why are you so mad all the time? Why don’t you smile? Don’t you like kids? We’re pretty nice to you.” And with that, Al rolled up the sleeve on his shirt, twisted his arm around in front of my face and said “See that? See?” I saw some numbers on his arm. I was confused. Al could see it in my face. “Go ask your parents what this means. Then you will know. I will never be happy again.” Jesus, dude. Someone tattooed some numbers on your arm when you were drunk or something? Same thing happened to my cousin (though it was a naked lady, not numbers) and he got over it. I told him that story. He looked at me with something close to disdain. Maybe more like pure hatred. Well, you can guess what happened when I went home and asked my parents about it. I spent the rest of the summer avoiding Al and feeling really guilty. He remained our ice cream man for the next four summers before he moved to another neighborhood, and every time I bought ice cream from him we exchanged this knowing glance as if to say “Ok, I’m freaking sorry already, I said it 100 times” and “Say you are sorry all you want. I still don’t like you.”

Cut to five years later. Hitchhiking home from high school one day. Yea, I know, stupid idea. It was the 70's. We were all stupid back then. Anyhow, some guy picks up and gives us a ride for about three miles then says he’s gonna let us out at the next traffic light. Cool. We get to the light. Mary opens the car door without looking and there’s a sudden BAM! and the whole car shakes and moves. What the hell? The door is gone. The door of the car is gone. I look around and see Al in his ice cream truck, the door of the car we were in laying on the road in front of the truck. Fuck. I got out of the car and left Mary to deal with the irate guy who picked us up. I walked over to Al’s truck, looked in the window at him and just kinda shrugged. He looked down at me and said, simply, “Oh. You.”

Honestly, I always thought of ice cream trucks as evil kind of things. Maybe it was the whole Chitty Chitty Bang Bang scenario. Like the guys in the trucks were really out to get you and the Fudgicles and King Cones were just a ruse to kidnap innocent kids. I would lay in bed on summer nights when I was real small and hear the bells ring as the truck made its last drive around the block for the night and I would get a shiver down my spine. They’re coming to get you, Barbara. Yea. Zombie ice cream truck drivers. Night of the Lving Sno Cones. You think I’m crazy but just two years ago there was this ice cream truck that came down my street playing the them to Rosemary’s Baby. I kid you not. He drove around the block about six times each night just playing that tune over and over. And he was in competition with this other truck who was playing It’s A Small World. Talk about the powers of evil. Those two songs clashing together in the night as one truck came down the street from the east and the other came down the street from the west, heading right for each other, each turning up their music until the whole block was bathed in a cacophony of It’s A Small Rosemary’s Baby World and I would cover my ears with my hands and close my eyes thinking, it’s gonna blow. It’s gonna blow. This is the seventh sign. The streets are gonna buckle and the gates of hell will rise up out of the black top and the four horsemen will come and Robert Frost will have been half right, the world will end in ice - a torrent of Spiderman and Snoopy ice pops and Popsicles of every color of the Satan rainbow and when all is said and done, the visage of Mr. Softee will be seen in the sky, letting out an evil laugh that is 80% evil and 20 % whole milk.

I really don’t care for ice cream men too much.

Cheech and Chong - Earache My Eye
Fantomas - Rosemary's Baby
Van Halen - Ice Cream*

*oh come on, it was like he practically dared me to do it

Posted by Michele Christopher at 8:10 PM | Permalink | Comments (3) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Hey, it's time! Time to start a new list! The 100 Best Punk songs list was so much fun to do that we're ready to start up another round of list making.

We already mentioned this before, but now it's official. We're ready to start making the list of Most Offensive Punk Songs.

Let's just get this out of the way, what offensive means. We don't mean offensive to us, or to you, because if you were easily offended, you wouldn't be listening to the stuff we write about. And we don't mean offensive to someone like Tipper Gore, because, well, everything offends her. You could write a song about bicycles and she would find a way to misconstrue it to be about violent sexual predators smoking drugs and commiting suicide while chanting curse words at Satan. Oh yea, gives you new insight into Queen's Bicycle Race, huh?

So for the sake of argument (and for the sake of this list) let's say that offensive means this: If you played this song loud enough for your neighbors to hear, they would either a) report you to the "authorities"; b) hide their children from you; c) pay Rev. Falwell $100 to pray for your soul; d) wrap their house in duct tape and tin foil to protect themselves from you or e) all of the above. Or, in more simple terms, if you sang this song in front of your grandmother she would make you wash your mouth out with soap. And you probably find the song amusing, at the very least. We're talking way offensive here. You might be thinking Blink 182's Family Reunion,, but that's just a bunch of bad words strung together. We're thinking more along the lines of Meatmen's Crippled Children Suck. Or that Guttermouth song about your mom fucking a donkey.

Offsensive. Unpolitically correct. Mean. Filthy. Dirty. Deranged. Shocking. Apalling. Disgusting. Offensive.

Yea, I know some of you already gave your suggestions in another post, but let's start this up fresh. Turtle and I will be following the same method we did for the 100 songs, posting our own favorites along with a little blurb about them. I don't know how many we are going for yet. Not 100, though. That's just too much. Whim, guys. Keyword for this site is whim. And now, offensive. Mamma always warned you about people like us.

You know what we want. Give it to us.*

*no, neither of us want anal sex with midgets, thank you. well, i can only speak for myself. i'll let turtle make up his own mind on that one.

-M

Update: We've started an annotated list over here.

Some good comments on the subject over at Dean's.

Posted by Michele Christopher at 2:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (27) | TrackBacks (7) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Hey, did I mention this site now has an About Page? Ok, got that out of the way.

Yea, we've got World Cup Fever. I know a lot of you aren't really interested in some guys in shorts kicking a ball around, but we try to keep our WC posts more about the stories behind the games (or, im some cases, about sex, because when it comes down to it, everything is about sex) than the actual game itself. No one really wants to read a recap of a game they didn't care about to begin with, so we won't bore you with the details of the goals and cards and groupings and whatnot. Hell, I won't even go into the whole homoerotic group hugs that go on after each goooooal, or the time some player scored and his teammate got so excited he went down on him right there on the field. No shit. Really happened. That's football. Soccer. Whatever.

But you know how we work here. If we're gonna write about soccer football, we're gonna work in oh, the Grateful Dead, Columbian cocaine cartels and Jimmy Dean sausage. It's what we do. We try to make even a sport you hate kind of interesting to you. So in that respect Turtle has a story to tell (completely absent of any Little House references!), because he's been to a few of these World Cup games and, as always, he made an adventure out of it. -M

June 22, 1994 at Pasadena, CA
First Round: USA v. Columbia

What the hell are you all putting on? On your face? That stuff? What the hell is that? Zinc Oxide? I have to do it too? What's with the colors?

World Cup 1994!

Face covered in the colors of the American flag. Patriotism shown in the form of capitalism. Another stripe across my face. Feeling, well, kinda stupid, but doing it just the same. Applying zinc oxide in the colors of the USA all over my face. What the hell was I doing...sheesh...ok...put more on...sheesh..one more star on my cheek...a little more there too...sheesh....hand me a beer...jeez...i feel stupid...

We have to go where? Ok. Pasadena. How are we getting there? Do we even have tickets? Is that the Rose Bowl? Where the hell is Pasadena? Jesus. Let's just go.

Welcome to the turtle's first experience in watching World Cup finals. We had no tickets and no food. Twelve pack of beer and no ride out of there. So we were kinda fucked. Just a whim to have some fun. Big place. We knew we could get there. Hitchhiking's easy to get to a show. To GET to a show. But since we didn't have tits, getting home might be a problem. Not knowing how the hell we were going to get back. Hey dude, it's cool. We can do it. So we got picked up. That's what we did. It was easy. Anyone who picks up a couple of hitchhikers covered in face paint slamming back Natural Light with cigarettes hanging out their mouths gets what they deserve. I wouldn't have picked us up. We kinda looked like stumble offs from the Manson farm. Looking like we wanted to kill someone to make some weird political statement. Something about beer, face paint and Camel unfilters. Fuck if I know. I stopped caring years ago. But someone did. Someone stopped. Actually the van picked us was filled with people who all looked the same. All face paint. Well, I guess my uniqueness idea had totally been blown to shit with the sunscreen. Jesus. We all looked alike. All the same. But, I had a secret weapon. Something they didn't know about. But, we can talk about that later.

Drinking beer the entire way. Everyone wondering what would happen in the game. Who would win? Who would advance? This is the farthest USA has gotten in along time. Would anything go wrong? Was anyone hurt today? Anyone not playing?

A lot of questions going around while the only one on my mind was "Does anyone have an extra ticket?"

Oh yeah. No tickets. Kinda like a Dead show, we needed a miracle. Damn. I'm ashamed I even know that reference. I think I'm gonna go cry now. But you all damn well know you went to a Dead show parking lot to score drugs at least once in your life, so you can't bag me on that one. Cause you know you did it too. Don't lie. I did it too. Stinky hippies, patchouli oil and dope. That's a dead show. And we all did it to get high.

Driving to the match with a bunch of people who were a little older then me (notice who i didn't say a bunch of old fucks cause I'm their age now) slamming back cheap beer as they all got stoned and shoved back cold hot dogs. Couldn't wait for the tailgate I guess. Asking them if they had any extra tickets. Yeah yeah yeah. I need a miracle and shit. Making fun of me starts in 3...2....1...

Two extra tickets!

yayayayayayayayayayayaya!

Pulling off my shirt, I revealed the secret weapon. A huge "COLMBIA SUCKS OR HOWEVER THE FUCK YOU GUYS SPELL IT" written on my chest in black zinc oxidide.. Oh yeah, I was different back then. Well, not really. I still live for fun, but I went a little far on that one.

side note * If any of you are new here and don't know how World Cup works, it's like a war. Read the first post about it*

Let's go in. Oh yeah. We are going in. Two idiots dressed in shorts with face paint and halfway drunk. We should have been called the "turtle nation." Totally fired up and shot in the same second. That fucks your head up bad. Getting yelled at by Columbians while just walking by looking for a place to smoke a cigarette. Maybe you should put your shirt back on? Nah, dude. I hate Columbia. Why? I dunno. I just do. And this is still before we hit the gates.

Dude, you want to see out of control? This thing still had hours till it started. I still had beer and the tailgate was coming up. Slam your beers and get ready to make friends if you are out there. Talk fast. Pretend you can speak Spanish and get ready to laugh at some fucking wierd show on TV they are watching. You wanna eat? You better be able to talk. Rules of the tailgate. You gotta kiss some ass to get in on those chicken wings. It's like watching natural selection at work. Those who can't bullshit and make friends get no Jimmy Dean's Sausage Patties. And that's like death on the Galapagos Islands. No Jimmy Dean. No life.

Maybe I'm going a little far on that one. Jimmy Dean wasn't that good.

But anyways.

I wander around the parking lot looking for someone I can attach my parasitic teeth into and get some free food. Maybe beer! Someone. Anyone. Who looks cool.....the Columbians over there. They look cool. They are having fun. I want to be there. Now. I want to be there. Follow me. Maybe they have some Columbian version of Jimmy Dean. Or maybe they have Jimmy Dean but it's called something different. Jesus Desories. It's like Jimmy Dean sausage with a side of cocaine. And maybe a few beers. And maybe more cocaine. Whatever it was. It smelled good. I like like Columbians. They cook good smelling food type stuff, so they must be cool. These are my friends now. These are my friends now.

Oh yeah. USA fans?. They aren't too much fun. They don't know how to do this right. I wanna get high and all my stereotypes about Columbians are coming out in full throttle. Cocaine cartels. Cocaine cartels. Cocaine cartels. All Columbians have cocaine. I think it comes daily in the mail to them. Cocaine....cocaine.

These guys were big. Not only were they big, they were loud. Walking up to them, I kinda killed the idea of asking anyone for dope. I've already got lucky enough from getting a ticket. Why push it? Let's just get a free burger and call it a good day. These guys were the kind who you think, that might be a gun in their hand or a chainsaw. Or maybe I watched "Scarface" too much. Didn't matter. They drank a lot and ate alot of BBQ. Hey, that's cool in my book. Let's have some fun and get this going. Call me an asshole American all you want. As long as I can call you a Columbian cocaine cocksucker we can be friends. Just hand me a burger. I can be friends with anyone as long as they hand me a burger. Even the English.

See, you have to realize that this was the first, and so far the only time, that a British team has not been in the World Cup finals since they started to participate in the tournament. So they were kinda, well, pissed. I guess there's no other way to explain it. They were pissed. Their fans who had bought tickets six months before and flew to the USA? One word, dude. Pissed. So when one of them started yelling at the crowd about how bad Columbia and USA sucked while I was getting a hotdog, you know I had to say something. "Hey kid. Look around you. Do you see who you are surrounded by? Might not be a good idea to keep yelling that. This is getting a little ugly here kid. Cause they will stop you before you start. Just think about it before you tell us all we are pig bastards motherfuckers again cause here's your warning."

Hey, sorry England. You didn't make it but hell, we didn't get that far so who am I to say anything.

Walking downstairs. Tired from the heat, beer and frustration. Just wanting another beer, and a smoke. Then I heard it. I heard a cheer. The entire floor was jumping! People were screaming! Something happened! Something so loud it blew my ears out. See, this is back when I could hear. Now things are a lot more muffled. But this place went wild! What happened?

Slammed my beer and ran up to see what was going on. Pushed people out of the way to see. What was going on? Who scored? Are we out? Are we in? Do we advance?

We scored!

We are going to Palo Alto!

Fuck yeah!

They are going home!

We had won.

A Columbian player had shot on his own goal keeper. Trying to pass it back? I dunno. I really didn't see it. Hotdogs deserve a man's full attention. Hotdogs demand to be praised and worshiped and covered in mustard! Cause that's what they do! Worship the dog of of the gods!

Plus they are fucking five bucks a pop so might as well suck every meaty goodness out of them cause eating one of these means you are out of beer money for tonight. But damn, they are good.

Anyways. Whatever happened happened. Scored on his own team. Passed it back to the keeper as his eyes were focused somewhere else. The keeper had missed it.

That player had put us through. The Columbian. Simple mistake. He put us up in the ranks, but killed his own team. But, this was not good for him. You could see it in his eyes. He looked terrified. He had signed his own death warrent and lit his last cigarette. His team hated him. His country hated him. He was kinda in a bad situation.

When I saw the way his team looked at him at the end of the game I knew this was no good. He might have fucked up bad.

In 1994, defender Andrés Escobar scored an own goal in a World Cup match against the United States; shortly after the team returned to Columbia, Escobar was murdered. For his mistake.

That's World Cup.

Sometimes shit happens.

And sometimes it's all fucked up.

I told you this was serious.

This is World Cup. -T

Nashville Pussy - All Fucked Up
7 Seconds - Here's Your Warning
Steel Pole Bathtub - Train to Miami

note from M: Turtle's a pretty good storyteller, isn't he? You can just picture him sitting by a fireplace, telling stories to all the wide-eyed kids in his family who have gathered to hear his tales. Well, no. Scratch that. Don't want to frighten the kiddies or worse, turn them to a life of debauchery. More like sitting around with a bunch of people like you and I who stare at him incredulously half the time saying you did what? How are you still alive? I don't know about you but I enjoy the hell out of his stories and I just want to thank him for sharing them with me and all of you. He spends a lot of time on this stuff (including the underground stories) and sometimes, for various reasons, these things aren't always easy for him to write. But he does, because he likes to make people smile and laugh. It's what he does. And I think he's pretty good at it. -M

Posted by Turtle Jones at 10:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

It's Father's Day! Yay! Father's rule. Well, some of them. The ones who just want to watch the golf channel and eat at a crappy Chinese restaurant. They are cool. Or maybe that's just mine. But that doesn't matter.

This is a day to say thanks to someone who put up with you for years and years and years. Bailed you out of jail. Picked you up when your car broke down. Laughed at your stupid jokes. Tossed you out when you wouldn't listen to him. But always kept kept loving you. Sure his disappointing head shakes got smaller over the years, like he knew this shit was coming and just ducked his head down, but you always knew....he is your dad.

So today, Michele and I pay tribute to dads across the country. Thanks for taking care of your baby's momma. We love you and don't want to see you crying on the Maury Pauvich show asking for a paternity test. You took charge and became more then a man. You became "Dad."

Thank you to all the dads out there. This is your day. Have some fun and get some free food. Let someone else cook and just enjoy it. Hell, send your kids out to get you a Slurpee at 7-11 just for fun. Kick your heels up and watch bad TV.

Just remember. You shaped us. Without you. Nothing

So in honor of Father's Day we decided to write about the best fathers in TV and movie history. It's pretty obvious who I'm going with. It's pretty obvious who my better half is going with. That's just the way we work. You guys can see through us like a black fishnet stocking. We wear our feelings on our sleeve. This is the way it is. We don't hide much from you. Have fun. Tell us about your father or your favorite TV or movie father. Just have fun and remember...without him picking you up, you wouldn't be here. I love you dad. And no, I don't wanna play golf today. Have fun guys.

Charles Ingalls - Little House on the Prarie

Oh you knew it was coming. I watch the show all the time. It's referenced here all the time. I always talk about it. It's always in my stories. You knew it would show up. So don't be fucking surprised. Hey, the guy was a cool dude. He knew how to love his family and hitch up horses at the same time. He took care of all the kids while managing to have sex without the kids hearing.

You ever have quiet sex? It's a bitch. Yet he did it all the time. I wake the fucking neighbors up when I masturbate. So think about what he had to do. Bondage gear in the 1800's? Ball and gag?

He must have loved his family to do that.

I could see Nels as a good father but he was such a fucking pussy. I can't, in good conscience, say he was the best father on the show. He was to busy with Nellie to take care of Willy stealing candy. Hm. Not a good father. But who am I to say.

Oh yeah. I listen to punk rock while watching it. Kinda a mind fuck if you watch it naked. Weird, strange things happen to you while listening to bad punk while smoking a cigar and being totally naked while screaming at Willie to stop stealing candy at nine in the morning. See dude. Little House. Hardcore. Naked Little House. Hardcore, baby.

Hey dude. That's what I do.

But there was one father on there. Pure as the Arctic snow. Charles. Charles Ingalls.

Jesus christ this guy was perfect. He always had some gig in episodes. Something. Something happening with him. Something he was doing wrong. Usually about dames, but hey, dames? Who could figure them? But he always learned his lesson at the end. He put his family above everything else and always wanted nothing the best for them. But.........

That aside, he took care of his his family and seemed to have a lot of fun doing it. Work was hard and times were rough, but Charles put his family first. Asking where "half-pint" was at and wondering if some one was going blind. Always usuing simple conversation to talk people down. Just talk to them and let them get your point. Everything could be explained with a few calm words.

That was something I learned from my dad. If someone is screaming at you cause of your dog or someone just doesn't like you....calmly tell them that if they don't stop...

... you will kill them.

Well maybe Charles didn't teach me that.

But anyways, he was one of the coolest fathers on TV. He was a man who learned from his mistakes and stood up for his family. He was cool. He is the epitome of Father's Day.

Happy Father's Day to my father. A man of who took it all and kept going. The one man who stood by me no matter what happened. After all I put you through, you deserve this day.

And I got you some cool golf balls!

I love you dad.

You kick ass. - T

Darth Vader

On this father’s day I’d like to talk not about my own father, who’s a pretty nice guy and all, but about one of the most misunderstood fathers to ever exist. Well, exist fictionally.

On this Father’s Day I salute you, Darth Vader.

Misunderstood. That’s how I describe him. See, that whole scene in Empire where he tells Luke the deep, dark secret and then tries to get Luke to join him? That shit plays out across the world every day kids. Fathers trying to get sons to turn their backs on their college degrees or cool jobs to take over the family business. What’s so bad about that? So what that the family business here meant destroying civilizations. Business is business and family is family. These are the ties that bind. When your dad says, “I need you, son. I need your help or our family business will die off and then what will I do? Retire to Tatooine? Get a job as a valet in Cloud City?” You say “Ok dad.” Even if your father is kinda hideous looking and maybe spent most of his life blowing shit up and killing children and being just an arrogant prick, and even if your dad had the unfortunate experience of being portrayed by Hayden Christiansen and uttering lines like “Hold me like you did at the lake on Naboo,” you still need to remember that without his seed, you would not exist and for that, you owe him, buddy. You look him in his eyes and tell him, "Yes, dad. I will join you. I will help you." Lie to him if you have to. “Yea, dad, ok, I’ll take over. We’ll rule the world. Sure, dad. For Father’s Day I’ll buy you a new Death Star and a tie, ok? We’ll play golf on Corsucant. We’ll go skiing on Hoth. Yea, dad. We’ll rule.”

Look at what Vader did for his kid. Killed the Emperor. Destroyed his master just so his son could live. That’s love, man. Even though Luke was nothing like him and kind of a pussy and wouldn’t take over the family business when asked, Vader killed for him. Died for him. That’s a kick ass dad. He deserves more than just a tie.

So Happy Father’s Day to Darth Vader and Happy Father’s Day to my own dad, who has put up with more of my shit than he deserved and who still hovers over me like I’m ten years old but hey, that’s what fathers do. He’s a great dad. If he asked me to join him in building a Death Star and taking over the world, I would. But that’s just because I like blowing shit up. Plus, I kinda owe him. -M

Here's a little something extra for you that I made last year. It's a "figure out who the fictional dad is" thing.

click for bigger

Angry Samoans - My Old Man's a Fatso
Black Flag - Family Man
Descendents parents
Gwar - Pure As The Arctic Snow

Posted by Turtle Jones at 9:35 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Faster Than The world has an about page now.

Anything else you want to know? - M

*I want to know why Michele bagged on Little House so much. I know I have a problem, ok? But let's lay off the Little House, ok? But that's just me.......- T

p.s.We have one of our weekly posts over at Wizbang, but I think the readers over there are not quite as accepting of colorful language as you guys are. Feel free to add your commentary over there.

See, you guys get it. Others, not so much. It's why we dig you.

Posted by Michele Christopher at 7:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

So Michele and I were sitting around this morning wondering what the hell to do pre USA World Cup. She has something to do today and I need to nap. Yeah. I don't move that much on the weekends. Starting to get the turtle name? And she flies. She has a cat that screams all day, for christ sake. So she has to. I just have a sleeping dog. My dog barely moves. So it kinda works out. But anyways, we wondered about something to do today. It can't be that long. We don't have that much time. In a few hours you lose us to World Cup,stuck on the TV, and depending on who wins, you might lose turtle all night. But thats just what happens. So what to do?

Turn on your stereo. All of you. Right now. Or your WinAmp, iTunes or your CD player. What are you listening to? Honestly. Don't get all badass and pull out something like out of control that you know you haven't heard in ten years.

Michele asked me honestly to tell her. Type up a review of the song. What was playing right now. At this second. Tell me how I felt about it. I asked the same. Add your own in cause this will become a weekly (or more) feature if you guys like it. Us just jumping out and asking you to tell us about the song you are listening to right now. Turn the music up cause here we go. Ready?

Michele's song

Pantera - "Good Friends and a Bottle of Pills"

Man, this idea is gonna kick me in the head one of these days. I’ve got over 10,000 songs on shuffle in my Winamp because, for the sake of pure honesty, I loaded up every folder, not just the one titled “daily listens.” So I’ve got everything from Air Supply and Anti-Flag to Zao and Zeke in here. So it's not always gonna be punk rock. Yea, that’s right. I said Air Supply. Wanna make something of it, then step up, because “All Out of Love” is a badass song and I will defend it to my death.

So what did I end up with today? Pan-fucking-tera. After three straight days of practically listening to nothing but Fang’s “The Money Will Roll Right In” on repeat, this is like a kick in the nuts. Well, if I had nuts.

I fucked your girlfriend last night. A song about banging a chick while her boyfriend snores and drools in a drug/drink induced sleep. A mean, mean, mean fucking song on so many levels. Phil talking his way through this as if he just woke up from a heroin coma, and then the screaming and the slow, drawn out cadence of the music, makes you feel like you’re trudging through muddy nightmare of drugs and death and drunken sex and a depravity so low that you end up thinking, god damn, I hate this fucking song. I hate Phil Anselmo and I hate this song. Why couldn’t my Winamp have landed on “I’m Broken” instead? Or hell, I would have taken “All Out of Love” at this point. This song fucks me up. Listen at your own discretion.

*pours out a 40 for dimebag*

Turtle's song

Pixies - "Caribou"

The start to an album that really is kinda cool. I can't tell what album it is on because it was stolen many years ago and I'll I have is a burn. But, as we said whatever was playing we would review. It's too bad that after reading the lyrics, I still have no clue what she's talking about. Meh. It happens.

Kim Deal's voice was what brought me into the Pixies and later to the Breeders. She always sounded to desparete. So kind of, well, like sad. It was like she realized this was the end and this was it. Seems like in all the songs, unless she was singing with Frank Whateverthefuckhewantstocallhimselfthisweek, she always seemed sad on this album. The only song she really sounded happy on was a love song on another album. About sex in the shade? Ok. I'll admit. I had a crush on her. But, we said we had to do this honestly. So there is. I had a crush on her voice. Frank was always too pissed. His voice was like he was just angry about ...nothing? But it was different with her. She seemed to slow it down and add a human tone to the band. It was really kinda sad. Like she new everything wasn't right in her life. Everything was starting to suck.

But she was going.

If she was still going.

Why couldn't you?

So what's playing for you right now?

Pantera - Good Friends and a Bottle of Pills
Pixies - Caribou

Posted by Michele Christopher at 12:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (9) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Since this is World Cup month we have to decided to focus on something a little different. USA is playing Italy today. So that means the typical thing. Turtle hides till it is over cause he can't watch, then either is happy or pissed the rest of the day while Michele types up tons of material just waiting to the end to call turtle. It's just the way it is and have come to terms with it. But, in the meantime, we thought we would do something fun. We have decided to do something Italian. Not like have sex with an Italian or anything like that, althought it's always on your shelled swimmer's mind, but talk about their cars.

Well, I don't know how much of the game I'm going to actually see either, because my son's baseball team is playing in their league's championship game today. Damn it all. Well yea, I'm happy they are in the game but I want to see USA play, too. Would it be rude if I brought one of those hand held tvs to the game? Hey, don't laugh. I once listened to a Yankees World Series game on my Walkman during an REM concert. And dude, the Yankees lost and it was still better than sitting through that. But that's all off topic. We're here to talk shit about Italians.

See, I can make fun of Italians because I am one. That’s the way it works, right? Good. Then let’s do this.

Ever date an Italian guy? I mean a real Italian guy, the kind who slicks his hair back and wears muscle shirts and an Italian horn on a gold chain around his neck, which chain sometimes gets caught in all that chest hair? The kind who says “fuggedaboutit” or talks like Rocky Balboa searching for (Yo) Adrienne? These guys are all slick and wily and there’s just something about them that says “Hey, trust me. No, don’t trust me. Don’t get in this car with me. Cause while I may tell you that you’re beautiful and I only have eyes for you, all I really want is to cop a feel of those titties and see where it takes us.” You get in the car anyhow, hoping against hope that it will be a good date, but it turns out the guy can’t hold a conversation above third grade level and his mind tends to wander even then. All style, no substance. Kinda like the Lamborghini.

What? I’m gonna bag on the Lamborghini? Damn straight. Ok, here’s the thing. I don’t really care for Italian guys. They aren’t the kind of guy that turns my head. I like mine with blonde hair and blue eyes and a vocabulary that stretches beyond the boundaries of one or two syllable words. And some tattoos. And not tattoos that say “Italian Stallion” or “ragazzo dei momma.” Same with cars. I don’t care for the Lamborghini. Too much....something. Just too much of everything maybe. I like my cars fast, yea. But I like them to look tough, too. Not like some automotive equivalent of a guido. The way the hood slopes down in the front makes the headlights look almost menacing, as if the car is saying “Hey, trust me. No, don’t trust me.” Really, if you look real hard at it, it looks like a car that just wants to get in your pants. Like you’d get behind the wheel and drive it and think meh, this car is a sloppy kisser who can’t fulfill my needs. Never mind that it looks all put together nice and is all sleek and shit, it’s just not what I’m looking for. I mean, look at the back end. Come on, is that necessary? It looks like a fucking jet pack or something, like the car is trying to make you think it can lift off and fly you away somewhere nice. When all it really wants to do is entrap you inside and feed off your soul. What? Have you never seen the Lamborghini Diablo?

Give me a good American sports car over this any day. Like a Mustang. A Mustang tells you what it is right from the start. It looks at you and says “Hey, I wanna be your friend. Let’s go for a ride, play some tunes, drive real fast and just have fun together. What happens after that, happens. But we’re gonna have some fun together.” It’s not trying to get up your shirt or down your pants. It’s not making evil eyes at you. And it doesn’t have more back hair than Magilla Gorilla.

What I’m trying to say here is..umm...go USA! Yea. - M

Oko. I'm gonna be the first to say I only know one Italian that talks like what she described above. Hey dude. I'm not from New York. I've never seen Saturday Night Fever. When that movie came out I was still figuring out what this outtie was on my skin. Why didn't they have them. Those girls over there. Why didn't they have them.

Show and tell was a little different for me. Oh yeah. I was a playa in third grade. Don't hate the player, man. Hate the game.

Hey, she said blond hair? Didn't she? Up there? Didn't she? Blue eyes? Tattoos? Michele? Are you talking about me? All you have to do is add in a rabid love of "24" and you got me nailed.

Anyways, I'm just gonna keep going til I figure this one out and think about getting Nachos for dinner. See. Right there. You can tell I'm from California. I'm not used to this 100% Italian shit. We are all mutts here.

We broke a frontier and fucked anyone and everyone. Hey dude. If it's walking and breathing, we could give a flying fuck about where the fuck their father or grandfather was from. Only if it has tits and a smile and spread its legs. But that's Califonia. How do you think the Bay Bridge was built? Sex. It was all built on sex. Just one wild sex farm building an entire state. We like sex. That's why I love California. And I'll sink with it when it falls into the seeeeeeaaaaaaaaa.

*See how I tossed in a punk rock reference there? I can do that. Cause I'm the mayor.

But I digress.

Jeez, Im all horny now thinking about Charles getting some on Little House while screaming "How can I cum! Laura's blind! How can I cum?!?!" Hey dude. My mind works like that. Frontier sex and blindness. Don't ask me were it comes from and don't ask me to write just after I woke up either or you will hear a little story about Mary getting in to make it a threesome. That's just the way it works.

Ok. Sorry about that. Let's get back on to the car.

That's it. Maserati 3500GT Spyder. That car meant you were rich as fuck. That car was success and stupidity all rolled into one "I make alot of money" joint and smoked in public. A car that you would see in LA and just think...producer, director, actor, or rap star. These cars meant you had cash coming out your ass. Those were the type of people who drove these things. These were the cars that attracted the snooty uphand citizens of society. Nothing made me hate these cars more. Arrogant assholes. These meant you had so much money, you could blow it on a car like this while I was shoplifting ding-dongs and cigarettes. Damn you. Nothing cou.....wait.....hold on.....wait!

Ted Nugent drove one!

The Nuge!I They must be cool!! He killed things with his bare hands!! His bare god damn hands! The Nuge!

Ok.

Then these cars must be cool. Cause hey dude. If Nuge would drive it. It is cool. Cause he is a cool guy. And cool guys drive cool cars.

Plus he kills things with his bare hands. -T

New Bomb Turks -Tattooed Apathetic Boys
Ted Nugent - Wango Tango
Youth Brigade - Sink With California

Posted by Michele Christopher at 8:29 AM | Permalink | Comments (5) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

This is the 12th in a series. Tales of an anonymous punk rocker. This whole series came out when bird met turtle and some words were exchanged. This is the product of both their travels. Enjoy it.

Ok......what's going on.....wait......

Waking up with a hangover. Sleeping on a floor. Covered in beer. Wait, more beer? Wait. Is someone pissing on me? What the fuck? Open your eyes, god dammit. The night is over. Do it now. Fuck. What's going on? Fuck. Where am I? Stop that. Who's doing that? Move. Now. Wake up. Open my eyes. Someone pouring a fucking beer on my chest at six in the morning?

I moved fast and just stared in my usual confused morning look.

"You fucking dick. What the fuck? Why did you do that? Where the fuck are we at........"

"We are near an ocean. Get it? Coors Lite? Like water? I thought it was funny. Well, it's kinda funny if you think about it. But near some ocean. Fuck if I know. One of the two big ones."

Well thanks Dan Rather for that clear concise infomation. That helps a hell of alot. Why don't you tell me why you are dumping a Coors Light on me before I give you a report why I'm kicking your ass. Fuck dude. Just shake me, god dammit. I have never really slept that hard. Or did I? You didn't need to dump a beer on me, asshole.

I had no idea where we were. I knew I smelled the ocean. I knew we had to play at some fucking college. I knew something....fuck...i needed a beer. Well, that's not what I knew but I knew something was happening. I couldn't see straight the night before. I remember just slamming back warm beer after a show. Passing out at this house, I think. Maybe it was somewhere else. I needed water. Drinking so much beer the night before. Losing any kind of mosture in my body and barely able to drive. I could barely fuction. No bueno.

Oh yeah. I drove the van sometimes.

I remember driving around with someone pointing and someone yelling and all of us drinking. That's all. Serious guys. Back then I didn't fuck around. We broke some laws. But you could prolly figure that out by now.

So what the hell happened last night?

I sat on the sofa and thought. What had happened? We played a show. I know that for sure. But after that....

I was lost and trying to find someones home by some beach by the ocean that had a roof and food and something about a TV with some kinda cable thing and the floor had carpet and if I was lucky it had a pillow but if not I had my arm that could hold my keys and those keys went in the van and that van moving and moving ruled, dude. You get a free pizza if you help someone move.

So you can see, I wasn't pushing all the gears here, guys. In fact, if I was a car, I'd be running in first. Or was I an automatic? Or maybe it was a big phoenix that rose out of the ashes. Guys, I was shot. When all your friends start to look like Alex Trebec and you start answering things in the form of a question, maybe it's time to slow down on the drugs there a little.

So imagine waking up to a water fall of beer on your chest the next morning. Wondering. Confused. What the fuck are we doing today? Why am I on the floor? What day is this? Where are my clothes? Why am I naked? Where is everyone? Why is shitty beer being poured on me?

Walking outside while someone is yelling at you that we have a day show in San Francisco. At the college.

What? What college? Where? What? When? Now? Are you serious? Ok. You got it. Lemmie just wash my face.

Hearing in the back as I walked in the house. Throwing a shirt on.

"We need to leave now!"

oko. Let me get my pants. Somehow I ended up naked last night. Don't know how that happened. Wait, I always sleep naked at home. This wasn't home. I don't know anything but to wash this shit off my face and chest. "We need to leave like fucking now! It's at noon today! On the campus! Pull your fucking clothes on and lets go!"

oko...gimmie a sec...I tied one on hard last night...gimmie a sec...hold on....cigarette...hold on....

*disclaimer...I never played the groupie thing...I just sleep naked...hey...it's what I do...gimmie a break*

Dragged outside by my arm, trying to light a cigarette while seeing the ocean. Wondering where in the fuck in San Francisco we were. I've lived in Chinatown before and none of this looked familiar. Gotta get my bearings. Gotta figure this out. Where am I at. Where am I at....

"Hey guys, where are we at?"

"Santa Cruz."

"And we have to go to fucking San Francisco? Who's bright fucking plan was this?"

"Yours. You said they had a keg at that house last night. That's why we went."

"I did? Really? Really? That doesn't sound like me......Well, did they have one?"

"I can't remember."

Well I'm gonna have to guess they did cause everyone in the van looked like shit. Really bad. Just lying around feeling bad. You could feel it, smell it, hear it, and fuck man, know it. This was a beat down crew. We went too fast last night. Hey dude. It happens. Like the last cigarette in pack, when you are running low you need to suck the last bit out until you drop and throw the pack away, we had sucked out our strength. We needed a break. It showed. We usually would have to go about 15 hours to stand or fall for the next show, but this one was like four hours till we had to go? And we are two hours away? And set up time plus required getting fucked up time?

Oh yeah.

We might have made a mistake on this one.

Rolling into the campus shot as hell. Not thinking about anything except moving the gear in. Sweating beer, drugs and Taco Bell. Busting our ass to get to the show. Making sure all the strings were tight. Pulling every trick we had to get the last life out of the strings. Tightening up and setting up. Medical tape and beer ready. Pulling off the shirt and waiting to go, wondering where everyone is at. No time for a check. Put the set list up. We know what we need to do. Stand or fall. Let's get this fucking thing going.

Who the fuck is this guy running up?

"Hey guys...we only have time for you to play one song before the next class starts."

WHAT????????????

Oh.....

Fuck......

You......

"Could you guys just make it a short one? Just have fun and play one? We have Cokes in the back! Just play a short fast one. We need to get this going, guys. Just play."

Oh yeah. We will play. We are gonna motherfucking play till you shut the god damn power off. You woke our ass up and got us here for one song? One god damn song?? Jesus fucking christ. Usually someone buys me a Coke before I get fucked, but one song? Jesus fucking christ!

Ok. We will play you your one song. It's a new one. You might not have heard of it. It's called "Everything We Have With No Breaks Just Cause You Pissed Us Off."

So we went. We just kept going. Who were we gonna piss off? I could give a fuck less about whomever they decided to call sound this week. Fuck man, they looked as wasted as us. The kids didn't care. They looked as wasted as us. So we didn't stop. We keep going. Playing until our set list was done. It was just one of those things. You asked us to come. Wake us up. Didn't feed us. Didn't pay us. And then ask us to play just one song? Are you fucking kidding? What opium den did you just come from? Cause I need to find it. My "No Care" level needs to be up to where yours is.

So they shut the power off. Meh. It was gonna happen. I knew to just keep playing till the speakers said "no bueno." Pissed off basically about the situation and about everyone laughing at me. Waking up too early. Playing when the sun was up. Being hungry. Being tired. Being hungover. Being sick. I could get why everyone was so go giggly. That happens with lack of sleep. It happens. You get used to people not making sense after awhile. When you sweat blood, you will laugh at a thumbtack if the sun hit it right. But what the fuck was so funny this morning? And this afternoon? Why was everyone laughing? What the hell was going on?

I walked into the bathroom. Pretending I got the joke. Whatever the joke was. Looking in the mirror.

Dammit.

Someone had wrote "Insert penis here" on my face from the night before. A drawing of a penis on my cheek pointing at my mouth. An arrow pointed at where it should go on my lips.

Dammit.

That's why they pulled me away from the mirror this morning

Dammit.

And I just thought that all day, the guys in the band were just laughing at my jokes.

Dammit.

I knew my jokes weren't that funny.

Dammit.

FEAR Free Beer

Posted by Turtle Jones at 6:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

We are still on a little break. We need some time to laugh. This isn't what this site is about, really. We kinda have dedicated it to cars, punk rock, and memories. But we were bored today. Turtle slept and the Michele slept. We have put out a lot today and tomorrow we have a lot more. So just for fun, yeah I know another fun one, we thought it would be fun to describe our favorite video games. Just one. And a fun story. This might become something of a list if there is enough interest, but who knows. We work weird here. But for now..two video games with why they meant something to us. Add your own and we will see how this goes. Have fun!

Something you may not know about me - I’m a hardcore gamer. I cut my teeth on pinball machines back in the 70's and I’m still going strong today with about six different consoles in my house plus a working C64 that I use to play games like Last Ninja and California Games. So when Turtle and I were talking and the subject of video games came up and he said ‘let’s write about arcade game tonight’ I jumped at the chance. And then he started bombarding me with links to Pong. Yea, I get it. I’m old. Thanks. But let me tell you, dude. Pong ruled. You may think it was just a simple game where you hit a white dot back and forth against two lines that were supposed to be people, but there was a lot more involved. It was social commentary. It was all about the futility of life, the dawning awareness you get at 3am when you realize that this is all there is, just a back and forth, back and forth, never ending game of throw and catch. Well, hell. I had to find some way to make that game interesting. I tried to turn it into a game about the Cold War, but no matter how hard I squinted, I couldn’t make Player 1 look like Kruschev.

I lived in arcades for more years than I care to mention. I can’t imagine how many quarters I dropped into those machines. I kinda miss those days. The thrill of stuffing a paycheck's worth of quarters into a slot. Spending almost entire days controlling joysticks and trackballs, mashing buttons and shooting insects and riding ostriches. I played every game out there, from Death Race to Galaxian to Tron and Dragon’s Lair and Ghosts and Goblins and Tempest and Defender and, well, you get the point.

There's one game that sticks out in my mind from those days.. This was around the time I was graduating high school and you would think I’d start behaving more like a grown up and less like a kid jacked up on speed and quarters who spent her school lunch hour in the local pizza place pressing buttons and jonesing for a high score. But no. The lure of the games was just too much. Nothing could pull me away from that pizza place, or the 7-11 or the arcade. And especially not the local bar (whose name escapes me) where a game called Berzerk sat in a dusty corner, begging for my quarters.

“Intruder Alert! Intruder Alert!” I can still hear that loud and clear in my head as if I was still standing there, beer balanced on a barstool pulled up next to the machine, quarters laid out in a row as if to say to anyone else “This is my place. I’m not leaving. Don’t even think that you are going to get anywhere near this game tonight. Cause I am on fire and fucking Evil Otto is going to die a brutal death this evening.”

Except Evil Otto could not be destroyed. I knew this, knew this was how the game worked and there was nothing I could do about it, but that did not stop me, especially when I was drunk, from thinking that one more quarter, one more game, would let me somehow find some deep, dark secret hidden deep within the code that would let me destroy Otto. I was at war with this evil overlord. He haunted my sleep. He kept me awake even when the bedspins would die down. Do you know what Evil Otto looked like? He looked like this: Evil fucking Otto was a bouncing smiley face. Oh, don’t let that smile deceive you. You could feel the evil oozing from Otto. You knew he was bad despite the happy grin.

This game was frustrating to say the least. You couldn’t touch anything. Not a wall, not a robot and especially not Evil Otto. You just had to maneuver your humanoid around and hope that all the robots would kill each other off and you could escape into an opening in the wall before Otto bounced into you.

“Chicken! Fight like a robot!” What? Is this game mocking me? “Fuck you!” I would yell back at the machine every time that voice called me a chicken. If I was drinking vodka, I might kick the game or threaten the disembodied voice with bodily harm to both it and its mother. If I was drinking rum, I would just feel hurt and cry. “I am not a chicken! I am not a chicken!” Someone would come over and hand me a shot of something fiery and I’d throw it back, take a deep breath and challenge Evil Otto to come get me, motherfucker. When I would actually kill all the robots and escape through an opening, the voice would say “The humanoid must not escape!” Dude, that’s kinda scary. I mean, especially if I had been smoking pot and was all paranoid about Evil Otto killing me in my sleep to begin with. Now this voice is yelling out that I must not escape? I would rather it call me a chicken. That’s freaking creepy.

You think I’m a wuss for being afraid of a stupid bouncing smiley face? Check this out:

Berzerk was the first video game known to have been involved in the death of a player. In January 1981, 19-year-old Jeff Dailey died of a heart attack soon after posting a score of 16,660 on Berzerk. In October of the following year, Peter Burkowski made the Berzerk top-ten list twice in fifteen minutes, just a few seconds before also dying of a heart attack at the age of only 18.

See, dude? Otto was indeed evil. He still shows up in my dreams once in while. "Intruder alert!" -M

I'll be the first to admit I don't play alot of video games. I play pool. That's one thing that's different from the Michele and I. Michele rips those fuckers up, but I never did. Video games were just an excuse to drink beer. Something to do when some god damn kid on your pool table couldn't sink the 9-ball. " C'mon dude. Knock this fucker in. People are waiting. C'mon dude. This isn't fucking rocket science. C'mon dude."

What to do? You couldn't go up to him doing an Arnold Swarzenegger impression and say "Game Over" and shove the ball in the hole. Well...yes...yes you could do that, but thats only when you were really tired of seeing the fucking ball hit the side so many fucking times it reminded you of Woodstock always trying to fly and Snoopy just getting pissed that the bird always hit the ground. No matter what. He always hit the ground. "What the fuck is wrong with you, bird? Can't you fucking fly?" That kinda shit. So that was my only exposure to video games. Frustration and boredom from some fuck who couldn't fly. Just not really giving a fuck but wasting time.
Well, there was one game. One that was the biggest I'd ever seen. One that was intimadation. Pure intimidation. When you looked at it , the game looked like a puzzle. Something weird with four sticks and a bunch of buttons and a bunch of players. Do you know what it ended up to be for me? A lot of quarters. A lot of god damn quarters.

Gauntlet!!!

Yeah, you guys know the game. The game that once you started you just couldn't stop. One that was incredibly frustrating, stupid and impossible. The maze game. Yeah, you know it. Don't lie. Everyone has lost about 20 bucks at the minimum on it. This game needed its own Swiss bank account for the money I alone put in it.You know it.That huge one where you and three and your friends could waste a day playing.

This game was class cutting dope pure and simple. Fuck school. That pizza joint opens at 10. The hell with Math. I want to ba a fucking Elf! So off we went. And I'll be the first to admit and can't add two plus two but there are other reasons for that. But this game didn't help me try to learn my ABC's.

This game dragging you in and wouldn't let you out. You couldn't die on you friends, can you? You can't let your friends down, can you? What the fuck, man? Your friends are in there fucking dying, man! Get fuck back in there and give them a fucking hand, man! The fuck is wrong with you? They are fucking dying, man! What the fuck is wrong with you? Get that fucking quarter into the machine before those god damn ghosts kill them, man! If they die cause you couldn't get change for your dollar fast enough..their blood...look at your hands...that's on it. So get those god damn quarters! Fast!

If this game didn't start the Crips and Bloods, I don't know what the fuck did. I keep looking for that game everytime I watch "Colors" thinking that if this is not in there, Dennis Hopper isn't worth shit as a director. Cause man. This was a game that was all about gangs. You and me. We will get through this. Will fight and die for each other. Just don't fucking shoot me and don't fucking shoot the food or that god damn annoucer is gonna tell us that "Shooting food is bad." Yeah. Thanks fucking Einstein. I figured that one out years ago when I bought my first AK in the back of a Burger King parking lot. Told you guys. This game was pure gang.

This game was so gang that when I worked at a warehouse, it was referenced. Yeah, I worked at a warehouse. There was a hardcore Crip that worked there with me and we never got along. Nothing we said to each other was right. He yelled at me. I yelled at him. I was his boss, so I kinda could say a lot and he was a hardcore gangster and would say anything he wanted. Worked out nice. One person calling the other an "gangster asshole" while the other calling him a "whitebread motherfucker". It worked out nice. Mutual hate.

Sounds like a speed metal song. "Mutual Hate". Maybe it is already. Fuck if I know.

But, I digress.

We both had worked all day unloading pallates for some dumb ass company that sold small pieces of vacuum cleaners. Really. I'm fucking serious. Vacuum cleaner parts. Who in the fuck would repair a 60 dollar vacuum? Fuck dude. Throw it away, for christ's sake. But I guess I was wrong. This place had shipments coming in everyday. All day. We worked hard doing all this and we didn't like each other at all. Never talked. Well, barely talked. Giving each other evil scowls all day long, we had to unload a huge truck. We finished it. We did it. That was huge. That was alot of parts. Tired. Beat. Covered in sweat. I sat back on the wall. Lit a cigarette. He sat next to me. Breathing hard. Both like two wounded warriors who had been doing this too long. Both just giving up.

The roach coach came in. Signaled its horn.

At the same time, we both said "Elf needs food... badly."

Both heads turned to face each other. Sweat dripping down our faces. Looking at each other. Staring each other down in the eyes for a few seconds.

Then we both just laughed.

I handed him a cigarette as we walked off to get shitty tacos.

And we were friends to the end.

Cause that's the way it works.

You battle together. You eat shitty tacos together.

Kinda Zen if you think about it.

That was Guantlet -T

Circle Jerks Live Fast, Die Young
Iggy Pop Lust For Life
Offspring - Bad Habit
RKL - Dead Teds

Posted by Michele Christopher at 11:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

We as writers needed a little break. We needed to have some fun. Just to laugh for a few minutes before we got back into the usual pace we are at. Which is pretty fucking breakneck. Sitting back, thinking of what we wanted to do today, we both remembered something that cracked us up a little but ago and we decided to kick it in as our afternoon post. Something we just mentioned about cars that we got bombed on reader comments. So what the fuck. Let's do it again. You guys seemed to liked it before and we need a laugh. Ready?

Movie Cars Part 2!!

Yeah we don't do this that often, but we wanted to have fun. So enjoy it!

Bluesmobile - 1974 Dodge Monaco

A car that was bought at a cop auction. Powered by god himself. What the fuck? Cops and god? And cigarettes? And Nighttrain wine? And being late for shows? Oh...this is classic. This car could move through anything. Get away from anything. Escape from anything. It could do anything. It would even kill its own kind to get to the Cook County Assesor's office in time. Those orphans needed saving. They needed to hear the blues. This car was the one that would do it for them. They knew it, god knew it, and it knew it. It could do anything. Well, almost anything. It couldn't light your cigarette. You were on your own for that. Broken lighter.

It's had a cop motor, a 440 cubic inch plant, it had cop tires, cop suspensions, cop shocks. It was model made before catalytic converters so it ran good on regular gas. It could do anything.

But it had a broken cigarette lighter. That was the only sucky thing.

See dude. That's fucking cool. This car was power. Not in engine wise power. But the backup behind it. It was on a mission. It would get through this. It would help you. But it sure wasn't gonna be happy on regular gas. Sure, that's a thing of the past now. But back then, a car that could take the cheaper gas was like an over the hill hooker at a bar who still could fuck your brains out, but you could see the years in her face and you wouldn't have to pay as much. Beat the fuck up looking. But just moving. Powered by god to just keep moving. And moving faster. Like cops had been using it for years and it got out. Just to help two people who were fucked up. Three fucked up souls. Two human. One Bluesmobile. All together. They were gonna get into this show together and they were fucking gonna get out together. God commanded it. I think it was even in some chapter in the bible or the Koran but don't quote me on that.

One of the best movie cars of all time. This car had life. It had fire. It knew evil. It knew good. It knew what it had to do. Sure it didn't like these assholes sitting on it or that cheap gas. But it had to do what it had to do.

This might be the "turtle took too much acid as a kid thing again" but who knows?

This car was cool.

It didn't have a shitload of power or look that cool. But once it jumped that bridge, you all know you fell in love with it.

And you know you all cried a little when it died. That car...died...no....

It had done it's job. It had gotten them to them to the Cook County Assesor's office. This car helped two souls get out of purgatory.

A car that cared enough to die for them and kill its own kind.

That's like the ending of "Old Yeller".

Pure tears. - T

The Mystery Machine

Let me preface this by saying that I never really liked Scooby-Doo. I didn’t watch the show in its original airing, but when it switched to ABC sometime in the mid 70's, I got stuck watching it at my friend’s house because for some reason, most of my friends found it amusing. Or maybe they just didn’t know better. They were content to get stoned and sit in front of the tv, all slack jawed and red-eyed and hands stained by Cheetos, mesmerized by the day’s mysterious entity doing mysterious things in mysterious surroundings. Not me. I kept saying to them “Guys, don’t you realize it’s the same mystery day after day, just with different characters? Don’t you realize that there never really is a ghost, it’s always just some batty old person trying to wreak havoc on the world? Wake up, guys, you are being played!” But I watched anyhow. I watched for one reason. The Mystery Machine.

See, my mind works in mysterious ways (see how I worked a variation of ‘mystery’ in there? It’s the word of the day!). Instead of focusing on the lame mystery, I focused on...well, no. Focus isn’t the right word. My mind would drift. Was it the drugs? Was it the banality of the show? Who knows? I just know that each episode of Scooby-Doo got me thinking about what really goes on inside that Mystery Machine.

Hey, this was the era of vans. Customized vans were all the rage. And, as I’ve written about before, the insides of these vans often looked like a bizarre amalgamation of Liberace’s decorating sense and Hugh Hefner’s fantasies.

This was the Mystery Machine, man. If the van is rockin’, don’t come knockin’. Know what I mean? We’re talking teenagers here. Well, hmmm. Are we? Were these ghost hunters teenagers? They look kinda old, don’t they? Were they young adults? I never paid enough attention to the show to figure out. But now I’m hoping they were at least of age of consent because in my mind, all they were doing in the back of that Mystery Machine was partying. And by partying I mean snorting lines of cocaine, performing sexual acts that would make John Holmes blush, worshiping Satan and sacrificing small animals and virgins. We’re talking Rosemary’s Baby and Hunter S. Thompson meet Behind the Green Door. Total debauchery.

Hey, don’t look at me like that. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not into cartoon sex or anything. Turtle is the one who was going on the other night about Barney Rubble getting laid. That’s his gig, not mine. I was just imagining what goes on inside every van of that kind. I was high, ok? My mind would wander. Mystery Machine. What was so mysterious about? What darkness and depravity lurked behind those sliding doors? We’re talking bad ass van, people. You have to know that when the mysteries were all solved and the bad guy was in jail and Scooby was tied up in the backyard like a normal fucking dog, those kids kicked back in the Mystery Machine and drove around looking for virgins or a good dealer.

Ass, gas or grass, baby. Nobody rides for free. -M

Dwarves Back Seat of My Car
SNFU Trudging
The Dicks I Hate the Police
Speedealer Double Clutchin Finger Fuckin

Posted by Michele Christopher at 10:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Ok. It's over guys. This is done. This is what you wanted to see. How it all turned out. The results of the 100 Best Punk Songs poll:

Thank you to everyone who participated in this, from those who made suggestions of songs, to those who contributed songs to the list and to everyone who voted. We got way more votes than I thought we would and we had a lot of fun today reading your comments (here and on your blogs) and watching the totals. Thank you to anyone who linked us cause without you, we would be alone.We hope you had as much fun doing this as we did writing all the reviews. We know there were disagreements and we expected that, but it was all in fun. But thank you for showing up. Enough with our bullshit, lets get to what you want. Just keep in mind that you all had the chance to make your votes - and make as many as you want - so if you're unhappy with the list here? Remember two things: you had your chance, and it's just a list, man. In the larger scheme of things, this will affect your life about 0%. And hey, I know my favorite song won. But it wasn't me, dude. I swear. I had nothing to do with it. If I was gonna stuff the ballot for one of my favorite songs, I'd be less obvious about it.

The Top 15 songs as voted on by you! Ready? Here we go! - These are the reviews originally posted in the list. mp3 linked in song title, number of votes in parentheses, and reviewer listed at end. Again, thanks for making this a whole shitload of fun. - M/T

1. Minor Threat - Salad Days (93)


Almost everyone who has added to this list has a favorite Minor Threat song. So I'm gonna get mine up here first. Because I can. The slow start, the build up, the anticipation because you know the song is gonna kick any second and then MacKaye starts in half singing, half talking in that frenzied way - and that's one of the things I aways dug most about Minor Threat, is the way his vocals make it seem like you're sitting in a bar with him and he's just going off about something (and this is also true of why I love Fugazi and, on a different but same tanget, 7 Seconds). And listening to Salad Days you know it's the last thing they did, so you sing along with the lyrics in a wistful kind of way but you think, what a hell of a way to go out. -M

2. Misfits - Some Kind of Hate (88)
I'm trying to narrow my Misfits songs down and damn, it's hard. But I think out of all of them, this one best exemplifies Danzig's penchant for masturbating with his own voice. You won't get this kind of "I'm a real singer, damn it, listen to me croooooooon" again until much later on (when he was solo) with "You and Me (Less Than Zero)." And I'm not saying that like it's a bad thing. Danzig was at his best when he was making sweet love to himself. Plus, you gotta dig the whole Phil Spector type music, as if the Ronnettes were gonna suddenly bust out with maggots in the eye of love won't copulate. -M

3. Social Distortion - Mommy's Little Monster (56)
Ok. I know Social Distortion is on here a lot. It just was gonna happen. There are people who found them at the beginning and thought they were too punk, and people who found them in the end who thought they were too mellow and sold out. All I remember is seeing them at shows looking like they wanted this to end. This was way back. When you could feel this song. Feel the song and anger and frustration and futileness of being a punk rocker. We were built for this, but it didn't mean we were gonna win. We were all just fucked up kids trying to get through another day while trying to get laid and get high. Hey, something fun to do in your spare time! If you really want to have fun.....try singing the lyrics! Mike Ness has a voice that you can't get to. I just sounded lame singing this song on the phone yesterday to Michele. That's his voice. Gutter and hard. Great song about being beat down before you grew up. -T

4. Bad Brains - House of suffering (47)
Man this band kicked everybody's ass. When I heard this song eminating from a stereo i knew it was going to be a good party. I mean anyone can sit through the intro and "I Against I," but when they let it play through to House of Suffering you pretty much knew they were going to play the whole album. - Kali

5. Dead Kennedys - Holiday in Cambodia (39)
One of the first punk songs I ever heard that proved to me that some punk guitarists actually knew how to play. Politics aside, DK has always had a powerful sound and Jello had a vicious wit to match. "Holiday in Cambodia" catures everything good about this band without getting terribly cheesy. - Cullen

6. Husker Du - New Day Rising (34)
This song is like fifty hits of speed shoved into your veins with a needle that's been dipped in pure adrenaline. It's fucking primal scream therapy. It's stomping on the ground and shaking your head and kicking the wall and maybe taking a chunk of plaster out of the spot behind your bedroom door and you really don't fucking care, you are just ripping shit off your walls and throwing books and empty beer cans around and screaming along with the song - and I mean throat tearing, from the bottom of your stomach sreaming - which you play 43 times in a row until a neighbor bangs on the window and asks if you are ok and you are like. Fuck yea, I'm ok. I'm better than ok. Cathartic. - M

7. Sleater Kinney - Dig Me Out(30)
Who are these guys? What the hell is this? Is this punk? Three ladies from Portland or Seattle or some rainy fucking state. I don't know. But something was different with this song. Something that made us all look at the CD and wonder what was with it. Oh fuck. There's only three of them. Well thats ok. What's different. What's going on? Fuck. Wait. That's not a fucking bass. Is that a bass? No. That isn't. That's a toned down fucking guitar. That's weird. But also. That's really fucking cool. Really cool. This is a great song that opened this band to the entire world. Started an album that didn't stop. A song about just being bothered by someone. Dig me out dig me in. Love and frustration. And getting ready for a show. I think. Fuck. Idunno. It could be about chili dogs for all I care. All I know is this song rocked. - T

8. Subhumans - Susan (22)
This might not be your favorite Subhumans song. You might not even call it punk rock. But to this day I still know the lyrics. This song always came up in my head when I saw someone who just wanted out. Trust me. A lot of people in my life wanted out and were just forced to keep going. But, they just wanted out. This tells you off a story of one girl who wanted out years before but couldn't go. A weird, dark song about her just wanting to die but staying alive just for others to smile, but in the end giving up. A really sad song about a girl who was forgotten in the end. -T

9. Sex Pistols - God Save the Queen (21)
The Pistols created quite a stir when they performed this song on a cruise ship on the Thames during the Jubilee Celebration. While the British press was all wrapped up in the fanfare of the Queen's Jubilee and celebration the nation's glorious past, the punks, led by the Sex Pistols, were turning their backs to the pomp and declaring independence from the celebrated past. The Sex Pistols commentary was expressed in a phrase that became the rallying cry of punks in '77: "no future." -Andrew

10. The Stooges - Search and Destroy (20)
I don't think there's much debate that The Stooges are the first real punk band. The created the sound that launched the New York Dolls who in turn launched The Sex Pistols and inspired The Ramones. Search and Destroy shows us the angry, anti-hippy angst that was bleeding out of the Motor City. -Cullen

11.Suicidal Tendencies - Institutionalized (19)

The first time i heard the "what're you tryin' to say, i'm crazy?" speech, i knew i was punk rock. iI had found my voice through Mike Muir. And I rode the angst train all the way to the station. - Kali

12. Ramones - Beat on the Brat (18)
"Blitzkrieg Bop" kicked off the revolution with a "Hey! Ho! Let's Go!", but this one is more typical of what appeals to me with the Ramones. It works on so many levels at once, and it's the blueprint for most of their future songs. You can use it when you're angry. You can laugh at it (they don't really mean it...right?). You can take it as autobiographical (kinda like "sittin' here in Queens, eatin' refried beans, gulping down thorazines...") Plus, it rocks the hell out. -Solonor

13. The Clash - London's Burning (15)
As unfashionable as it seems to be (maybe it's just me), the Clash are my second favorite punk band. The opening of this song is classic. Joe Strummer screams, the guitar and drums pound out a fanfare, and we're off. The lyrics aren't much for much, compared to other songs, but I just change "London's burning with boredom now!" to "Bangor's burning with boredom now!" and go on with my little teenage angsty life. -Solonor

14. MC5 - Kick Out the Jams ( 13)
So I’m in the car with my 13 year old son, listening to the punk rock station on XM radio and this song comes on. Kick out the jams, motherfucker! Kid says, hey this song sounds old. I said yea, 1969, dude. This is like the original punk rock song. The original punk rock band. He says “they said motherfucker in 1969??” That made me laugh. But hey, he rocked out to the song and immediately hit his Fender when we got home to try and work it out. Over 30 years later and some 13 year old kid is laying down your notes on his guitar and thinking it’s one of the coolest things he ever heard? Rock on. -M

15. Angry Samoans - Lights Out (12)


Hey dude. Theres not much to say on this song except to quote them. "We weren't the best but we rocked the hardest." Jesus, dude. What the fuck was with these guys? A band from LA in the LA scene who fucking didn't care about anything but breaking things. While others were singing about love on a couch they were singing about poking your eyes out with a fork. I'm telling you, this song rocks. *Disclaimer* This site has no responsiblity if you poke your eyes out with a fork. -T

Other songs getting votes:
Clash - White Man in Hammersmith Palais (11); Richard Hell and the Voidoids - Blank Generation (10); The Clash - Complete Control (10); Black Flag - Depression (10); Social Distortion - "Ball and Chain" (10); Dead Milkmen - Bitchin’ Camaro (10); Operation Ivy - Sound System (10); The Damned - "New Rose" (10); Bad Brains - Banned in DC (10); Jonathan Richman - "Roadrunner" (8); The Jam - Down in the Tube Station at Midnight (6); Minutemen - Corona (6); Husker Du - Divide and Conquer (6); nomeansno - The River (6); Jim Carroll Band - People Who Died (5); D.I. - "Richard Hung Himself" (5); Germs - Lexicon Devil (5); Misfits - Bullet (5); Fugazi - Promises (4); GBH - Knife Edge (4); Circle Jerks - "Back Against the Wall" (4); SOD - March of the SOD (4); MDC - I Remember (4); Minor Threat - It Follows (4);' Black Flag - Rats Eyes (3); Social Distortion - Reach for the Sky (3); Buzzcocks - Fast Cars (3); The Business - Harry May (3); Vandals - Change the World With My Hockey Stick (3); Circle Jerks - Live Fast, Die Young (3); The Damned - "Love Song" (3); Spermbirds - My god rides a skateboard (2); TSOL - Code Blue (2); Fear - Gimmie Some Action (2); Dicks - Dicks Hate the Police (2); SNFU - She's Not On The Menu (1); Hellacopters - Fire Fire Fire (1); Exploited - Sex and Violence (1); Dr. Know -Watch it Burn (1); Radio Birdman - New Race (1); DI - Youth In Asia (1); 7 Seconds - Remains to Be Seen (1); Negative Approach - Evacuate (1); Fang - An Invitation [to a Suicide] (1); Flipper: Life (1); Butt Trumpett - I'm Ugly And I Don't Know Why (1); Refused - New Noise (1); Rancid - Sidekick (1); Turbonegro - Don't Say Motherfucker, Motherfucker (1); Steel Pole Bathtub - "Train to Miami" (1); Dwarves - "Let’s Fuck" (1); CIV - "Set Your Goals" (1); Fang - "Money Will Roll Right In" (1); Generation X - Your Generation (1); MDC - My Family’s A Little Weird (1)

Again, thanks to everyone who helped make this fun. We kinda put a lot of work into this, so if you want to complain about anything, do so with the caveat that we're probably not listening. I don't mean to be, well, mean, but some of you (yea, I'm talking to you) really need to untwist those panties a bit. This is about having fun. FUN, damn it! In the immortal words of Murphy's Law: 'cause you gotta have fun. Fun! Christ, you gotta have fun. Fun! In the sun! Cause you gotta have fun.Fun!

We did. Hope you did, too.

Posted by Michele Christopher at 8:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (5) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Well guys and girls, this is almost over. This is the final stretch. Like a jockey beating the shit out of a horse's ass, this is moving. And this is moving fast. You can see the top three. Don't like them? Then keep beating that horse's ass till you are satisfied with either a wreath around the horse's neck or just a pissed off horse with a sore ass. Did we fuck up? Was this stuffed? Are we having fun yet? Is this a Zippy the Pinhead comic? I don't know anything anymore. Wait...I do know something.. .You have 3 hours to get your votes in. And this isn't like some VH-1 fucking special on the hundred greatest hits from the fucking 80's where you had no say and sit around wondering why Dramarama wasn't on it. Or was it on it. Fuck I don't know. But this is the core of what we have. This is what we got from you. Choose quick and choose often cause Taco Bell is closing soon and we have to leave. Or maybe it's open 24 hours now...idunno. But this is over soon.

You are running out of time!...Thats so Jack Bauer ......kinda cool if you think about it. In like some eyeball cutting way. Or maybe that's just me. Minor Threat is taking over the world as the Misfits try to export some nerve gas to some country named Bad Brains where they smoke so much dope they add to global warming.

I think I watch that show too much.

Or took too much acid as a kid.

Doesn't really matter. All that matters is you have three hours a half hour.

What songs do you choose? -T

The top three as of 9pm EST:

Minor Threat - Salad Days
Misfits - Some Kind of Hate
Social Distortion - Mommy's Little Monster

Bonus song! Dramarama -Anything, Anything (oh come on, you know you love it)

Posted by Michele Christopher at 8:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Just gonna stick this reminder up here: exercise your right as an American and a punk rock lover and VOTE!

Angry Samoans. I'll be honest and tell you guys that when this band played, I never wanted to see them. I seriously thought they were a bunch of huge Samoans that were really angry. Hey, I was a kid. The last thing you want to think about when you are a kid is some fucking huge Samoan with no shirt on, guitar hanging off his huge man boob yelling at you.

Not a pretty sight.

So I kinda thought that might not be too cool to see. So I didn't. I was a kid. Really young. The next time I heard them, it wasn't them. It was a cover by the Accused. But it was one of the coolest songs they did. Forks and eyeballs. Wow. "The Accused did a really good job on that." "Did a good job on what?" "The cover" "The cover of what?" "Angry Samoans, dumbass."

So there I was. Forced with having to buy the album. A song so cool from a band just needed to be heard, nah, demanded to be heard. Who were these guys? I went out and grabbed this. I wondered what it must be like to play this fast and this quick. What this must sound like live. Plus one of the song titles cracked me up for personal reasons, but anyways. This stuff was fast and noisy and, well, out there. As obnoxious as the Meatmen, faster than fuck, and moving at a breakneck pace. This was a much forgotten band that to me, was a great inspiration.

This album told the world "We may not be the best, but we rock the hardest."

Fuck yeah. - T

Ok, I already told you how I used to call those Wild Samoan wrestler dudes Angry Samoans. But it sticks with me. Every time I listen to this album I think about Captain Lou Albano and that pony tail he had on his beard. Anyhow.

Back From Samoa clocks in at just under 16 minutes. That’s the whole album. 16 minutes. This whole fucking album takes up less time than an intro to a Dream Theater song.

What can you do in 16 minutes? Hell, I can’t even cook dinner to this album because it’s over before I’ve even burned the chicken. And really, “They Saved Hitler’s Cock” is not the most appetizing music anyhow. Hell, the whole album is a crash course in offensiveness. And everything is played at this blinding speed and sung like a cocktail of espresso and speed was handed out in the studio, and you find yourself laughing at the lyrics and bouncing off the walls and the whole thing is like, well, you ever read those Captain Underpants books? They are stories full of fart jokes and toilet humor for kids, but for some reason teachers and parents still think it’s good literature. Back From Samoa is like Captain Underpants for punk rockers. You kinda listen to it with a Beavis and Butthead grin on your face, but you know that underneath the whole idea of poking your eyes out with a fork, there’s some god damn good music there. It’s killing time! Todd killings! -M

Angry Samoans - Steak Knife
Angry Samoans - My Old Man's a Fatso
Angry Samoans - Todd Killings
Angry Samoans - Lights Out

Posted by Michele Christopher at 10:26 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Just a reminder, the voting is still going hot and heavy below. Someone is spending an awful lot of time voting for the Misfits, but we opened ourselves up to that by allowing you to vote more than once. There's always gonna be some clown with a keyboard and a mission to fuck shit up. Well, at least he's not voting for [insert my least favorite song on the list here].

Also, please remember this list is really fucking arbitrary. Aside from the reader contributions, this list consists of our idea of the best punk songs. You can see where our tastes lie....early DC stuff, mid 80's California stuff....it's what we like. Someone's always going to disagree, someone's always gonna blow a gasket that [insert seminal, important, punk band here] didn't make the list and someone's always going to wonder how a band they never heard of can make such a list. Hey, it's all in fun, including this part where everyone bitches, moans and stuffs the ballot box.

The one recurring theme I've heard from people is the lack of Meatmen on the list. Yea, that is a big oversight. But if it's any consolation, we're doing the Most Offensive Punk Song list next week and you know damn well they will show up there.

I don't know how long the voting will remain open for. Maybe until tonight, maybe tomorrow. Like everything else here, it is completely up to our discretion and we kinda work on the "whim" basis at f.t.t.w. It's what we do. So have some fun with the voting, feel free to leave profanity-filled comments and come back later for an album review or a car story or whatever we feel like doing later on. That whole "whim" thing at work.

And thanks those who threw us a link - tesco, jeff, solonor, dean, emily, dr. frank, roxanne, kali. mr. b and wcullen, steve, andrew, tigerhawk, timmer, pril, matt, physics geek .

Hey, if you linked this, please let me know because work has suddenly flitered 90% of blogs and I have no idea if you threw us a link or not and I'd like to give some props.

Yea, I said props.

Posted by Michele Christopher at 7:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

This is it folks. We hit the end. This was hard but we needed it done. This is a drop down list of your, and our, favorite songs. Vote as many times as you want for whatever song you want. If you want to hear the song, go to the side bar. All the songs are listed. If you want to see a specific review, all the posts are linked in the sidebar as well. Have fun reading and picking cause we had a lot of fun doing this. Sometimes this has been clunky, but we got through. Enjoy the vote cause in a few days we will post the results. Have fun and come out fighting.
Hey, if you want to get the voting cooking, email all your friends and send them over or, if you have a blog, send your readers over. The more voters, the more fun this will be. Feel free to bitch about the songs and/or results while you are here! - And if this is your first time here, scroll down for some posts about sex, drugs, rock and roll, world cup, sex and drugs. And come back soon for our list of most offensive punk songs. -M/T

[PLEASE NOTE THAT THE POLL IS NOW CLOSED. VOTING HAS ENDED. SEE MAIN PAGE OF SITE.]

Here are the winners

Posted by Michele Christopher at 7:26 PM | Permalink | Comments (49) | TrackBacks (14) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Well we did it! We hit 100! Tomorrow we will post all the songs, just by title and not the stories. Please come in and give us your top 10. Rate them, yell at us and tell us we suck for missing your favorite song.

So get ready for the full list to be posted, cause we hit 100, baby! This might have been a big task but we need to say thank you. Thank you to everyone who got us here. You guys helped alot and added your feelings about a song or two.

Stick around for the voting. It's gonna happen, baby. Cause we didn't come this fucking far to stop now.

This is the end.

Ready?

94. Social Distortion - Mommy's Little Monster
Ok. I know Social Distortion is on here a lot. It just was gonna happen. There are people who found them at the beginning and thought they were too punk, and people who found them in the end who thought they were too mellow and sold out. All I remember is seeing them at shows looking like they wanted this to end. This was way back. When you could feel this song. Feel the song and anger and frustration and futileness of being a punk rocker. We were built for this, but it didn't mean we were gonna win. We were all just fucked up kids trying to get through another day while trying to get laid and get high. Hey, something fun to do in your spare time! If you really want to have fun.....try singing the lyrics! Mike Ness has a voice that you can't get to. I just sounded lame singing this song on the phone yesterday to Michele. That's his voice. Gutter and hard. Great song about being beat down before you grew up. -T

[note: he actually sounded pretty good - M]

95. Vandals - Change the World With My Hockey Stick
This song was only available on the soundtrack to some shitty Ben Affleck movie. Really, is there any other kind? I can’t even find the lyrics online and I’m not gonna write them out for you here cause there’s a whole lot of them. But it’s pretty much what the title says. They are gonna rule the world - even cure global warming - with their hockey stick. What can I say? I love hockey. And the thought of ruling the world with a taped up Koho makes me smile. Helps that the song is fast, fun, typical Vandals irreverence. Plus, hockey stick. Changing the world with one. No game misconducts in my kingdom, buddy. Get outta my way. - M

96. Sleater Kinney - Dig Me Out
Who are these guys? What the hell is this? Is this punk? Three ladies from Portland or Seattle or some rainy fucking state. I don't know. But something was different with this song. Something that made us all look at the CD and wonder what was with it. Oh fuck. There's only three of them. Well thats ok. What's different. What's going on? Fuck. Wait. That's not a fucking bass. Is that a bass? No. That isn't. That's a toned down fucking guitar. That's weird. But also. That's really fucking cool. Really cool. This is a great song that opened this band to the entire world. Started an album that didn't stop. A song about just being bothered by someone. Dig me out dig me in. Love and frustration. And getting ready for a show. I think. Fuck. Idunno. It could be about chili dogs for all I care. All I know is this song rocked. - T

97. Generation X - Your Generation
Ok. The only thing I don't like about this song is that it inspired some dumb ass guy with like writing things and like pencils to write a story and tag a generation. We didn't need a tag and we didn't need a name. This was a song that was played on the jukebox for me when I was feeling down. I don't know. I liked the rythm and the guitar. Fuck Billy Idol. He wasn't such of an arrogant dick back then. This is where it started for him. He was just a kid and it shows. And from what you hear on the song, he is just like a kid. Brash, arrogant and scared. A song about forgetting the past older fuckers who wonder about what was happening to a scene while the new generation was moving on with something new. Looking at the past and spitting on it and walking away.

But hell, this was in England. I don't know what the hell was going on there. I was still playing with Legos. -T

98. Black Flag - Depression
A song about depression that plays fast and hard and angry. Because depression isn’t always about hiding your head under the pillow and turning the lights out on the world. Sometimes it’s about trying to shake a monkey off your back. Sometimes it’s about kicking, screaming, fist pounding, wall punching anger and rage. This song is about tearing your skin open just to let it all out and letting people know that if they stand by and watch this happen, they are gonna get caught in the fallout. And you don’t fucking care. It’s about throwing yourself against a wall just to get that thing off your back. Hard. And liking the feel of it when the wall meets your bones. - M

99. MDC - My Family’s A Little Weird
Typical MDC breathless vocals and speed demon music that sounds like it’s coming out of your neighbor’s garage, combined with lyrics that make you think your dysfunctional family might not be so bad. Or maybe it speaks to you, like one of those “yea man, I know exactly what he means” songs. Grandma’s selling drugs, dad’s wearing a dress, there’s dead children and lying whores and....well yea maybe my family has a few of these. So I shouldn’t be too judgmental. Glass houses and all. Not gonna say too much about it. But grandma, god rest her soul, she had to make a living somehow...hey, Dave Dictor is from Long Island. We grow them weird here. That’s all I’m saying. - M

100. nomeansno - The River - turtle's take
We wanted to do a big one last. This is going to be a two parter. One half Michele and one part me. We purposely didn't look at each other's reviews because we wanted each other's take on it. Yeah, it's that good of a fucking song. We both did it because that's what this song deserves. The words. The feelings. Pull you in. This is nomeansno. This is their finest work ever. If you listen to what he is saying, you will prolly have to sit down and cry. I would save you if my life is wasn't already sacrificed to the river. The words have so many meanings and so many interpretations. I hate to say this, but this is beautiful. Help me! Help me! Lend me your hand! Pull me out! Pull me out! If you listen to the grinding beat and the desparation in his voice, you will notice what this song is. Two drummers, one bass, one guitarist who barely plays. With Rob Wright barely hanging on asking you to forgive him for saving himself.

Because it didn't matter. His life was already sacrificed.

To the river. -T

100. nomeansno - The River - Michele's take
One of the most emotional songs I’ve ever heard. Rob Wright’s voice - think Danzig without the theatrics - layered over pounding, relentless drums and a driving rhythm packs enough emotion as is, but when you listen to the lyrics, really, really listen, every note seems stronger, every word amplified, every beat louder. This song reaches inside you and pulls out everything in your heart and soul. Love, anger, sadness, desperation, beauty, fear, it’s all there. Watching someone go under, someone desperate for your help, but you can’t do shit about it because you’ve already gone under yourself. Helplessness, despair, but something so....beautiful about it. Tragically beautiful. “When you’re born you start to drown..” That pretty much sums up the entire song. - M

That was 100! Wow! We did it! Jesus fucking christ we did it! Ok now. Voting. That will come soon. Thank you all for participating and sticking around. Now let's get these fuckers sorted out. Tomorrow the list will be up. And then we will fight for the order. Get ready cause here it comes.....and thanks for all your help.

Posted by Turtle Jones at 11:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

The turtle is not happy about what happened yesterday. I'll go ahead and say it. We better get out of our fucking group. God dammit. One down isn't that big of a deal. But, meh. It doesn't make me happy. I know... It happens. But it's always kinda lame to wake up to your team getting smoked on the daily news. Purposely going back to sleep or not talking to anyone because you really don't wan't to know about what is happening in a game you can't see. Hey dude, I isolated and slept for this game. I napped for the USA! I did my god damn time. What the fuck happened there? Grrrrrrrrrr. Since I don't go to bars anymore, I can't really participate in the live shit. And you guys already know that I don't have cable. So grrrrrrrrr.....r.... *extra "r" cause this really pisses me off*

But there was something I saw in the highlights. Something that made me remember the older days of World Cup. Bodies on the ground and people who looked to be in indescribable pain. Like they just got their balls cut off. Like the pain was so bad, they needed a bullet to be put straight through their skull so they can die an honarable death. Something was really wrong with these guys. They were hurt. They were on the ground after a mean tackle. It seemed their life might end. You could see the anguish in their eyes. See their tears. Feel their pain.

Only one thing can save these pitiful mortals from shoving off their mortal coil. One thing. Only one thing. They needed it. And they needed it now.

Magic Spray!!

Fuck yeah!

This is stuff that made humans whole again. It brought life back into wounded warriors!!

Magic Spray! Gimmie some of that, god dammit!

If you don't know what I'm talking about, Magic Spray was a bottle of Magic Water that was brought out when a player was on the ground. As he sat and prayed that jesus would take him away for his injury and thinking he would never walk straight again, it was sprayed on by the team doctor. No. Not sprayed. Covered on. Just sprayed till it dripped off of his legs. The Magic Spray dripped in and dripped off. The Magic soaked into pores. The Magic was working. The player could stand! Magic Spray!

But you have to realize....Magic Spray is difficult to work with. Too much can kill you. You have to be careful with that stuff. Pure Magic. Uncut Magic. You have to be careful. Too much would turn his leg into a fucking toad or Velvetta Cheese or something weird like that. Those who worked with this amazing vial of power liquid should not be called "Team Doctors." With a spray this powerful they should be called Wizards! Keepers of the Spray! The Wizards who held the Magic Spray, which really kinda looked more like water....but we can discuss the details later.

"A man is hurt! A man is down! Call the Wizard and the Magic Spray! Summon the Wizard now!"

A little man with a cloak comes running out on the field clutching a little bottle full of something. Was that water? What was that?

No. It wasn't water. It was Magic. He had the Magic. He held it in his hands. His work will soon be done.

Hey! That sounds like a damn good name for a childrens book. hm..it does..."Call the Wizard and the Magic Spray!"

Meh.

Knowing me it would probably end up like some lesbian bondage book with alot of whips and alot of Whopper Jr's...but I'm getting off track here.

The Magic Spray! Everyone on the team loved it. It meant that after 84 or so gruelling god damn minutes, someone took a dive so the rest of the team could breathe. Thank god someone took one for the team. I'm seeing stars, the fucking Wizard is waiting at the sidelines and it was only a matter of time before this happened. Cause he must be really hurt. Really. Rel...heyyyyyy...it's the Wizard! Can we stop talking about this now? The Wizard is out, god dammit. Someone really must be hurt. Really. I am serious. He must be hurt. He has no other motivations. Really. He's hurt.

This was the time the players all could rest.They could all sit down and ask themselves why the fuck they got into this sport. Maybe that job at dad's accounting firm wasn't such a bad idea anymore. Hey dude. Don't knock it. Accounting groupies can suck the life out of your cock while doing your taxes at the same time. Fuck H & R Block. They are H & R Suckmeoff. Different firm. But just as sexy. Accountant groupies. Asking someone if you are using the right tax form while asking them to use not as much teeth. That's golden. Pure gold. Getting your taxes done that is. For free. And the blowjob. Taxes for free. I mentioned the bowjob right? Ok. Thought I did. The free blowjob? I mentioned that, right? Blowjob.

Anyways, Looking at a player in pain thinking "please god, let him pull this off for a few more seconds, I can't fucking breathe, please stay down till I can catch my breath, please...oh fuck...here comes the Team Wizard...gotta get up. Fuck"

The Magic Spray was on and all the players collectively sighed as they put their hands in the ground and stood up. Knuckles in the pitch as the pushed themelves up. The injured player looking at his knee. Wow. It's ok again! Smile. Stand up. Dance around. Shaking his fucking leg like nothing had ever happened. Smiling and dancing around. A little shake and he was good to go!

The Magic Spray worked again! All hail the Wizard and the Magic Spray ! All hail the Spray that came down like mana from heaven! All hail the Spray! Once again it had saved the day!

All the while, in the back ,the other players stood and asked themselves "why couldn't he have rolled around for a
few more minutes? Just a few fucking more seconds?"

Magic Spray is an evil mistress. You never know when you go too far with it and someone is always gonna be pissed you didn't do enough of it.

The power of the Magic Spray.

Like with everything in life.

With great power comes great responsibilty.

That was the Magic Spray. -T

Black Sabbath - The Wizard

Posted by Turtle Jones at 6:36 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Ok guys. We have been on overdrive for the last two days to make up for us not feeling too well and slacking off for the weekend. We know we are gonna finish the punk list like tomorrow, we swear, and then figure out the voting scheme. It will be out here soon. But for tonight, rarely, we didn't know what to do. So we both brainstormed and came up with an idea. We both did drugs, right? What about bad drug experiences? I mean we all had them. You guys can relate. So here, one shot deal, is our weirdest drug memories. Cause face it, we could both fill a Wiki on how many substances ruled our bodies. This is just two of the funnier ones. Enjoy!

Well damn, dude. Which story to tell? Hey, I grew up in the 70's. Drugs. It’s what we did. You may think some Catholic school girl living on Long Island would be far removed from that, but..well, no.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Really, when someone asks you about your experiences with hallucinogenic drugs, that’s a pretty good answer. You win some, you lose some. When the L column starts outnumbering the W column, you call it quits.

Like I said, this was the 70's. Most of our drug use involved using bongs made out of household products, sitting around in someone’s art deco basement discussing Syd Barrett’s sanity or Jim Morrison’s dick. Every bong hit was chased with piss warm Miller Lite stolen from someone’s garage. Sometimes there was hash - smooth, blessed hash - and sometimes - ok, a lot of times, there was acid and mescaline.

Oh, mescaline. To this day, whenever I think of that beautiful purple microdot, I can almost feel that metallic taste form on my tongue, that signal that the mesc was working its way through my body and I was about to fly. Most of my friends preferred LSD as their means of flying. Not me. I flew the microdot airlines. Never a bad trip. Never a dull moment. And never a feeling of disappointment when you realize that the Mickey Mouse blotter you just licked was a fake. The price you pay for trusting your drug money to hippies camped outside a Hot Fucking Tuna concert. I knew that when I drove all the way to Alley Pond Park and placed my bills in Fat Albert’s hands, I was getting the real deal. Fat Al didn’t mess around. Fat Al had a reputation to uphold. And I’m sure he’s still upholding it on Riker’s Island. But that’s another story.

Let me just cut right to the camping trip. Guys, I am not a camper. Do I seem like a camper to you? Jesus fuck, no. I need electricity. I need a real bed. I need to not have to take a piss in the middle of some godforsaken woods in upstate New York. I need to not hear someone reprimand me for not using “nature’s toilet paper” a/k/a, a leaf, and using a page from their notebook instead. Fuck camping. Wait, I went. They talked me into it. I don’t know how the hell they did it, but they talked me into it.

So Bear Mountain, New York. April. Fucking rainy season. I swear, the second we got up there it started pouring on and off. We sat in this thin, falling apart tent watching the water seep in. Great, I’m gonna drown in my sleep on a god damn camping trip. Fuck this. I know we were supposed to save the mesc for the next night, but I was gonna make this camping trip work. If I had to trip to do it, so be it. I was finally able to convince everyone that tonight was the night to have our big party because if this rain kept up, we’d all be boarding a fucking ark the next day and asking Noah to make us breakfast. Let’s live while we can. So we did. Broke out the beers, broke out the bongs, broke out the mesc. All at once. I'm not gonna say how many tabs we had each. Suffice it to say it was more than the dialy recommended dosage.

Let me tell you, when you are high and drunk and feeling the beginnings of a drug induced euphoria, you don’t care if it’s raining freaking piss from heaven. You just don’t care. You open your mouth and catch the drops and think jesus christ himself is feeding you liquid gold. We cranked the tunes and listened to Shine On You Crazy Diamond echo around the mountains. We were all kind of floating. And then I heard it. What the hell was that? Singing? Guys singing? Huh? Was that....fucking 99 bottles of beer on the wall? Except they weren’t saying beer...."98 bottles of"......."97 bottles of."....we turned down the Pink Floyd and listened. Hell, I was so relieved everyone else had heard it too because if this was gonna be my hallucination for the night, I was gonna be pissed. Fat Albert would pay. But no, we all heard it. "95 bottles of Pepsi on the wall, 95 bottles of Pepsi.......if one of those bottles just happens to fall, what a waste of".....soda? SODA?

A few of us started walking in the general direction of the singing. I stopped short when I got to the clearing where the singing guys were. Dude. No. No fucking way. Bad mesc. Bad trip. No bueno. I shook my head to clear it. You ever do that when you’re tripping out? You think you can rattle your brains back to reality. But I shook and shook and those guys were still standing there. Boy scouts. No, not boy scouts. Men scouts. And it wasn’t bad mesc. It was real. They were sitting around a raging campfire in full boy scout regalia, the tie and cap and shorts and knee socks, I kid you not. They stared up at us, a couple of teenagers all fucked up on drugs, wearing soaking wet clothes, staring with incredulity at these guys and they just stared back at us until we were caught in some bizarre showdown of the stares with these dorks. Finally, I broke the contest and just blurted out, “It’s fucking boy scouts!” The lead dude (you can tell he was the lead guy because he was holding the lantern) stood up and said, kind of obnoxiously, “That’s Eagle Scouts, young lady. Eagle Scouts.” Well holy fuck, we were in the presence of super scouts! I mean, there’s nothing wrong with being an Eagle Scout, but there’s something wrong with being an Eagle Scout in full uniform on a camping trip singing 95 bottles of Pepsi on the wall at 10 pm on a Friday fucking night. Something seriously wrong. So I did what anyone else would have done under the circumstances. I said, “Hey guys. Wanna party?”

Something about reporting us to the authorities. Something about disrespect for the wonders of our natural habitat. Something about bears coming down from the mountain and eating us for breakfast.. We got bored with their lecture and we headed down toward the lake. By this time the mesc was really starting to take hold. That familiar taste on my tongue, the light buzz in my head, the feeling that this all may or may not be a dream and that I was suddenly sure I had the answer to life, the universe and everything and it wasn’t 42. No, it was.......the Statue of Liberty. What?

Oh yea. There it was. See, I had somehow found myself sitting on this huge boulder that was sticking out of the lake. And I was piloting this boulder because it was gonna lift off and take us toward...toward there. You see it? Up there on the top of Bear Mountain? It’s Lady Liberty. Lady Fucking Liberty waving her torch and she’s whispering to me. It’s like a Neil Diamond song come to life. What? You don’t see that? How can you not see it, it’s like 700 fucking feet tall? I start humming America the Beautiful. And I think about the Eagles Scouts and how I disrespected nature by making a bong out of a tree branch and I may have a tear rolling down my cheek like that Indian in the commercial.

I think it’s when I shouted Give a Hoot, Don’t Pollute, that they pulled me off the boulder and dragged me up to the tent. I was repeating over and over, Lady Liberty loves you, Lady Liberty loves you and then guys, tell her to put out her torch cause she’s gonna start a forest fire and Smoky is gonna be pissed the fuck off. I had to make a break for it. I had to get over there and put out the torch before Lady Liberty fell asleep, like that time my grandfather fell asleep with a cigar in his hand and almost burned the kitchen down. I was just about to devise a plan to escape the clutches of my friends when a wave of bliss hit me. Oh yea, Buddha was calling. Buddha was calling. Buddha was saying.....chill out, dude. Relax. I went limp. I laid down on the grass and stared up and oh shit, it had stopped raining. The sky had cleared. Hallafuckinglujah and all that. I stared up at the stars and thought I could count them. I started singing softly, "one billion stars in the sky, one billion stars in the sky, if one of those stars just happen to fall........" and then I shit you not, I am not making this up, I swear on the heart of Neil Diamond, a shooting star streaked across the sky. Wish, wish, I gotta make a wish, what the hell would I wish for? Oh yea. Music would be nice. Waste of a fucking wish, but I was in this alternate universe high. Ok, buddah of the shooting stars, I wish for some music and no more Pink Fucking Floyd please.

And I heard it. A harmonica, softly playing something familiar, something that brought back memories of a hot summer day on the back lawn of the local church, lots of kids and...oh, fucking hell. This is what I wished for? Kumbaya on a fucking harmonica with backing vocals by Eagle and the Scouts? Yea, this is where it ends. This is where I find the warm beer and drink enough to put me to sleep. The bliss of mescaline can only take you so far. When you got overgrown boy scouts serenading you with church songs in the middle of a fucking mountain, there’s only so far Fat Albert’s product can take you.

And listen, I'm not gonna say anything about Adlous Huxley and the doors of perception or any of that shit that I went on about for five fucking hours every time I swallowed a tab of mesc. I was not a hippy, damn it. I was just young. And stoned. -M

I was just sitting at home one day. Watching TV. Hey, it's what I did. I'm not gonna try to excite you or bore you with stories of how exciting my day life was. I didn't do shit. Like Barney Rubble I lived for the TV. Or was that Fred Flintstone? No wait. He worked. Sliding off some kind on dinosaur at the end of the day. Or was the the Great Gazoo? Fuck. I'm all confused now.

Frankly, it all kinda sucked. Watching TV. Eating frozen waffles. Another day. Another pack of cigarettes. Another thought that I should invest in Aunt Jemima stock. Fuck. I must be putting that broad's kids through college by now. I need to get in on this action. Fast. But wait. Hold on. Barney might do Betty in this one. Flintstones sex and waffles. He might do her here. Hold on. He might. I have a good feeling about this one. I have a real good feeling about this one. I might see a little Betty ass move up and down on a Barney shaft. Riding it till she screams about a Brontosarus or something about stone mail or whatever the fuck. I didn't care. I just wanted to see Barney getting some.

I waited all day. In bed. Well, everyday til "Mayberry" would come on the TV then get up and go to the local Junior College. That god damn whistle, those fishing motherfuckers, were the sign that I couldn't be naked any more and my dreams of Barney having a threesome with Wilma and Betty were dashed for another day.

Hey dude, you gotta dream high but you gotta expect the lows. When Andy Taylor came on? It meant Barney Rubble wasn't gonna get his cock sucked today. That's the rules of the game and I had to play them.

I was pretty much satisfied with my cartoon sex dreams, music playing and beer drinking and drug using routine. Nothing Special. Just a Monday.

But one day, my friend came over with some LSD. Something he wanted to do. He had never done this kind before. I hadn't either, but you get used that with acid. New paper, new day, new time, meh. It's all the same. Just shoot it back and become "frunk ".

I need to explain something. "Frunk" is a term we came up with. The amount of speed in some hits lets you consume an incredible amout of beer. You can drink all night. Your body, to onward lookers, is completely shit faced, but the drugs in you kept you awake. "Frunk." Fry plus drunk. Get it? We were pretty clever there. Stop smiling, dammit. We were kids, ok?

Anyways, he brought over the acid. Said we need to do this now. Like our fucking life depended on it. Like if we didn't fucking put this on our tongues now, Superman couldn't save Lois Lane and that god damn little Mr. Mxyzptlk would take over the world cause you were too sober to get het him to say his name backwards. Kltpzyxm. That's fucking hard to do.

Superman needs your help. Drop that acid. Save the world.

Ok. Let's drop it. See, I'm easy like that. You don't really need an excuse not to go college. I mean, fuck man, they make beer to be drank. They make acid to drop. And the make reruns of Mayberry to be watched. It's like god himself touched me that day and commanded me to watch what Gomer would fuck up next. Like the 13th Commandment..Thou Shall Skip School, Drink Beer, Drop Acid and Watch Reruns While Thou Will See Jimi Hendrix Singing In Thy Wallpaper.... Dude..we had to do it. God said so, dude. God, dude. Gimmie some hits and let's get on this holy quest.

I'm just kidding. God never really had a part in this. I just really wanted a beer.

So we both dosed and went to my friend's house. TV time! Yeah! I know some of you are gonna bag on me for just watching TV on acid and not exploring nature or some shit like that, but fuck man. I did this every fucking day. This wasn't a fucking field trip to fucking some wilderness to get in touch with my inner beauty. This was fucking Monday. That's all. Or maybe Thursday. Come to think about it......Does anyone have a watch? Ok....hm.

We both had our own 12 packs in tow. Cause you gotta have fun. And to have fun, you needed beer! You had to have beer on acid. Too much strychnine fucks your hands up and you shake like there's no fucking tomorrow. Try to light a cigarette blasted out on cheap LSD and you will understand the frustration. Lighter...lighter needs to meet cigarette...lighter is moving to much..god dammit.. light...meet cigarette...fuck..these two need too meet...fuck! Beer slows the shakes down. Lets you relax a little. Plus Natural Ice was on sale. Dude, free acid and four dollar 12 packs. Fuck dude. I need to buy a lottery ticket cause the turtle is all fucking win win tonight, baby! Fly me to Vegas cause the craps gonna be rollin' sevens for me.

You need beer. Well, I needed beer.Thats how bad my hands were shaking. I needed it everywhere we went. This dope was cut babe. I was losing my mind. This wasn't pleasant. Another beer. Stop the mind. Light the smoke. Close your eyes. Oh fuck! Don't do that! Don't close the eyes. Well fuck. It look like I'm just screwed then. When everytime you blink you see some weird mix of Barney Fife fucking Betty Rubble, you know you might have done too many drugs.

Cartoons fucking skinny guys with one bullet is not a pretty image.

We get to my friend's house and I'm losing it. I need to get this shit out of me. Something. The roof? Fuck no. I still have stiches from last week. The grass? No. That will just get me all dirty and shit. Inside? No. The pool? YES! I got to my friend's house, just wanting one thing. To get into the pool and stop this fucking shaking. Turtle in the pool. Twelve pack in the pool. The water was cool and the beer was warm. It was like a bunch of cold met a lot of warm and all met inside of me. It was like a big party where I was the only one. I floated around for what seemed like a lifetime. Drinking beer and forgetting reruns and finally feeling ok.

Ok. Pool time done. Sun coming down. Let's eat and find what's going on inside. C'mon turtle. Out of the pool. You need a smoke and the beer is getting wet.

What did you say? Oh shit. My brains still talking. Oh shit. I thought this was over. Hold it together, turtle. A few more hours til you can do the dance on the sofa and detox. Hold it together.

Big house. Huge house. Maze like house. What was I doing here again? Where am I at? Hey dude! On the table!

Cocaine!!!!

Oh yeah. See this is the part of the story you have to think to yourself "turtle really doesn't think things through, does he?"

My head moved. Something was different. I suddenly thought everything was wrong. Yeah, fuck you. Welcome to LSD. I know. But this was different. Something was missing....my beer. Fuck. I left my beer outside...fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.How the hell could I do something like this? Forget car keys? Sure. Forget your mother's birthday? Sure. Forget your girlfriend in a park while police are surrounding her? Sure. But the beer? FUCK! What was I thinking? Someone could grab it!

Walking back through the house. Looking, searching, needing the twelve pack, wacked out on LSD and cocaine. That's a great combination by the way if you really want to be stable. Really makes your head right. No really. It does. Going thru every room looking for it. But it had run away. No beer. It stopped loving me. I never did anything but love it. I mean sure, I pissed it out, but I loved it for its alcoholy goodness. Those were my babies. They ran away. And I didn't even get to throw their empty shells at that shithead dog that kept god damn barking.

Then I saw it.

A twelver.

And just yelling at it.

"You ran away from me!"

That little son of bitch thought it could get away! Well, it was fucking wrong. It was going to learn a lesson this time. I backed myself into a corner and drank those fuckers as fast as I could. Each time I drank one I made it look at the other cans. Faced the can into the open box. Slowly squeezed it and asked the other cans...." So who organized this escape anyways? I will make you talk. I have ways." Then grab the can from inside the box that wasn't talking. And just slam it.

The others were pointing at him anyways. It must have been him. -T

Mescaline v. LSD. You be the judge.

GBH - Drug Party
Supersuckers - I Want the Drugs
QOTSA - Feel Good Hit of the Summer
Angry Samaons - STP not LSD

Posted by Michele Christopher at 9:20 PM | Permalink | Comments (7) | TrackBacks (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I got a package in the mail today. This hella cool GBH shirt. It was from the turtle, who bought it for me on a day when I was about to have a nervous breakdown, just to cheer me up. That's pretty damn awesome.

Thank you, babe. You rule.

Yea, life gets good sometimes. Not in the sense that someone spends money on you, but in the sense that someone cares enough to do something to lift you up.

Life gets good sometimes. And then it gets better.

yea, i know i said we would stop this, but i lied

Posted by Michele Christopher at 5:57 PM | Permalink | Comments (5) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

We are winding up the list of the 100 greastest punk songs. This was a lot of work and we had a lot of fun. We want to thank all of you for helping out in this, well, seemingly impossible mission. We have eight left. Eight more. Til we throw it out to you and step back and watch you go at it like mad pirhana on some poor cow who just a wanted drink of water. The voting will be up later in the week when we finish this. But for now, the next six. Have fun thinking about which ones we forgot and get ready to bitch at us in the end cause this train is almost at the station. I feel so Petticoat Junction......anyways, the next six! Here we go!

88. The Damned - "Love Song"
Two Damned songs in one post? Hey, we don’t really consult each other before we come up with our songs for the day, so this is what you get. We’re lucky we at least chose two different songs.

"Love Song" is every romantic cliche you can think of chopped up, stuffed in a blender with a dose of ridicule and handful of cynicism, and blended at 90 mph. You can practically hear Vanian’s tongue rolling around in his cheek as he sings “just for you, here's a love song.” Like a lot of relationships, "Love Song" is fast and sloppy and hectic and over before you know it. -M

89. Angry Samoans - "Todd Killings"
How can you not love this band? They were able to pack the most offensive lyrics and balls-out fun into songs that rarely lasted more than a minute. So why this 38 second song? Well, "Lights Out" was already done and I have a thing for the name Todd. You figure that out. And really, it’s got a neat little groove going on and singing Killing Time! Todd Killings! is kinda fun and, despite their name, this band was more fun than angry. And hmm..I don’t think they were very Samoan. Though there was a time when I used to call the wrestling duo Wild Samoans the Angry Samoans and that would piss my friends off to no end. Wild, not angry, you idiot! Whatever. I always thought they should all swap names. Because these guys were more wild than angry. Killing Time! Todd Killings! Hey, that’s kinda wild, no? -M

90. Fang - "Money Will Roll Right In"
If you pay any attention to my playlist over there on the sidebar, you probably figure out that I’m a bit obsessed with this song. Here’s the thing about Fang: they aren’t that great musically. Sammytown’s voice is, well, mediocre at best. But something about them hooks me in. In this particular song, Sammy isn’t using the cookie monster voice heard later in on Landshark/Where the Wild Things Are (see "Berkeley Heathen Scum", on the list here), but an almost apathetic, going-through-the-motions voice that once in a while (I’ll be rich as shit) lifts up into something like vague anger. Somehow it works. This tune has a great, rolling guitar riff, biting, cynical lyrics and talks about fucking Brooke Shields. You really can’t go wrong. And they sure left an impression with this one as both Metallica and Nirvana covered it. (I just realized there are three Fang songs on this list. Make of that what you will) -M

91. The Damned - "New Rose"
Hey wait...another Damned song in the same post? Really? Ok. Well, we can do that. New rose. Falling in love. Falling hard. Not understanding anything that's going on but really not caring cause she is on your arm. She left him for you and that's all that matters. Hey guys, falling in love is like that. Sometimes you need to give into the confusion and anxiousness and just say fuck it. It's happening to me and I just have to hold on to her arm and everything will be alright. And it's my new rose. And you got it good. And you always knew that.You always would. You can't stop to mess around. There is a brand new rose in town. -T

92. J.F.A - "Mad Garden"
Ok enough with the love shit. Let's get down to the ugliness that is....pro wrestling! Not only pro wrestling but pro wrestling in the 60's! Wait wait wait! Not only pro wrestling in the 60's, but also, wait for it, pro wrestling in the 60's at Madison Square Garden! Oh fuck..I think I just came..that was too much for me too think about. Oh well. That's what socks are for. Anyways, this is a tribute to the past and to the great fallen buildings that once held our mighty masters and masked men. Sure it takes some time to get his voice. But you have to understand, sometimes you don't get your way. - T

93. Dr. Know - "Deprogram"
Everyone has their favorite song on the album. Everyone has a memory from this band. And everyone can agree to disagree on the best song on here. But this is my review and my favorite. Deprogram. Paranoid drug obsession while being chased by government agents. Oh fuck yeah. This has nowhere to go but down. From the first riff you can hear this guy has a little bit of paranioa even singing these lyrics. He's got agents on his back, man. He shouldn't even be here singing this, man. Three piece suits, man. They're everywhere, man. And they are out for him.. He is doing you a favor by telling you this tale. Kinda like the X-Files with a drug habit. This song rocks.

*Bonus: Nirvana doing Fang's Money Will Roll Right In
** JFA song courtesy of Punk Vault

Posted by Michele Christopher at 3:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

USA is playing their first game today - in about 40 minutes - against the Czech Republic and I thought we should at least mention it given that we've been doing all this World Cup stuff. Turtle isn't sticking around because he doesn't have ESPN2 and doesn't want to hear me going on about the game and I can't blame him (besides he already put in a lot of work today on his underground post, which is really funny if you haven't read it yet) , and I'm not really posting anything (live blogging of the game going on here) but I just wanted to say USA! USA! and umm...that's it.

Yea, I called in sick today to watch this. Well, I had a dentist appointment earlier today, but I came home to "recuperate" on the couch in front of the tv. Yea, that's the ticket.

USA! USA!

[We'll be back later this afternoon to nearly round out the 100 songs list]

Ok, I do want to say one thing. Alexi Lalas? Worst. Haircut. Ever. Dude went from looking like a wilder Sammy Hagar to looking like he was attacked by a band of gay frat boys with scissors while he was sleeping.

Gay Frat Boys With Scissors. That's the name of my next band.

Update:

My post game analysis: Well, fuck me.

Posted by Michele Christopher at 11:21 AM | Permalink | Comments (3) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

[This is the 11th in a series of true stories about an anonymous punk rock guy. This is the turtle's gig, he writes these up.]

We get a little serious now. This is when we really have to look at something behind the shows and look past the road. Something past the sweat and something more then the drugs. A driving factor that bites you in the ass when you are just starting out and don't know where to sleep. Something that everyone has had to deal with. Something that makes you stop and think you can't go much farther, but you have to get more so you can keep going. Something....

No.

Not gas for the van.

That's the fucker that made this happen. That damn van took everything. "The Sled" took all our money with a broken axel in that last town. And gas ain't cheap. But you guys know that already.

Food. Just food.

You have no idea what it is like to be in a strange town, sticky as hell, smelling like smoke, cranky as fuck, racked up on dope and beer and not even remembering why you are yelling at the drummer. "He sucks." "Oh yeah? Why does he suck?" "Cause he just fucking does." "You wanna be a little more specific?" "Yeah, ok. Cause he use's Old Spice deoderant and I fucking hate fucking Old Spice. god dammit. What the fuck is wrong with his head? Why does he use that shit? This van smells like a fucking whorehouse on fire." "OK. Calm down.....hey guys we need to eat...fucking bad...how long do we have left to the show?"

Six hours. Oh crap. Six hours. Add show time in on that and you have .....ohhhhh twelve hours or so till we get paid and have enough money to eat? If we get paid?

Oh crap.

I'm seeing elves out of my eyes and running low on drugs and I can't think of anything but some weird ass pastor from years ago who used to send out posters to his flock. Tiltman? Tillman? Tilman? Tilton? Fuck. I can't remember. All I know is I used to tweak and always get them to send me free ones. Kiss a litle ass and you get a free poster. Free ones that I would plaster on my bedroom. I had so many Tilton posters and holy oil and sacred towels taped on my wall it looked more like a baptist minister's room than some sped out kid with nothing to do but fuck with people at four in the morning.

I was kinda gone. I told you.

Not eating does this to you.

Hey. It's what i did back then. Hey, dude. My room looked cool. But anyways.....

Back to the story.

We were all wacked out and needed something to eat. No one had said anything nice to each other for a few days. You get used to your first name being "Shut up, asshole." Your middle name being "Bite me" and your last name being "Hey dude. I'm passing out. Can you drive?" It just happens some days. So we sat there. Just searching our pockets for change. Something. There had to be something. Search the floor. Search the cabs. Search the cases. Search people's asses if we thought they were holding out. Search everything. Find everything. Every penny. Every dime. Eventually me and the git tech found about a dollar.

Ok. Let's think.

Thats not enough for Dennys. So no bueno there. That's not enough for McDonald's. No bueno. That's not enough for Burger King. Shit. We are hitting the bottom here. Like hitting the bottom of the seafloor.The sand was coming fast. Shoplifting was coming to mind. Hmmm. Fuck, I can't function like this. I stopped thinking two days ago. You make the fucking call. Where do we go?

We stopped. The van was dumped in a tourist town. You know one of those towns that is just off the freeway that is entirely fast food joints and nothing else for miles around? A town you always had to wonder where the people who worked in these places came from? Did they import them daily? Where these guys are from? There are no houses for miles. Where do they live? Am I missing something? Do they all live in that hotel over there? What do they do at night? Do they go to school? Does the shake machine work? Cause I can talk my way into a free shake like no other man.

That's the thoughts that go through your head when you have nothing in your head except drugs, vodka and beer. Nothing really matters anymore but you kinda get to thinking that maybe jesus christ would make you feel a little bit better if you feasted on the nipple of the "Taco Bell" virgin!

Fuck yeah! We forgot Taco Bell! We can get two soft tacos! Fuck yeah! How could we forget about the Taco Bell? What the hell was wrong with us?

Oh yeah...vodka, beer and drugs....I get it....now....

We wandered over to the establishment with a few others in tow. Everyone was splitting up. Some went here and some went there. Most went for 99 cent cheeseburgers or some other crap food. But before we broke up, we all huddled. Not like a gay huddle. We covered that in the earlier post. We just tried to figure out a timeframe. So we didn't have to ditch anyone and pick up a new drummer cause he was too busy sleeping in the tube at McDonald's Playland to get the fuck up back to the van cause "Ronald was so nice. He just wanted me to sleep. And he was so yellow. And he had big feet. Big feet are cool. I've always wanted big feet. Big red feet. "

Not eating again, guys.

I told you.

It does something to you.

So the drummer looks at us. "OK guys, we only have twelve hours to go. We are all dead broke and just get what you can and let's get this over with and get back in the van."

Like fucking some kind of fast food quarterback trying to motivate me to get shitty food as fast as I can. This isn't the Mean Machine. You're not Burt Reynolds and we're not in jail. This is Taco Bell. Not a god damn prison story, drama queen.

Let's go.

I got my soft taco. The only thing I ate for a few days. Covered in six packets of hot sauce to kill the taste. Don't get me wrong. I could eat more, but I was broke. No more cash. No one had any more cash. We put everything in that damn van. We thought it was a deal sitting in a gas station when we bought it. Hey dude. We were wrong. The tank of that van was like a vampire that could live in the day. Fuck. One soft taco. But hey dude. One was better then nothing. Savor that damn thing while sucking it back as fast as you could so you wouldn't have to taste it. It's down. Thank god.

I smoke my last cigarette and flick it.

Out from Carl's Jr. comes the drummer. Strutting like a fucking rooster who just fucked ten hens. Finishing off a huge bag of fries and shoving back the biggest burger I had ever seen and slamming back a huge shake.

I just sat there looking at him like... "What the fuck, dude? We are sitting here sucking hot sauce to get our fucking nine essential vitamins for the day and you are feasting on this? What the fuck happened here, dude?"

"Oh...sorry.... I didn't tell you...I had ten bucks..the food wasnt that good though...sorry I forgot to tell you......"

Oh yeah.

There was retribution at the entrance of Taco Bell that day.

Yo quiero my fucking ass, motherfucker.

Told you.

Not eating does things to you.

MDC - Kleptomaniac
MDC - Corporate Deathburger
Subhumans - Religious Wars

Posted by Turtle Jones at 6:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

The Corvette. Sheesh. Well, we knew this time was coming. We ask you guys for your input about what cars to review and usually we agree about the coolness of the car. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. Doesn't matter. We always have fun. But today was different. This is how this site works guys and girls. This is little background of how we do this. We both take a subject and think about it. We don't really talk to each other about it til we start writing. We just think, then act. Whatever comes out we kick out to each other first, then to you. Our feelings and memories. Sometimes we agree, sometimes we don't. But it is an interesting process. Today's feature somehow got left in the dust. By that, I mean we both had bad images of it in our heads. Hey, it happens. What can you do? So today's car is one that we both didn't like, and we realize that you submit ideas for cars and we thank you for that, but you have to realize....sometimes they are gonna get bagged. So for today's car...the Corvette. Hold your head low today cause this one might get bad.

We keep getting asked “When are you gonna do the ‘Vette?” “How can you do all these great cars and not get to the Corvette yet?” Well honestly, guys, I’ve been putting it off because truth be told, I just don’t feel about this car the way most of you do. The majority of car freaks look at this thing and think speed, sex, coolness. Me, I look at and think....old man’s car.

Yea, dude. Old man’s car. See, I’ve never know anyone with a Corvette who wasn’t in the middle of some wild mid-life crisis that involved silk shirts, 18 year old call girls and a Corvette.

Oh, there was a time when I thought it was a really cool car. But that was a long time ago, mid 70's I guess. And then one day my father said that an old friend of his was coming over to visit and he had a ‘vette. A ‘69 Stingray to be exact. Oh yea. This was gonna be cool. He might even take us for a ride, dad said. So I spent all day imaging what kind of “old friend” was gonna show up with this car. Maybe someone from my dad’s old days hanging at the biker bar, a guy with a leather jacket and slicked back hair who said “fuck” a lot. Hey, when you’re 13 years old, it’s hard to conjure up an image of a cool guy your dad’s age. I was trying my hardest.

So late in the afternoon, the guy rolls up in this pure white Stingray. Now, I had never seen one of these up close, but in my confined little world, Stingrays were known to be cool. Right? Then why did I feel almost disappointed when I got my first glance at this car? It seemed so....feminine. Like someone offering you a cigarette and you expect a Lucky Strikes No Filter but you get a Virginia Slims 100 Menthol instead.

As if that disappointment wasn’t enough, dad’s friend stepped out of the car. It was like someone stuck a pin in a balloon. All I could hear was this hissing sound as the air was sucked out of my dream of tooling around the neighborhood in a cool car with some aging, yet cool, greaser.

The guy was about 6'9". It was like he unfolded himself when he stepped out of the car. He had a mess of dirty blonde curls for hair, and I knew without even getting close to him that those curls came from a perm. Yea, this guy sat in a beauty salon with fucking curlers in his hair. He was wearing a tan button down shirt, first three buttons undone, chest hair springing out between the gold chains hanging down around his neck. He had on brown, flared pants with a belt so tight that his huge beer gut hung down over his pants like a water balloon about to burst. Jesusfuckingchristonapogostick. I felt sick.

And that was just the beginning. I started to notice it after that. I looked for Corvettes on the road. I scoped them out in parking lots. And every single one of them belonged to some gut-heavy man in a seersucker suit and a toupee. The kind of guy who would leer and wink at a 14 year old girl. The kind of guy who thought that buying a sports car was like buying a time machine and all he had to do was start the engine and he was 18 all over again. Fuck, dude. I’m betting that beer belly and that bald spot weren’t there when you graduated high school.

So I started to associate Corvettes with old, lecherous men who probably masturbated to passing school buses. Dude, look at that picture. Look at who is admiring the car. Notice the beer gut? And one guy is wearing fanny pack? See what I mean?

And really. That is one feminine looking car. Totally a Virginia Slim. I like my cars non-filtered, thanks. -M

The Corvette.

Hmmmm.

This will not end well.....

Pick any year, any make, any size. It doesn't really matter to me. It's always gonna bring up the same memories for me. Something out of CHiPs where Erik Estrada is taking off his shirt to pull the cool "crazy kids" over or some bad pre-teen nightmare about a car that looks like a bad acid trip. Or Erik Estrada and Farrah Fawcett fucking on a beach. Her legs spread in the air. Him waving to the little boys saying "Don't go anywhere 'cause you are next."

The Corvette. Don't ask me about these cars 'cause all the memories I have of them are 70's TV shows, Eric Estrada without a shirt from some fucked up poster my friend had on his wall that he used to throw darts at. A garage of my father's friends house we used to break our knuckles in trying to punch through the sheetrock when we were bored.

Hmmm....

This is already sounding like I was molested as a kid.....

I'm not gay, ok? But I do have alot of broken knuckles.

But thats a story for another time.

We stole this car one time from my friend's dad. Jacked the keys and got that fucker in gear. The smelI of the fumes made us sick as we tried to open the garage door.

I told you this story was going down fast. Geez, that even sounds gay.....I just can't seem to win today...

I think I was about 12. He didn't know how to drive a stick and we spent the whole night drinking and grinding gears. God, that sounds gay. I need to stop watching so much soccer before I write. Too much damn hugging in soccer. I'm telling you, this site is turning weirder everyday. Reel it in turtle...reel it in....pull it back...pull it back...

But anyways, let's get back to the car. I'm not here to bag on it, but it was so...so...70's. I mean, fuck. Most of the cars I do are 70's car so the time frame was right. But this one, this one was so hmmmmm.... I think they got the motive and the body style from some designer's bad mescaline trip. This didn't look like power. This looked like the ocean on a happy day. Something someone designed while watching PBS specials and wondering if he should donate money on the next sponsorship drive.

Hey dude. The car might have had power but it just looks so...hmm...like Mr. Rogers with a hangover asking about The Land of Make Believe while shooting back a Corona. Asking why the Land is in fucking Mexico and why he had no fucking pants on. Why King Friday kept asking him if he was gonna finish that beer and why the god damn owl wouldn't stop flying around his head. I mean the fucking owl never leaves that god damn tree, so why the fuck would he pick today to do it?

"Fuck. I have no pants. Doesn't that god damn owl know today is "Mr. Rogers Gets High In Mexico" day? Jesus. I read the fucking schedule...Can't that god damn owl show me some respect and do the same god damn thing? What the fuck is wrong with him? And fuck you King Friday or Tuesday or whatever the fuck your name is today. That's my beer. Wait. I have an idea. Hold on. Hold on. You need a new name. Why don't we just call you.... "King Shutthefuckupday" and drink a few more shots while you find where the donkey act is tonight. OK? Cause this bottle can still break your little plastic head and spill your little plastic brains all over the god damn table, King Fuck. Wait. OK. That's funny.That's your new name. KING FUCK! All hail King Fuck! Finder of the Holy Donkey Act! And grab me another god damn beer while you finding it, King Fuck. And get this god damn owl outta my fucking hair!"

Just confusion. And cool red sweaters. And owls on LSD.

Cool car but just confusion.

Like a Ford GEO. Something that would only take a few people and leave the rest behind wondering what that was.

GEO...do it like a GEO...suddenly I want to hear The Geto Boys.

And if you don't already, please support you local Public Broadcasting channel. Because without viewers like you, the hosts can't get high. -T

MC Chris Fett's Vette
Geto Boys - Still
Geto Boys - Fuck Em

Posted by Michele Christopher at 4:06 PM | Permalink | Comments (7) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

We at FTTW try to put out as much as we can. As many stories as we can write. Today, my better half wasn't and still isn't doing too good. Hence my writing all alone today. She made it pretty far before til she just needed to sleep. I want to just tell you all that Michele is the bestest person there is and I hope she feels better soon.

In the meantime, this is what she was working on while I was napping. I hope you guys realize that she is an awesome person. She puts a lot into this site and kept writing when she was going down. Cause well, thats what the Michele does. Wish her well cause she's gonna be back tomorrow like a tiger on cocaine. Enjoy what she was finishing before I woke up. It was done but she never published it, waiting for me. See dude, that's how fucking cool she is. Feel better Michele. Cause this site is nothing, and I am nothing, without you. You make this site, baby.

Wanna read it?

Ready?

Here we go!

*And I love you Michele. You fucking rule.* -T

Hey, we're kinda busy watching World Cup today. We'll talk about the England game later, and some other stuff as well.

We're thinking of doing another list - the most offensive punk songs. Offensive to everyone else, of course. Not you. So if you got something for that list, put it down in the comments, please.

Back with more World Cup stuff and cars and punk rock lists and whatnot late this afternoon.

In the meantime, enjoy some of The Business's football songs

England 5 - Germany 1
Southgage (Euro 96)
Viva Bobby Moore
Maradona

(These can all be found on the album Hardcore Hooligan, which I highly recommend you purchase)

Now start thinking offensive lyrics. -M

Update: I just wanted to add to this that another list we are working on (in adddition to finishing up the 100 songs this week) is punk cover songs - meaning punk bands covering mainstream rock songs/punk bands covering other punk bands. Me First and the Gimme Gimmes don't count. As always, your input is wanted.

And yea, the turtle rules.

We'll stop now. I swear. -M

Posted by Michele Christopher at 7:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (31) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

*I do want to let you all know that this is not a soccer site. We will be doing a few games, but our usual style will continue along with the addition of World Cup. It's only a month guys. Just deal with for a bit. We will be doing some cars tonight, but for this post is about us and this morning. We will be doing the "vroom vrooms" and the "1 2 3 gos" later tonight, but for now.....it's that ball like thing time.*

First game on TV this morning. World Cup. OK. Wake the fuck up turtle. Wake the fuck up. They can do it, you've done it before. Wake up god dammit. It's not that fucking early. Wake up. Find some food and just wait.

OK.

Lets just get something out of the way. I don't watch a lot of TV so I have no reason to get cable. Yeah yeah yeah.You can call me pompous or whatever, but I just don't really watch a lot of it. So why pay for it? I'm not bagging anyone who has cable or Tivo or whatever the hell else there is, but when the only shows you watch are "24" and "Little House on the Prairie", why bother with cable? I got my stereo and my dog and that's pretty much all I need.

As long as Jack Bauer kills someone and Mary goes blind, I can live without paying for cable.

But sometimes it bites me in the ass. Like today. My ass still hurts from this one. Like a straight man in a bondage bar. I might have fucked up.

I needed to see a game.

World Cup that is.The bondage stuff can wait. Hey dude, it's still Saturday. I still got plenty of time to be tied up. This will only be on for 90 minutes. And "Big Style Bob" is always gonna be there with his whip. "24" is over for the season and Mary's always gonna be blind. But I needed to see World Cup. I needed it like a girl on her period needs a pizza. Craving it. But what can I do? I already missed the first two games and no one is gonna help me out until next week with the other games. Fuck. ABC. Shit. ok. Fuck. What do I got. England v Paraguay? That early in the morning? England Parguay? Really? No dude, really?

Shit. Ok. I'll do it. Shit thats early. I forgot about this crap. This early morning shit. But i'll do it. Shit that's early.

So I drag my ass out of bed and eat some cold pizza from the night before. Turn the TV on and watch this go.Something about cancer and berries. OK. I'm gonna take this as a sign it's not on yet. Spitting out some shit that was caught in my teeth from whatever I ate the night before wondering what the hell it was. Was the fuck was that in my teeth? Brown or yellow. Fuck. I need to stop buying food when I'm half awake. Ta hell was this? Oh yeah, the pizza. And I'm eating it again.

Why do I eat this crap? Why doWWWWWWWHHHHHHHHHHOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAA!!!!!!!!

HERE WE FUCKING GO!!!!!!!

BALL DROPPED!!!!!

Everything I was thinking I was.... tired, hungry, groggy, being naked, disappeared when I heard the crowd chant. Well, not being naked. That's just common knowlegde .Hey dude. If you are gonna get me up this early, I'm gonna be naked. I leave the house almost naked everyday so I'm sure as shit not gonna put any clothes on this early on a Saturday. Plus it's kinda funny to watch people getting hurt while scratching your balls and eating day old pizza.

Yeah, I'm sadistic like that.

Thoughts of "Look how bad they are playing" and "Fuck, this is brutal" go even better when you are naked eating cold pizza. Call me sick but it makes me giggle to see these guys playing so hard, sweating blood, getting hurt while I'm too groggy to get up to take a piss and would rather just sit here for 90 minutes than get up to go to the bathroom.Super bladder. I need a little "S" above my cock. Super Bladder. That sounds funny. It can save the world. Super Bladder.

So I won't lie. It has been four years. I had forgotten about what happens there. How it is played out. Long gone are the days of throwing shit all over the field like paper and all that kinda of crap. Well, at least in world cup. I still remember seeing ditches in Mexico to stop fans from storming the fied. It was like a moat to keep people off the pitch. Those days are gone.But still the old things. The chanting and all that. 'Specially with England. Jesus. Those fuckers can sing. Well, not really singing, but chanting the fuck out of everything. What the fuck are they saying? I don't even know what they are saying. This is frustrating. What the fuck? The Queen is green? Hell. Maybe they don't even know. I sure as hell don't.

So the first Group B match is now over. England 1 Paraguay 0. What's funny is that the only goal scored was a corner from Beckham that went off of some Paraguay guy's head into the goal. That was bad. This was something that got you killed in '94 if you played for Colombia. But they gave the credit to Beckham. During the whole match the annoucers called him so great for that shot. It was just a mistake. Why did they keep doing that for him? He didn't make the shot. Why?

Oh yeah. I forgot

He is sponsored by Adidas.

Adidas owns the world

-T

Posted by Turtle Jones at 4:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

World Cup kicks off today. Sure all the other sites are talking about how Germany this and fucking that. Michele and the turtle will focus on the different parts of the game today. The important parts of the game. Small things that you wouldn't really think matter, but the parts that make this game move. Things that make you drool and wonder why you have never felt your heart beat so fast while you weren't sober. Not drugs or sex or shows or car wrecks......

Vibrators, thongs and pinball!!!!

Welcome to World Cup. F.T.T.W. style......

Let's get this started right.....

I told you I would make the World Cup interesting to even those who don’t follow the sport and I am here now to fulfill that promise. How? Sex. Yea, that’s right. Sex and soccer. Err...football.

Listen, I don’t make this shit up for your entertainment. I don’t have to. It’s already out there. Witness this line of thongs:

World Cup thongs, ladies. Comes in Germany, Brazil and Italy. So be careful who you bed tonight, because if you put on one of these babies and you pick up some Brit in a bar, the scene when you start stripping for him could get real ugly. Hey, I don’t mean to put a damper on the sexuality here, but this is World Cup we are talking about. Most football fans would turn away a sure lay if the chick was wearing the wrong colors. It’s like a Crips/Blood thing, dude. No Crip worth his gang signs is gonna fuck a Blood chick, and no Brit is going to get into bed with a woman wearing a Brazilian flag on her pussy. Hey, if he’s drunk enough he might dry hump you and then go to confession in the morning. I’m just saying, buy the thongs at your own risk.

Anyhow, it’s not really the thongs that I want to focus on here. I found what is obviously ultimate way to bring sex and soccer together. I introduce to you, the Victory Vibe.

Oh yea, ladies. This one’s for you. Well for you too, guys, because this can work on so many levels.

Let’s take a look at the specs here. It’s got four different heads, an insertable length of 3. 5 inches, takes 1AA battery and hey, it’s waterproof. The 1AA battery makes me think this thing might be great in theory, but not so great in practice. I kinda prefer something that takes a nuclear reactor to power. 1AA battery? I’m sure my finger can work harder than that in less time.

But I digress. We are supposed to be talking about World Cup here. Ok guys, I found a way for you to get your girl to watch the games with you. Simply buy this Victory Vibe. And then tell her that every time your team scores or the other team takes a penalty, she gets to turn the Victory Vibe on. But only like ten seconds each time. See, this will keep her interested in the game. She’ll be cheering for goals and for the whistle to sound in no time. Sure, she won’t really be paying attention the game, per se, but dude, you get to watch the game and get to watch her have an orgasm. Eventually. Unless it’s a scoreless tie with no penalties. Then you’re screwed. Or not.

And ladies, if your guy is watching too much World Cup and you want to tear him away from the tv, it’s pretty damn simple. Take the Victory Vibe, go to the bedroom and have fun with yourself. Just remember to yell out GOAAAAAAAAAAAL! It may not bring him running, but it will probably confuse the fuck out of him. -M

I damn well know none of you are gonna read this part of the site. And I damn well know I'm in the backseat tonight. And I damn well know none of you are focused on me. Hell, my cock was hard the whole time she wrote hers, so I understand. Believe me. I understand.

Girls and vibrators make me melt so I'm barely focused as I write. Something about the thought of a girl with a World Cup vibrator just does something to me. Like bees and honey. I have been melted. Kinda shuts me down. Cum and soccer and a girl I love. Oh yeah, like you could type after that. But, I must press on, mein readers, and continue to type. For this is what is what helps the Michele smile and the turtle laugh.

But dude. Chicks and vibrators. That's a hard act to follow.

So instead of telling a cool story, I'm gonna talk about something else.... Not vibrators. I have enough of them. Don't ask. Instead.... I'm going to talk about pinball!!! Specifically, one machine....

World Cup Soccer!! Yeah it had a dumb dog mascot who had a dumb name. STRIKER! The dog that was so happy it fucking made me cry. For god's sake, if you are gonna have a fucking mascot you might as well make it look mean. A fucking happy dog. Jesus. Oh that's intimidating as fuck. No really. It is. I swear.

Yeah, it was a dumb mascot. Fucking happy dog that fucking belonged in a Hannah Barbera cartoon. But it was a cool game. You could trap the ball, stare at that fucking dog's eyes and hit it. Penalty shots and all that shit. Wait for the keeper to move then hit it. It was a cool game and mostly it was more about cool memories. You could nail the shit in there from the corner while a little goal keeper moved back and forth. Roll around and pretend like you really won the cup when all you were really doing was losing 50 cents.

It was always kinda sad to see this game in the end. When it was broken down. This was a part of your life. Something you saw live and now it was made into a cheap part of a forgotten past that was dying. Sad day when you saw these. Too much. Too fucking fast. It pushed too much and went too far.

Old bars would buy these things and the owners never knew what it did in the past. Didn't know what it meant. Something to just pass the time as a few lowly patrons looked and kept thinking "We could have won that year.."

The bartenders just accepted it as broken and forgotten. Put a beer on it and brush the cigarette ashes away. This was a game that was over. It knew it. The bartender knew it. The world knew it. It was over.

Great game that was forgotten after World Cup ended. Much like day old bread. Forgotten. Thrown away.

Enough about a stupid pinball machine.

Let's get back to Michele and vibrators! - T

What? Am I supposed to say something here? Sorry, I'm too busy contemplating what this erotic energy drink is made from.

The Who - Pinball Wizard
Buzzcocks - Orgasm Addict

Posted by Michele Christopher at 7:58 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I just wanted to sneak in here while the turtle isn't around to say something.

I want to thank the turtle for being there for me, for inspiring me, for believing in me and trusting me and for basically giving me new life. He's an amazing person (turtle?) and I just want everyone to know that. He rocks.

-M

Posted by Michele Christopher at 10:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (9) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

It begins today.

Today's matches:

12:00pm - Group A - Match #1
Germany vs. Costa Rica
3:00pm - Group A - Match #2
Poland vs. Ecuador

We'll be around later on to write about it. Hey, it's only a month. Stick with us. Even if you don't like soccer, we promise our posts will entertain you. We told you shit was gonna hit you fast and hard and here it comes. Wipe the sweat of your brow and just wait. Five more hours to go.

Posted by Michele Christopher at 6:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

The march moves on and the lines get thin. This is almost over guys. This is like the last song of a set where you are covered in sweat just wanting it to end but wanting it to go forward. We are almost there. The full list and the voting will begin the day we all hit 100. Have fun with these and keep yourself set on the goal. Cause the end is fucking coming fast and you better know which one is the best.

80. Dwarves - "Let’s Fuck"
So I’m sitting here thinking about doing a list of the most offensive punk songs. And this immediately comes to mind. And then I think, hey this should be on the 100 list too because really, the Dwarves need to be represented and what better way to do that with a song that has the lyrics I'm made of rubber/You're made of glue/I wanna stick my fucking cock inside of you? I’m planning on using this song to freak out my neighbors next time they bang that fucking basketball in the driveway at 2am. -M

81. Circle Jerks - "Back Against the Wall"
A cool song about defiance and being brought down by the man and the impotence of trying to fight back. Well, when you’re 18 it’s a cool thing to sing about because you have the whole emotion of “yea, dude, right on!” behind it. When you’re 43, it’s a cool song to sing because it reminds you what it was like to be 18 and hear that breaking glass sound for the first time; it lets you feel that fuck you and everything you stand for attitude surge up in your bloodstream again when the song comes on. At least for a minute or two before you realize dinner is burning on the stove and the dog ate your kid’s homework. -M

82. Sick of it All - "Potential for a Fall"
This list is so heavy with west coast bands, I had to get some east side represent going on. This is NY Hardcore. A voice as mean as the South Bronx, music heavy as Hell’s Kitchen. Whatever that means. I’m just trying to make an analogy here. This is part punk, part metal, all aggression. I think it’s about materialism, but really, sometimes it’s just about needing the right kind of music to play when you’re feeling all aggro. -M

83. H2O - "Faster Than the World"
Well yea, you had to see this coming. And hey, another NYC band! A great song about a band being out on the road. Typical H2O speed combined with a catchy riff, and it passes my “is this song repeatable?” test with a 5, meaning I listened to this song five times in a row one day while playing dodge-and-weave with tractor trailers on the Long Island Expressway. And if a song can make someone in a little Mazda feel invincible against those 18 wheelers, then rock on. -M

84. Clutch - "Shogun Named Marcus"
Is this metal? Is it punk? What the fuck comes out of Iowa? This is like angry corn farmer music. "I will pick your corn as long as I can stick an ear so deep in you that you will hear Orville Redenbacher's dead voice whispering in your ear" Just saying, whispering,"You did wrong boy. And I hope you enjoy my corn!" This is angry music and I'm not gonna fool you. I have no fucking idea what this meant.

Something about shoguns and taxes and Feds and geishas and corn coming out of your ass like like a god damn explosion of popcorning goodness, knives and sex in a warehouse. With chickens hanging around. Just watching.

But I may be wrong.

But chickens watching you having sex with a Geisha while not paying your taxes is a kinda cool thought.

Or maybe that's just me. -T

(Unumbered) Clutch - Shogun Named Marcus
Listen. I have no idea what he’s talking about with his review of this song. Maybe he doesn’t either. I know he digs it, cause Clutch is sort of how we met, but dude....corn fucking? Seriously? I’m going to do the same song, just so none of you think this is really about Orville Redenbacher porn.

This song is all bass and heaviness and gritty voice singing about ummm...hari kari and emperors and sourmash and new world samurai. It’s got a kick ass groove and the lyrics are fun to sing and/or decipher and it really doesn’t matter what they are saying because, dude, this band - and this song - will kick your ass from here to the fucking cornfields of Iowa and you’ll never know what hit you. But trust me, it won’t be a fucking corn on the cob up your ass. I swear. -M

85. Murphys Law - "Care Bear"
Ok. Now that I'm done fucking around and talking about sticking corn up someone's ass with Orville's ghost floating around, let's get to the shit. This was a song about a party gone wrong and someone just wanting to help. Fucking care bear. I just broke a bottle. I just broke some glass. This fucker moves. New York hardcore at it's best. Float your flags and ink your skin. I don't care. This song was cool.

These guys were fun. All they wanted to do was drink beer, smoke dope and play. Sweat the beer out of you from the night before and wash the memories away with another beer. Cause we are not stopping. Cause you gotta have fun. In the sun. Yeah you gotta have fun! fun! A great song from a band that really didn't give a fuck anymore except about not being able to see straight. And I don't even think they wanted to do that. That's Murphy's Law.
*disclaimer - I know the fun lyrics were from another song -T

86. Cro Mags - "We Gotta Know" Could anyone understand the lyrics? I couldn't. I know I'm almost deaf and shit, but this was along time ago when I could hear. I couldn't get it. Pre H2O. Pre Sick Of It All. Pre Gorilla Biscucts. Pre CIV. This was shit that went nuts. Or made us nuts. This came out before all the skinhead shit took hold in California. Back when we tried to figure out what gang people were in by their fucking shoelaces on the god damn Doc Martins. Fucking soelaces. I'm fucking colorblind god dammit. Gimmie a fucking break.

Hey kids, this was life. Things happen. Back when I learned that you duck your head a bit when someone is diving on you. Push your head into the back of a bigger guy and let him take it. Fuck man, my inner mouth is cut up with so many lessons of when i was learning. It screams at me to duck when the dog jumps on me night. Still to this day. This was this song. Stand or fall. -T

87. CIV - "Set Your Goals"
Jesus Christ. Another fucking New York hardcore band. Well, I did ask Michele for East Coast bands and really, after you get out of glam and get out of Ramones, hardcore really takes over. You New Yorkers are an angry lot. Hey dude, I grew up on the west coast, so hearing this song kinda made me think, "Man they are pissed off." Basically an inspirational song but an angry one. Fuck. Remind me not to order a pizza next time I'm in New York. The "Double Double Pepperoni with Extra Anger" sounds like too much for me. But it is a cool song that sets off a cool album. Sure it's short, but really man, how much can you take? -T

Posted by Michele Christopher at 8:32 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

In today's album review, we depart a bit from your basic punk rock. Something a little different for you all.

Mr Bungle: S/T (T) and California (M)

Mr. Bungle. A band from somewhere like Modesto? Or Stockton? Or some other Northern California town? They are from where? You have to remember, I really hated the stupid stage antic shit that some of these bands did. Lighting shit on fire - boring. Breaking things - boring. But wearing masks and drinking urine on stage? Well fuck, dude. That's kinda new.

I will be honest with you. I didn't like this for a long time. It was too, well, gimmicky type shit. It didn't do anything for me and I didn't like it. I don't really want to sit around and wait for a kick. I wanted it now. But I listened to it again. Like three months later in the car of some burned out punk rocker. His car was decorated in skeletons and I was drinking a Pabst. He lectured me on how cool this band was.

So I listened.

Heading to the show it's kinda cool if you get to know the sound before you walk in the door. Hey, you gotta do it.

This was Mr. Bungle. Weird fast, slow like a circus on fire with all the clowns running out with bottles of gin.

Bondage gear, clowns and midgets. Like something out of a nightmare, they came at you.

This was sweat and beer and gin and .....piss?

This shit was something when I first heard, I thought was evil clown music. Fuck man, look at the inlay. It's dead drunken dying clowns. What the fuck was that all about? From the second this starts you feel as if you are in a video game hyped on speed playing the pinball game that would save the world. Cause you had a pocket of quarters. The fucking circus needed saving. Only you can save it. One more quarter. You can save it.

The album is loaded with samples. Things that make you think you heard it before...but from where......Samples I had to ask Michele about to find where they came from. Things I knew, but were all in a drug induced haze and couldn't remember. "That was a pinball machine, right?"

All the samples were old video games and pinball machines. Everytime you heard this album, you remembered the old times of playing those games, smoking a cigarette looking over your shoulder to watch for the security guard as you made that last kill in the game you were playing. This album goes on the record for having the most video game and pinball machine samples of anything I have heard before.

I really can't say this rocks cause it's just to out there to define. It is a great fucking album, don't get me wrong, but the insanity of it just makes me pull back and wonder why.

Like people of the 80's sit around and think of Frank Zappa. What they missed. How great he was. He was a genius they missed. Much like that, soon people will see what they missed in Mr. Bungle.

Plus they sing about the girls of porn. Which is kinda cool. (T)

Girls of Porn
Stubb (A Dub)
Squeeze Me, Macaroni

Let me preface this by saying that I am a huge fan of anything Mike Patton and my opinion on all things Patton related, be it Faith No More or Mr. Bungle or any of the myriad other bands/projects he has been a part of, is all a bit biased.

If I had to choose my favorite Patton related piece of work - and that’s really like asking a parent to choose a favorite child - I would have to go with California. Yea, FNM’s Angel Dust forces some tough competition but hey, if you asked me today, I'd tell you I like my daughter better than my son (the mouth of a 13 yr old boy can be exasperating). You caught me on a California kind of day.

This is way different than the previous Bungle efforts. It’s polished, it’s smooth, it’s not as experimental or noisy or juvenile. You’ll get no "Squeeze Me, Macaroni" here. Instead you get lyrics that have matured and musical composition that has flourished. Yea, you still have a lot of that patented Bungle weirdness/noise, but California is like half mind fuck, where the band stars and shows off a plethora of amazing sounds and rhythms, and half lounge music, where Patton's voice is a musical instrument itself. While some say this is Bungle's most accesible album, that doesn't mean much here. That's like saying Mullholand Drive is David Lynch's easiest to understand work. Just because it’s got more melody and more instrumentation and reaches a wider audience, doesn’t mean it’s going to be any less confusing to a non Mr. Bungle fan.

Ok, so you are in this boat. Think Willy Wonka’s boat. That ride where everything is sweet and sugary and then turns into a speeding nightmare. That’s California. It is all smoky bar room and cigar smoke and just when you are about to lean back in your chair and sip your bourbon, the ride gets noisy and disjointed and you hold onto your seat as it shakes. Then it’s back to a slow ride and you’re suddenly thinking of red lipstick and black garters and maybe you’re gonna finish up this song and then go masturbate to a magazine cover. But then the boat shakes you up again and it’s hand and arms inside the ride at all times. It shakes your brain and rattles your skull and "Golem II"and "Holy Filament" play and make you think, what kind of crackhead nightmare is this? You're almost tempted to jump out of the boat but something about the calliope-like sound makes you hang on, even if the sound is giving you flashbacks to some tenth grade mescaline trip at an amusement park . Then you see the light at the end of the tunnel, and the boat is bumping its way over there with the lyrics What would they say/If you went up in smoke?/If I dug you up/And made soup of your bones? playing in your ear and you think, damn this has been one crazy ride. Was it fun? Was it scary? A little of both? Maybe I should ride it again and be sure. And you get back on the boat and you notice little things about the ride you didn’t notice the first time and each subsequent turn on the boat makes you appreciate the ride more fully, makes you see all the noises and imagery and soft sounds and full range of emotions come together to make one pretty surreal, yet fulfilling, experience. -(M)

Retrovertigo
Pink Cigarette
None of Them Knew They Were Robots

Posted by Michele Christopher at 10:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

We have both had a bad day. Michele and Turtle. Both. Believe that? Oh well. Shit happens. Sometimes things don't work out the way you want them to. Sometimes things get piled on you when you just expect an easy day. Sometimes you have to do things that you don't wan't to do. So yeah. Today sucked.

So you know what that means?

Another day of fun cars!

*anytime you see a Fun Car post you can pretty much assume we have both had a bad day and just wanted to laugh.

This is my car or whatever the hell you want to call it for the night. A signal that you might have hit the bottom or the top of the food chain. You make the call. A wagon that rolled around smelling death in its nose asking you if you still wanted more.

The Wiener Wagon!

Pure steel. Nothing coming from it but the smell of anger, grease and hotdogs. And oil. And maybe some saurekraut.

Hey dude. These things were old. A truck that made you laugh and think that maybe someone got fucked over in some bad bet in a horse race. "I'll bet you $1000. What do you have?"...." A wiener Wagon"..."I'll take that bet." Something that you would see and get on your knees to ask god in heaven why this abomination was created. Something that made you thing maybe the week old pizza lying on floor that your dog wouldn't eat is a better idea then eating out of this truck.

That was the Wiener Wagon. Converted roach coach with steam and wiener smell pouring out of it. And if you make me say wiener again we might have to turn this into a gay porn site.

Hey dude, I'm used to the roach coach smell. Fuck, I have been in furlough for so many god damn years and worked in so many god damn warehouses that I know the smell. The fucking "La Cockarocha" horn as they are pulling up to where we are working .Expecting us to pay attention. Like we are gonna come running out there like the damn thing split the Red Sea. "The Romans! They are chasing us!!!" "Hey dude, lets get a hotdog first...that sea looks pretty deep. Check it out dude, Moses has a double chili dog. The Romans can wait cause these fuckers are good."

You take your time eating off a roach coach.. Pulling back the gag response by dumping on more chili. Or more hot sauce. Didn't matter. Kill the taste and shove it back.

This wagon was a thing of beauty. Pure fucking American steel. Cooking the hotdogs for you while covering them in chili to cover the taste. See they knew what they had was crap but they made up for it with chili. Kinda like Budweiser. You know it's crap,but if it's free, you just drink it and worry about the details later.

I wont lie to you. I have no fucking idea what these things run. They probably had a big engine?

That's turtles' car review for the night.

But I do know that if you saw one it meant one thing.

Free fucking chili dogs.

And you can't fucking beat free chili dogs, dude

Free chili dogs dude.

Free chili dogs. -T

We both needed a little fun in our lives today. My problem? Meh, a combo of PMS and about eight straight days of torrential downpours does weird things to your brain. I’m in a mood. Ya know? So hey, what better way to drag me out of a mood than to talk about...wieners. Well a specific wiener. No, not his. Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m talking about a wiener on the go. A wiener that can go from 0-60 in umm...five minutes flat? Yea, dude. The Oscar Meyer Wienermobile.

The Popemobile has got nothing on this drive. You can keep your bulletproof glass and armed guard. We’re talking a wiener in motion here. Have you ever seen this thing in person? I saw it once, just once, while on the New Jersey Turnpike on my way to the Meadowlands to see the Islanders get their asses beat by the Devils. Seeing the giant tip of that Wienermobile coming up on us in our rear view mirror on the George Washington Bridge should have been taken as an omen. Turn around! Go back! Evil exists! I mean, there is no way this thing can’t be one of the signs of the apocalypse. Or maybe it’s the fifth horseman. Kinda like the Fifth Beatle. But it brings death instead of pop songs. Death by wiener!

Ok, so it’s just a car with a hot dog on it. But let’s talk specs here. Chevrolet W4 Series Chassis. V-8, 6.0 Liter 350 Vortec 5700 Engine. Fiberglass hot dog. Oh yea. This is one mean, lean all beef machine. Talk about penis-envy. It comes equipped with a fucking wiener shaped instrument panel. Roowrrrrr.

Let’s cut to the chase and say what everyone’s been thinking. Yea. It’s phallic. Well, it’s a fucking wiener, what did you expect? Let’s face it, it looks like a giant cock about to take off from a landing pad, rocketing through orbit in search of the world’s widest vagina. Watch out, Paris Hilton, there’s a Wienermobile headed your way!

Hey and just in case you are in the market for a job, they are hiring drivers! There’s a pick up line for you, girls. “What do I do for a living? Oh, I steer a big cock around all day.” And guys, you can always tell the girls that you are in possession of the largest wiener they will ever lay eyes on. Oh yea, they’ll eat that up. With relish.

And hey, don’t read anything into the fact that the turtle and I both wrote about wiener cars today. Pure coincidence. We’re not horny or anything. Much. -M

Descendents - I Like Food
Descendents - Wienerschnitzel

Hey, as a bonus, here's the lyrics to the second song.

"Welcome to Der Wienerschnitzel
May I take your order please?"
Yeah, I want:
Two large Cokes, two large fries
Chili-cheese dog, large Dr. Pepper
Super deluxe, with cheese and tomato
"You want Bill sperm with that?"
NO!

Don't say we never did anything for you.

Posted by Michele Christopher at 4:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (8) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

We're getting there kids. Almost done. Stick aroundfor the voting phase, that should be fun. Oh, and new format, the downloads are now linked in the song title.

First up, two from reader Mr. B and W:

71. Social Distortion "Reach for the Sky -"
I was driving around listening to a college alt-rock station, WBRU in Providence R.I. when the dj said they would be playing some new Social D. I got excited and turned up the volume. The song they played was 'Reach For the Sky'. When I heard this song for the 1st time I was totally blown away by it and I have not been able to go a few days without listening to it ever since. The song has a great, aggressive guitar riff, a beat that makes you want to jump around and shove people, and Mike Ness' signature gruff, snarl on vocals, but the best thing about this song is the lyrics. I have never heard lyrics that so encapsulate my outlook on life: '..and I thank the Lord for the love that I have found, and hold you tight cuz tomorrow may never come.' Fuck yeah. That pretty much sums it all up right there.

72. Social Distortion - "Ball and Chain"
Feeling like shit? Can't seem to get out of that funk you're in? Well pour yourself a whiskey and put this song on. It'll either make you want to drink some more or it'll make you say 'fuck this shit' and go out and try do something about whatever is bugging you. Yeah it's got that country feel to it, but so what? It still kicks ass. When I used to tell people who had never heard this song how much I like it, they would laugh, like it was a joke or something. They thought it was a song about a wife or a girlfriend or something, 'the old ball and chain'. This song's not about that at all, it's about dealing with pain and it helped me get through a lot of it once. A great tune.

And some more from us:

73. Youth Brigade - "Sink With California"
I really don't care where you're from. I don't really care what language you speak. And the band isn't really Californians. This is THE big unity song. Fuck all the rest. This was about being together. I'll sink with California. It means nothing to me. This song was about sticking together. This was about anyone, white, black, yellow, or brown, all being the same. The name Californian doesn't mean shit. It's just a label. Shaking your hand is what this song is about. States, nations, everything means nothing anymore. This is about forgeting any kind of fucking line on a fucking map and just getting people for what they are. And accepting them. Cause we don't care if you're from north, south, east or west it's humanity that is the best. (T)

74. D.I. - "Richard Hung Himself"
A lot of older punkers are gonna be so sick of this song, it will bore them to read this review. But really, isn't this the first time you ever wanted to know what subcutaneious meant? And here you are, years later, reading an idiot's review and it's spelled wrong? Gotta be a cool song. A little sad, prolly bullshit, but really the feeling of this song is one of giving up. t's kinda sad cause it happened to a lot of our friends so I'm a little hesistant to say it rocks, but I will. This isn't something that you would yell out of your car window unless you were packed with gin and didn't know the time of day. This wasn't a theme song. Don't get me wrong. This was a cool song about suicide and that is even kinda lame to type......but this song kicks ass. Desperation,failure, death. All in one song. Kinda like a combo meal at McDonalds. Cept instead of a strawberry shake you get a swinging dead junkie. (T)

75. D.R.I - "Busted"
This was a funny song. Or was it funny? I know when I first heard it was funny. We thought it was funny. We didn't know it would become a reality. This whole album was the background music when we were building a halfpipe. When I was a kid and laying down on the grass after putting in a few 2x4's this song would come on. It would get me up. Almost, almost I say, get me back to work. But then I realized it was almost 2 in the morning and I needed a beer. Later in life, this kinda became my theme song. I didn't know it. It was like Johnny Carson with that big fucking hat and the envelope to his head with Ed McMahon asking him "Where is the turtle going to be tonight?" and the Great Carsona replying "Jail!" A great song that just tells you that you can never get away from your past even if you want to. It will be there. The price you pay. (T)

76. Vandals - "The Ballad of Pat Brown" Who was Pat Brown? This was years before I lived in Orange County. Yeah I lived there. Fuck you. Years before I smelled the shit covered streets and felt a sun so hot it forced you to the ocean. Hey, turtle, ocean, beach, get it? Anyways, a look on the intramanet got me Pat Brown as a Mayor or something and I really don't think Mayors would be doing B&E's for Marshall stacks. Hmmmm.Who was he....Pat Brown....why shouldn't I fuck around...hm... Anyways, this song is a great conversation starter. Tell anyone to not fuck around with Pat Brown when they piss you off. More times then not they will think you are crazy or they will shake your hand and sing the next verse. This is original Southern Califonia second wave punk rock. Gah! That hurt my head to think about. Don't ever make me say that again. Way too much thinking there. A great song about someone who was, well, kinda a dick. But a cool song anyways. (T)

77. Steel Pole Bathtub - "Train to Miami"
Surreal, noisy, weird, disturbing, haunting, addicting. The repeated chorus of “these are my friends now” over a staccato bass, the cacophony of sounds in the background, the whispers about church burning and satan, the short scream; it’s what the circus might sound like if you smoked a bowl of crack before entering the big tent. You’d think that putting all these sounds together might make a mess, but this band makes it work. It pulls you in, shakes you up and leaves you with a feeling in the pit of your stomach like you just witnessed someone’s bad acid trip. And you want to see it again. These are my friends now...these are my friends now.... (M)

78. Bouncing Souls - "Ole!"
Yea, there are plenty more Bouncing Souls songs I could have put here. They’re a fun band. They make fun music. And this one is the....funnest? Most fun? Check it out: We’re Bouncing Souls no one can beat us, we drink beer and wear Adidas. That’s hella fun to sing. Couple that with doing a football chant of Ole! Ole! Ole! Ole! a whole bunch of times (and add in the “mom this song is annoying the hell out of me” so I turn it up real loud and play it 20 more times factor) and you’ve got a cool party song. Plus, the Bouncing Souls are the best thing to come out of Jersey since the Sugarhill Gang. (M)

79. Jonathan Richman - "Roadrunner"
Is it punk? We called it punk back then (1976) and that’s all that matters. This song is an ode to the road. It starts off with him counting to six. Who counts to six? Four, three, but six? And then he launches into a singing/talking/rambling ride through Massachusetts, all disjointed lyrics and voice like a head cold over this simple punk beat fused with - is that a synthesizer? Keeps saying “with the radio on” and if you close your eyes you feel like you are driving with him in some convertible muscle car on a warm summer night and all you can hear is some cool music coming out of the radio and his fingers drumming on the steering wheel and the wind in your ears. Roadrunner, roadrunner. Going faster miles an hour. (M)

If anyone has the D.I. or Vandals song and can send them over, that would be pretty damn awesome of you.

Posted by Michele Christopher at 9:29 PM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Hey, we warned you. For the next month this is punk rock, fast cars and world cup. It's only a month. Deal. There's more random Slayer for you below, too.

World Cup.

Yeah we are back again. We can't help but get excited. This is the thing we think about every four years. This is what it all comes down to.

World Cup.

World Cup...in three days...World Cup...in three days.....This is the time to call up your friend with cable.You know, the one who fucked you off and left you at a show. The one you swore you would never talk to again. Yeah. That one. Time to ask him for your last favor. "Can I come over?" Get ready to sleep on a couch and watch the moon pass you by. Smoke your last cigarette and wonder why this hasn't started yet. Different time zones and different countries do weird things to you. Like being on way too much methamphetamine. Fuck. I'm not able to function enough to toast bread. I wonder how they are doing? All I have to do is lay down in a shitty house with a shitty TV and watch, but these fuckers have to run for 90 minutes?

This is late night. Not late night. I'm sorry. This is early morning. Real early morning. Sure you can catch the games on ESPN at noon, but where's the fun? You need to see this live. Fuck work and fuck everything else. You are gonna smell of frustration when this thing ends. And don't ask me what that means cause I don't even know. Drag your ass through the three hours and live the next day with racoon eyes begging for the sun to go down so you could see the next game. The heat on your head builds up as you wonder why you never drank the blood of some Scientologist and could live forever. Cause this is it.

This is World Cup.

Fun, anger, frustration and hotdogs!

This was what was cool.

Oh, I forgot naked Brazilian chicks. They are kinda neato too.

By the time this thing is over, you will hate the mascot, hate Germany, know ever god damned town in Germany and will be sick to fucking death of seeing lederhosen on TV with some annoucer saying "It's the new fashion!" Trust me. I know. I still have a fucking sombrero and a new way to say "I surrender!" from the last few times. Sometimes I sleep at night hearing the official songs. By the end of this one, our site will probably stop reviewing punk albums and start doing polka cause Lawrence Welk was already cool to begin with so this will probably push it over the edge..

This is World Cup. Hold your balls and keep your head low, cause this shit is gonna kick. And when it does, there's no stopping it.

Three days.

It's coming. -T

Three more days til World Cup starts and I’m starting to feel feisty. Oh, I still don’t really know much about it except that the chances of the USA winning are like 80-1 if your beer mug is half full and 100-1 if your beer mug is half empty. But, hey, stranger things have happened. Do you believe in miracles? Yea, you know what I’m talking about. Chants of USA! USA! rising from the stadium, the coaches in tears, the country in the grip of football fever, everyone going crazy as Tim Howard faces the camera as he looks for his mom, draped in an American flag...oh, wait. You can’t do that anymore. I think it’s forbidden under the “Arrogant American Pride” rule of international sports. §123.66.

So anyhow, in my zeal to get as worked up as possible about a sport competition I know little about (hey, I already admitted I was in this just for the nation hating possibilities), I did some research (does a GIS for “Chris Albright naked” count as research) I discovered you can buy 2006 World Cup Playmobil figures. Cool.

So I check out the American player. Ok, could that uniform get any gayer? Is that a freaking sailor suit? I checked this figure against the uniform American players will be wearing and, dude, that’s not it. So what gives? What’s with the stupid ascot-type thing that makes this dude look like he’s about to go hunting for glory holes at the seaport?

Well, it’s obvious what’s going on here. Playmobil. A German company. You see where I’m going with this? It’s all about the rivalry. Here you have what amounts to your first (ok, maybe your only) World Cup Conspiracy Theory. The Germans are trying to make us look soft. Oh, look at the cute girly man uniforms the ‘Mericans are wearing. Look at the pretty tie. I bet they kick like my grandma! Then everyone will laugh at us before we even take the field and it will just be a disaster. The self esteem of the American players will be deflated and they will, indeed, end up kicking like some German grandmas. Even worse, they will kick like American grandmas. Cause I think German grandmothers are built like Godzilla. And I’m sure Godzilla can put out a mean kick.

Ok, check out the copy with the Playmobil figure.

World Cup Soccer 2006 is just around the corner! Have a figurine to remember this great sport by that comes only once every 4 years! USA is ready to take the World Cup trophy!

Whoa! USA is ready to take the trophy!! Alright! Someone out there in the land of ad copy thinks we stand a chance!

And then I read the copy on all the other, less sailor looking, figures. Germany is ready to take the World Cup trophy! France is ready to take the World Cup trophy! Dude, that is some lazy copy writing there. You could at least be a bit honest, like Mexico is ready to kick everyone’s ass! America is ready to realize once again that very few people in their country care about the World Cup! Brazil is ready to show off their naked women! England is ready to riot and pillage!

They should make figures for fans. Brazilian women with waxed legs and bikini tops. British men with painted faces, holding pieces of torn stadium seating in their hands. American kids with apathetic faces and blank stares, video game controllers in hand. Yea, they will kick your ass at football. EA Sports style. And can I just say that I can blow any of you away on World Cup Carnival for the Commodore 64? That’s right. I’m fucking hardcore, baby.

I’ve done enough inane rambling for today. I’m going to spend the next three days getting schooled by the turtle in the ways of football and World Cup soccer so the next time I write about it and I say something like “Fucking Mexicans take too many penalties” I will sound as if I know what I’m talking about.

Oh hell, I’m buying that gay sailor Playmobil guy anyhow to add to my action figure collection. Boba Fett needed a pansy ass to kick, anyhow.

And now, some more Slayer for this great national holiday.

Slayer Exile<
Slayer No Remorse (with Atari Teenage Riot)<
Slayer Dead Skin Mask
Slayer Skeletons of Society

Posted by Michele Christopher at 11:51 AM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Yes, this is a site about punk music. But hey, we can stray from the confines of our own description every once in a while because it's a free country and we can do what we damn well please. Besides, it’s a day to pretend you are some dark, evil person who wears a hooded robe and chants satanic verses in your bedroom while staring at the pentagram you drew on the mirror with eyeliner and waiting for Candyman to show up. It’s a day to look for the 666 carved on your child’s head, a day to read Good Omens, a day accuse your boss of being the Anti Christ. And it’s a day to celebrate the wonders of Slayer.

Besides, I am a metalhead at heart. Yea, despite my playlist that seems to include nothing but Minor Threat and the like, I have a long, long history with metal. Heavy metal, speed metal, thrash metal, angry German metal, death metal, whatever there is, I've listened to it, banged my head to it, kicked a small child to it, vomited up twenty shots of Goldschlager to it. And out of all my favorite metal bands - spanning from Motorhead to Meshuggah - none has won my heart, mind and blackened soul like Slayer.

However, I am shunned by many a Slayer fan. Why? Because my choice of favorite album isn't the usual pick of Reign in Blood or the hardcore fan's pick of Hell Awaits. It's not even Season in the Abyss. No, it is 1998's Diabolus in Musica, the follow up to the much maligned Undisputed Attitude (see turtle's review of this album below).

For many Slayer fans, Attitude was a hard slap in the face. Punk songs? They are covering punk songs? They felt it was a departure as well as an insult. Of course, these were the people who remained ignorant of the fact that Slayer was actually influenced by hardcore punk bands like Minor Threat. But hey, why let a little history get in the way of your disdain? Anyhow, Slayer fans held their collective breath waiting for Diabolus to be released. Was Attitude a signal that the band had changed? Would this album be more punk than metal? Did we lose Slayer for good? I guess a two year wait in between albums will do that to a fan. Four years, if you are one of those who pretend Attitude doesn't exist.

I remember distinctly listening to this album for the first time. June, 1998. I slipped it into my car's CD player in the parking lot of the mall. I waited. Anxious. The slow bass of "Bitter Peace" kicked in. A trudging kind of metal, heavy in the pit of your stomach. So far, so good. I nodded my head a bit, the way people afraid to actually bang their head in public do. And then the short break in the song where it gets quiet, then you can feel the build up coming, the drums rolling, and...dude. Holy shit. Speeeeeeed! Yes!! Oh yea, you can hear that hardcore influence loud and clear. And I knew that at that very minute, there were thousands of other Slayer fans listening to this album for the first time and feeling a little let down. Fuck them. If you can't appreciate "initiate blood purge, coalition in massacre" at full volume, at full speed, there's something wrong with you.

Ok, next song. Could they follow this up? Could this get better? I was still sitting in the parking lot. Savoring the moment when hardcore punk and thrash metal came together so perfectly, like peanut butter in chocolate. Death's Head played. Oh, yea. Oh fucking hell yea.

And then "Stain of Mind" kicked in. Fuck, yea. That's all I could say. Fuck, yea. I knew that within two hours, I would have the lyrics memorized, the song permanently embedded in that part of my brain that I reserve for songs that fall under "greatest fucking things ever recorded."

I knew after my first full listen that most Slayer fans I knew wouldn’t be digging this album at all. In fact, quite a few of them called it Slayer’s worst album ever (those are the people who like to pretend that Attitude doesn’t exist). I got into a few arguments over it then decided that fighting with people who get annoyed when a band strays even an inch from their original sound is like fighting with someone who gets pissed when the sunset is purple instead of pink. Enjoy something different, dude. Think outside the lines. Yea, this isn’t Reign in Blood, but why would you want every album to be the same? It’s still got war and destruction and blood and Satan. The guts haven’t changed, just the structure. Hey, would it help if I told you that if you play In the Name of God backwards, it says “Kill everyone! Satan rules! Light churches on fire!”? Yea, really. You go do that. Go try it, hero. I’ll be over here enjoying this album for what it is while you listen for something you just aren’t going to get. -M

Undisputed Attitude - You all knew I was gonna grab this one to review. That's what I do. The punk ones and the ones you guys hate.

This album turned me on to Slayer. I'm not gonna lie and say I was huge Slayer fan. They did what they did and that was cool. But after I heard this, I became a rabid fan. This is the one album I truly treasure. Sure, I like all of them now, but back when this came out, I hated them. Well, hate is a strong word. I never bothered with them. They weren't my style and I just didn't care. Speed metal was for burnouts in San Francisco. Back then I really didn't give a flying fuck if you wanted to see Satan or blood. That shit didn't impress me. I saw Satan every night. Hey dude, don't fool yourself. Satan was just a dude who changed his name to Satan. I think his name might have been Brian or Bob or Bill, but still, Slayer didn't really impress me.

Then I heard this one night. Sitting on a couch. Slamming back a beer while wondering where I was at. Fucked up on ten different types of drugs. Thinking I could levitate if I just had one more line.

Then it came on.

"Hey dude....that was TSOL, dude..." "No it wasn't. that was Slayer." What? Really? Fuck me. Really? It had been along time since I heard TSOL so I didn't really question it. I was still trying to peel an apple with my mind so I really didn't care if I was wrong or right on the song. I was focused on the apple.

"Hey dude, that's Dr Know...." "No dude, it isn't...it's Slayer, dude" The apple's skin was still on, so I really didn't pay much attention to it. That skin would come off, god dammit. But I think that was Dr. Know. hmmmmm.

"Oh, OK...Hey dude, that's fucking DI, god dammit, don't fucking tell me this is Slayer again god dammit or I am quitting drugs and becoming a hare krishna, god dammit!"

Apple was thrown out the door in anger and frustration. Poor apple never had a chance.

"Shave your head dude and put the pipe down cause this is Slayer."

Fuck.

I hate religon and I hate not having my apple. It was a green one too. Those are the best, god dammit.

If some of you don't know this was an album of Slayer's tributes and covers of punk bands. Pretty much all west coast punk rock with a few exceptions. They jammed as much in as they could even mixing a couple songs together from a band or two to get the most out of their time. Did it work? You be the judge. 33 minutes of not slowing down. They knew they only had a little time to pack as much punch as they could into this album and they did it. This fucker kicks you in the face.

All you have to know is that this album turned a bunch of punk rockers on to them. This was a band that I ignored until this record came out. When I heard this I kinda said to myself, "This band is pretty cool...." and went out to find the other records like a junkie on a dope hunt. "There must be more....there must be more...." I know people don't like this one but you have to realize what it did.

A lot, and I mean a lot, of people bagged this album and said it was un-Slayerish. Don't ask me what that means. A lot of people didn't understand what was going on. How did their Slayer turn punk? Well the simple fact is they never turned punk. These are all old songs. Guys. This isn't Slayer. Well, it's them playing, but these aren't their songs. One day when you are sitting at a friend's house listening to music and a song comes on and it sounds like a Slayer song? One that you know they did? Think about it.

These guys were paying tribute to their influences.

Or just bored in the studio one day.

You make the call cause this is one of my favorite Slayer albums.

And "Violent Pacification" is just fucking insane.

Happy National Day of Slayer everyone! -T

Abolish Government (TSOL)
Violent Pacification (DRI)
Richard Hung Himself (D.I.)
Stain of Mind
Bitter Peace

Others participating:

ALa at 100 Records takes on Reign in Blood
Kali
Half a Pica

Posted by Michele Christopher at 9:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (9) | TrackBacks (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Tonight we each pick a car from the tv/movie list here to write about. We’ll be doing this about once a week, so feel free to keep adding suggestions to that list.

This wasn’t a difficult first choice for me. See, I’m a huge horror movie fan, so anytime I get a chance to add that topic into my posts here, I’ll take it. And hey, I’m preparing for tomorrow’s Day of Pretending to be the Anti-Christ. So my first choice is: The Car. Made famous in a 1977 movie called...wait for it......The Car. A creepy, frightening movie about, you guessed it, a car. This slick, black car - a modified 1971 Lincoln Continental Mark III designed by George Barris of Batmobile fame - would just torment people by following them around and running them down. And, this being some small desert town where evil dwells beneath the surface, like in every horror movie ever made, all the townfolks (that’s what they are called in places like this) are quite sure the car is driven by Satan himself. Yea, that’s right. The overlord of Hell has nothing better to do than to magically appear in some third rate cow town and joyride his way through some bodies. This movie is fucking satanic, kids. Oh, we're not talking Adam Sandler (whatever the hell the name of that movie was) satanic. We're talking the real deal here. Ok, not Exorcist satanic. More like hmm...that one episode of Scooby Doo where they find the gate to hell on Stephen Dorff's lawn. Hey, Anton Fucking LaVey has a credit as a consultant. A consultant, man. The dark lord himself gave the producers of this movie inside info on Satan’s driving skills!

Dude, this car was scary. Ok, so we were, what, 18 years old? I didn’t see this movie in the theater. We watched it a few years later when dad bought a state-of-the-art video recorder/player (and by state-of-the-art I mean it weighed about 200 lbs and took up more space than a small country). Back in the day when you could buy VHS tapes for the bargain price of, oh, $75 a pop. But hey, it was worth it. We chipped in for the movie and a dime bag of some potent stuff and proceeded to get stoned to the point of unforgiving paranoia. The kind of stoned where your tongue goes numb and your brain is on fire and your eyes are sure they see things that couldn’t possibly exist. Yea, get that kind of stoned and then watch a movie in which an evil car with a furious looking bumper preys and stalks and kills like some landshark. All we need is Chief Brody and Richard Dreyfuss and a bigger boat. All I mean is, if you watch this movie today, maybe a souped up Lincoln won’t seem so scary to you. Maybe the movie will seem cheesy and that fog horn will play as hilarious. Because this movie is such horror cheese that this evil being of a car honks its horn every time it kills some one. Hey, at least it didn't play La Cucuracha like my neighbor's car horn does.

But this was circa 1980. And we were paranoid. The car was menacing. Evil. Frightening. The way it shined its lights into the window as the chick was on the phone gave me chills. And then it hit me. Holy shit, my dad has a Lincoln! Yea, ok it was silver, not black and wasn’t all modified and shit and it didn’t roam the streets of Long Island on its own accord, but dude, it's a Lincoln. Just like the movie! Oh my god! Paranoia! My father is Satan!

Yea, calm down, dude. Have some Funyons and a beer. Watch the fucking movie and shut up about your father. His car is pussy compared to this thing.

Well, we never really get why this car was murdering random people in this town. Maybe it just doesn’t like the desert? Maybe it was offended at the way the Indian dude was portrayed? Maybe it hated band geeks or James Brolin's facial hair? Who knows. We got evil, suspense, an explosion, some cool mow-downs, and enough false scares to make some paranoid stoners nearly wet their pants. Hey, I said nearly. All that was missing was Yeardley Smith yelling out We made you!

How legend is this car? It made an appearance on an episode of Futurama.

So thinking about this film all these years later, I’m wondering what it would be like if all the evil cars in movies got together for one big showcase showdown. Christine. The Camaro from The Wraith. The black ‘Cuda in Phantasm III. The Charger from Wheels of Terror. Put them in an open field and let them go at it. I gotta think that the Lincoln would be the one left standing. Because Satan drives a Continental. - M

The Interceptor. The Road Warrior. Ok. Let's just start this off right. This car meant something more than driving. This car meant way more than anything about traveling. This was a car that got through the end and still managed to pick itself up and walk away. Sure it was beat the fuck up, but it got out. It walked away. You didn't. So this was a god damn car that could take everything you could toss at it and wouldn't stop till it dropped.

That's it. 1973 XB GT Ford Falcon Coupe. Modified with blower and NO2 running thru the system. Back window kicked out to fit in extra gas tanks. Cause you never knew when the gas was gonna run out. Cause if it did, hey dude, you are in Austraila. You stopped being "kinda fucked" and graduated to full on "I'm fucked " right when that damn engine stopped. So you will do what it says. It's not about you anymore. It's about the car.

Don't get this movie wrong. A car wasn't about moving. A car represented life. Something that meant everything. A symbol that if this thing couldn't keep running, your life couldn't keep running. If this thing keeps running, I can breathe another day. I can live as long as the interceptor started. That was the Interceptor

Yeah, I get deep sometimes. Don't ask me about Twinkies or I'll tell you the meaning of life.

But this car was fully loaded. Faster than anyone one else. Don't stick a god damn arrow in this motherfucker and expect it to go down. Fuck. It's been through a fucking war. Your "woo woo" sticks just piss it off. Just like a mosquito bite.

"You are annyoing."

"Please stop shooting at me."

"I'm getting kinda pissed here."

That was the Interceptor.

Slicker than anyone. Dirty as fuck. You have a feeling that car has had to pick itself up off a bar room floor many times before and it would have to do it again. But it had to keep moving. The gas ain't gonna find its god damn self and if it just layed down, it would die.That car was the Interceptor. Black as night, tough as shit and loaded with dynamite and gasoline and NO2 and a sawed of shotgun and a knife under the tailpipe and a cool doggy seat for his doggy!

This car was coolness in the prime. Uncut coolness. If this car was cocaine you would be on the ground not being able to breathe while your friends sat around, watching you choke on the dope you just did and thinking "COOL!" Then running to do their lines. Cause that was a cool car.

"Hey dude, it must be good. It almost killed the turtle. Bust out a line a for me."

Pure cool that defined cool. Fuck the General Lee. Fuck Bullit. This was a car with a god damn shotgun holster and nitrogen oxicide running thru it.

What the fuck else could you want from a car?

Plus it had a doggy seat!

And that's fucking cool. -T

Misfits - Horror Business
Angry Samoans - Hot Cars

Posted by Michele Christopher at 7:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | TrackBacks (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Today's stories are from you. We asked for you favorite memories from any show and any style (from this post). If you were drunk, high seeing jesus or not, we asked for what made you think that was something to remember and why that stuck in head...and to a smaller extent, why you were email us about it....we are sadistic like that. But true to our words, albeit a day late, (hey it was "Taco Sunday", man..."Taco Sunday!!" 59 cent tacos, man!...give us a little break here, ok?) we are back to fulfill our promise and kick your stories out. You. The reader. As always, we ask for your favorite cars, shows and songs. Until then enjoy this reading from your fellow readers while we fight to see who gets on the toilet first for "Moaning Monday."

-----------

Josh:

Strung Out, and Good Riddance - Modesto, CA. Packed everything I owned into my '84 Civic (another great topic for you - the beauty that is primer grey) one summer. Drove that little fucker from Houston to California, checked around for a good place to buy things to make my head feel funny, wound up in Yosemite slinging ice cream to tourists. Place was like the Betty Ford clinic for gutter punks. Everyone looking to clean up, everyone finding that little hair of the dog if it ever bit too hard. Five hours from civilization, so you bring one hell of a stash with you or you wind up relying on King Cobra 40's, since the rest of the beer was too damned expensive. So eight rehabbing punkers for life (I shit you not - one guy had ink he had given himself of himself partying, when he's dead and in hell, beer in one hand, bong in the other) pile into the civic and a Geo Tracker (a car that should never appear on your page unless you're talking about the antithesis of muscle cars) and show up at a punk show at the muni center in Modesto. Right down the road from a serious contender for meth capital of the US, Merced.

Ten minutes into the show, Phil's got a vein full, Jay's got a snoot full of boogur sugar, and Jim, Alan, and Sage found a fucking film canister of meth. All the anger that we've been bottling up for the last three months, smiling to the tourists, not kicking that hippie's ass who you've been working with and has been preaching the wonders of hemp, finds a release. It's pouring out of us. Good Riddance goes over well, beautiful show, but in between sets, we have a chance to find more fun and games. By the time Strung Out comes out, Jay's on stage calling the locals knuckle dragging mouth breathers, and Alan's trying to fight a guy twice his size that stepped on his girlfriend's toes.

The room is seething anger, the first fight before the first song is done. Show's over before the second song's done, and I don't know if a band stopping playing has ever stopped a fight, just gotten more people pissed off. But they try the theory again. Everybody's seen a donnybrook, that's nothing new. But when the evening ends with chugging bricks of Mad Dog through swollen lips, blood and cheap wine slushing around in your mouth, a clear sky above you, surrounded by mountains, ears ringing from the noise and the pumping, then watching raccoons lap up your vomit right before you go to bed, you know it's been an awesome fucking night.

---------
Pril:

This is what i remember about just about all the gigs i went to when i was younger: Blood, sweat, a pit, a loud band, more blood, booze snuck in filling big gulp cups, cheap wine, cheap beer, puke, leather. I mean i know theres more to them but really its all a hazy blur. Most of which centered around Fender's in Long Beach but often spread to Al's Bar and places in Hollywood whos names i can't remember, backyards in San Pedro and Sacramento and places in between.

---------

Kali:

Hardcore matinee at the safari club in DC. Swiz and American Standard ('88?).

The fucking place was NOT built for shows and whothefuckknowswhy they did it I just thank god they did. I think it was a restaurant by usual day, but on Sundays it turned into an all ages hardcore venue.

It was a very skinny single room so i stood on a chair to see. It was in the days when no one told you not to stand on your chair. I mean, the standing on chairs was the least thing they had to worry about.

By the time Swiz took the stage the place was fucking trashed. Cups and liquid all over the floors. Steam rising from the hot, bloodied, shirtless boys.

Also in the days when a pit was a pit and no one was trying to hurt anyone except maybe the skins.

it was my first real show (minus the local HS band firehouse shows -- which were grrreat too!)

I just remember thinking that i had found my place in the world. And I hocked a loogey right on the floor.

------
coolrobc:

A friend of mine won tickets to see Gilby Clarke at Saratoga Winners. There were all of 8 people at the show, almost all of whom had won tickets to the show or were given tickets. (not counting the groupies at the bar, there were several more if you count them)

Anyway, no real pit to speak of, just to big (6'2"ish) hair-bags in leather jackets thrashing around in front of the stage. About halfway through the show during a guitar solo, one of them thought it would be a great idea to jump on stage and in the process he knocked the mic back and hit Gilby in the face with it, split his lip.

The lone bouncer working that night, he has maybe 6 foot, but built bigger than the incredible hulk, jumped on stage put the guy in a choke-hold and proceeded to drag him out of the bar, smashing his head off the doorjamb on the way.

The whole time his friend was walking behind, saying "he didn't mean it, aw c'mon man it's cool..." He was next to get tossed.

That left about 6 of us, not including the groupies at the bar.

To this day it was probably one of the best shows I'd ever been to(performance wise). I have a lot of respect for him and his band putting on such a great show in front of such a small crowd.

-------
mr b and w

First rock club experience was in 1988, 1st semester, freshman in college. The band was Soundgarden, supporting Ultramega OK and they were playing Axis in Boston, (this was the old, small Axis, not the Avalon mega-club or whatever it is now.) 5 bucks to get in.

I had never been in a pit, never surfed the crowd, any of it. A friend of mine that I had met at school, an old-pro at this stuff, basically threw me into the pit and said 'have fun!'

I did.

-----

Got a story to add? Have at it.

Strung Out - Ultimate Devotion

Update: Speaking of Fear (because the original show post was about Fear), Post Punk Junkie has up a post about Fear's infamous performance on SNL in 1981, including audio.

Posted by Michele Christopher at 11:19 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

This is the tenth in a series of true stories about an anonymous punk rock guy. This is the turtle's gig, he writes these up.

Blame Canada

Where are we? What fucking state is that in? You gotta be fucking kidding me....really? I slept that long? Does anyone have a beer? Hey dude. Answer the fucking question and we can keep this on a civil level. Please dude. My head hurts and I've been choking on fucking exhaust for the last 12 hours. Nice to see you fuckers cared to see if I was breathing. Are you shitting me? We been driving that long? Where is the fucking beer?

Welcome to Canada! Land of fucked up languages , bacon and bad beer. The border that turns into pure trees as you get closer. Pure fucking trees. Somewhere where you don't know what is gonna happen, but much like any other country, all you care about if there are cheap dive bars, cheap food, and cheap gas. It was coming up. Canada. Welcome to the border. Whether you liked it or not it was time to dump the beer cans and pull your IDs. Drain that last beer and open the side door. Dump the cans out on the freeway and watch the Indian cry. Get ready to smile to some dude in a funny suit and wake the fuck up. Your passport..... passport...I had a passport...I fucking had a fucking passport. What the fuck happened to it. Fuck. It's fucking around here somewhere. God damn dude, slow the fucking van down and give me some god damn time to fucking find it. It's fucking around around here somewhere and I can fucking find it if you guys just fucking move off the floor and give me room to search.

This was Canada.

This was my first trip. I flew there before, but I never knew. Do I really need one? I'd really been fucked with in Europe for not having a passport. Just a few times. But when I was, it was pretty hard. I'm not a terrorist, but I'm smart enough to eat all the dope I had gotten from the previous country.

But Canada? Do we really have to do that? Show our passport? Really?

I didn't know. But I knew I lost my driver licence along time ago...but I had a passport... "Do you even think they ask for passports? I mean it's Canada, dude. Do you really think they do? I'm fucked if they do.... How much time do we have? They can't really, can they? Do you guy's want to slow down a bit? And fucking try moving out of the way so I can look? "

No bueno. The van kept going towards what could either be some stupid thing in my head or some hardcore search and denial of me into the country.

I didn't know.

Lined up. Pushing drugs into to hidden places. Shoving people around looking for any form of ID while everyone else grumbled at me for waking them up. "Move, god dammit" "Why?" "I'm looking for fucking ID" "What? You are kidding me, right? It's Canada, dude."

I won't fool you and try to say drugs didn't have a big effect on my brain. I woke up paranoid and shot and shaking and sweaty and looking for the next beer and looking for my passport at the same time. Yeah dude, I was kinda shot. My head was sweaty and my eyes were bloodshot. The only thing that helped was shoving back Taco Bell while trying to cover the taste of day old fast food with as much hot sauce as I could to stop the gag response of my throat. I had ten minutes to get my head straight and figure out what the fuck was going on. When you have a limit like that you can either give up, hitch a ride home or slam a beer. You live in the mess that is your head and do what you need to do.

I chose the latter.

No passport.

Fuck.

Let's see what happens then.

Just sitting and wondering and waiting and wondering and waiting and wondering. Is this gonna work? Did I just fuck up? Everyone in the van looking at me like "Hey dude, it was fun with you, but we can always get another bass player, so if you are gonna slam that beer you better do it fast and keep your ass looking"

Slamming a beer, moving clothes around while really, none of us had any idea if we really needed a passport or not for the Canadian border. It's fucking Canada right? I don't even take a passport when I go to Mexico. Do I really need a passport here? Fuck. Move dude. You might be sitting on it.

Found it. Time for another beer.

Now, where are we at?

I was looking at dates wondering where in the fuck Victoriaville is and how far the local liquor store was. That was even too much for me. Way too much information. That's probably how I ended up in Canada in the first place. I started not caring and was just dragged from place to place. We all were. We just kept going. Remember, this was early, so the tour was more of a 24 hour party. It was new to us and we wanted to be numb and have a good time. That meant listening to others and doing what they said.

My head was shot. Really shot. I couldn't fucking think. If you asked me to sell my children to Mexicans for drug mules I prolly would have said "yes" as long as you had a Camel Light.

Two minutes to the border.

Shake your head

One minute.

Toss the smoke, down the beer.

"You have dope? Drugs? Citizenship? Purpose? You smell like beer. Let's search your van."

That wasn't totally unsurprising. We rolled out of the van when they opened the side. It was kind of a gimme that they would think we were doing something bad. The back of the van was loaded with equipment and cases. We reeked of sweat and blood. If you don't know what blood smells like after a few days, fall asleep for one night with a penny in your hand. Clutch it. Smell your hand in the morning. That’s the smell of week old blood.

They pulled us out and counted up our CDs. Made a list. Some dumbass border guard took the list inside and came out with a receipt for us. A receipt for what dude?

We owe what?? To fucking who??

They taxed all of the CDs, all of them. All the band merchandise they could find in the van was taxed. Everything that was imported in was taxed. The only thing that didn’t catch a tax were shirts. Because hey dude, they were clothes ok? We would be wearing them....soon....we swear..they are all personal clothes...ok?

The import tax was more then the value of the CDs. Christ. We just gave them up. We didn't have the cash and the guards weren't working with us. Kinda hard to bribe someone with cold Taco Bell, a shitty CD, a free T-shirt, and a pack of smokes. Usually this works, but not for a guard. They all uppity and shit.

Oh well. Another week of not eating. Another week of being on the road.

They could have the fucking box of CDs. We didn't have the time. We had to keep moving.

Welcome to Canada.

Mr. Right and Mr. Wrong - Canada is Pissed
South Park - Blame Canada

Posted by Michele Christopher at 9:13 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Tonight we take on the Dodge Super Bee because hey, sometimes you just need something to make fun of.

I want to make fun of this car. I really do. Super Bee? Isn’t that kind of....lame? I mean, if you’re gonna name a car after an insect at least give it something with a sense of danger. Not some cartoon bee that looks like it belongs on Nickelodeon teaching your kids about the dangers of riding their bikes without safety gear. Maybe a black widow, or a brown recluse spider. This is a muscle car, for god’s sake. Super Bee? M-u-s-c-l-e, muscle. Denoting strength, bravado, ego. Super Bee? Nah.

But, hey. Who am I to diss on a car that looks like this?

Lame ass logo aside, that’s a pretty sweet looking ride. I mean, that defines muscle car. Reminds you of that guy you see at the gas station all the time, the one always in tight t shirts, arms like a boxer’s, a neck like Rollins, tight jeans, dirty boots, dirty hands, hair slicked back with hard-work sweat, pack of Camels rolled up in the sleeve of his shirt, and when you make a polite little cough to get his attention as he’s bent over the hood of a Dodge because you need him to check your oil and he turns around and stands up to look at you, he’s got this gay ass fucking Super Bee logo in the middle of the tight t shirt and everything is just fucking ruined. That popping noise you hear is a “Dear Penthouse” fantasy being blown apart by some god damn bee in a helmet. The Super Fucking Bee. Jesus, I made fun of a guy for having a fucking bird on his car, you think I'm not going to make fun of a fuzzy insect?

Hey dude, you can dress up this bee any way you want, point remains that it’s a freaking bee. A Super bee. Why not a Killer Bee? Now that would be something. The Dodge Killer Bee! Oh, wait...the Dodge Tick! Now that would be a kick ass logo.

Hey, it’s better than the Super Bee, dude.

Too bad because the 2007 version is pretty hot looking. But every time I stare at this car and the drool starts to form in the corner of my mouth, a little voice whispers SUPER BEE! in my ear and, well, that's like someone showing you a picture of Bea Arthur naked when you have a raging hard on. Deflation. -M

The Super Bee. I'm not gonna take the time to mock the name cause Michele already did. Oh..oh... yes I am....Super Bee! Super Bee! Super Bee!!! It just sounds funny to say. Say it like three times fast and it gets kinda funny. But really, who in the god damn hell would name a car the fucking Super Bee? I can just see ad execs in a meeting room filled with smoke asking each other... "What do we want to name it?".... "Well this car represents power!"... "I think it more represents strength!"

"I think it more represents a little bee.....buzzing around pollenating flowers...just buzzing around and having a good day...maybe humming a song it heard from the new Peter Paul and Mary album.....but a mean bee! One that considers blood its honey! Makes no excuses and survives off the skin of the other dead bees and sucks their flesh to get their strength and eats the brains to gain their knowlegde!! An Aztec bee who would become a Super Bee after consuming souls of the dead and watching many game shows!! A Super god damn Bee!"

Ok..I went a little crazy there...back to the story.

Who in the fucking hell would give a cool car like this such a shitty name? This name is the biggest travesty I've ever seen. The Nova? That was a bad name. Funny with the Spanish urban legend, but the Super Bee? You might as well cut this car's balls off right off the production line cause you god damned left it to a life of mockery.

Like name a kid "Maurice" or "Jamerson," this car, no matter how cool, was always gonna to get my giggles. Hell, I've seen sex toys named the "Super Bee" so dude, I'm gonna laugh.

Maurice can take the Super Bee out with a dildo up his ass cause even though this is a cool fucking car....

It cries everytime you say it's name. -T

Blind Melon No Rain
Dwarves Insect Whore
Accused Boris the Spider
Peter, Paul and Mary Puff the Magic Dragon

Posted by Michele Christopher at 8:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (6) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I'm out most of the day at a Very Important Family Function type thing, and turtle is otherwise occupied. I thought for now you might enjoy a few photos I took last summer of a couple of the cars mentioned in the post below.

Speaking of that post, that list has been updated and will continue to grow. And what we failed to mention is that we will be pulling cars off that list to do a full "car of the night" post about. So keep your ideas coming, this is going to be a really fun series. I mean, Vin Diesel's GTO in XXX is smokin' and all, but we're gonna give a car like the Mach 5 some equal time, too. We're all about having fun here at FTTW. And we're kinda into cartoons and superheros.

[click each for bigger - takes you to flickr]

We'll be back later this afternoon with more punk rock (some cool stories some of you sent in about going to shows) and fast cars (or slow cars, depending on which one we choose to do today. We've been thinking about giving the good old station wagon a spotlight).

Posted by Michele Christopher at 6:26 AM | Permalink | Comments (6) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Well it's Saturday night. We wanted to have more fun on the site. We have so many ideas from you guys we are going to start them next week. Music and cars and show stories.

But for now?
Fuck man.
It's Saturday.
Lets have fun.

This was someone else's idea.mr. b andw, asked us to do a list of cool car in movies. This is for you. This is a list of some of the cool cars you have seen in movies and on TV. We missed alot of cars, we know we are not perfect, we know that and we want your input. (Anything marked with an (R) is a reader suggested vehicle).

* Christine - a 1958 Plymouth Fury
* Back to the Future - 1982 DeLorean
* Vacation - 1983 Ford LTD Country Squire
* Mad Max - 1973 Ford Falcon (The Inteceptor)
* Blues Brothers - 1974 Dodge Monaco
* Knight Rider - K.I.T.T.
* Munsters - Dragula
* Batman - Batmobile
* David Carradine’s (Frankenstein) car in Death Race 2000 (Frankenstein's car is a modified VW based kit- either a * Sterling or a Cimbria SS)
* The Car - modified 1969-71 Lincoln Mark III
* Speed Racer - Mach 5
* Flinstones - Fred's foot-powered car
* Goldfinger - 1965 Aston Martin DB5
* Escape From NY - Cadillac Fleetwood
* Magnum Force - (modified) Cadillac El Dorado
* A-Team van - Customized GMC 983 G-series
* Dukes of Hazzard - 1969 (the General Lee) (R)
* Smokey and the Bandit - 1976 Trans Am (R)
* Stripes - RV (Urban Assualt Vehicle) (R)
* Gone in 60 Seconds - 1967 Shelby GT 500 named Eleanor.(R)
* Miami Vice - Ferarri Daytona Spyder 365 GTS/4. - (R)
* Herbie- 1969 VW Bug (R)
* Grease - Greased Lightning (Ford Coupe) (R)
* Corvette Summer - 1978(?) Corvette Stingray (R)
* Scooby Doo - The Mystery Machine (R)
* Gone in 60 Seconds -1967 Ford Mustang Shelby GT500 (R)
* Magnum PI - Ferrari (R)
* XXX - 1967 Pontiac GTO
* Rollberball (remake *spit*) - Dodge Shelby Series I (R)

And special mention to the Millennium Falcon, which someone in the comments astutely reminds us the ultimate driving machine. Yea, some of you may know of my Star Wars geekiness. That's another subject for another day. Right now, I'm gonna let the Falcon stand as a car, of sorts. Just because.

What cool cars have you seen? Something that made you jump and say "Fuck, that's fucking cool, dude."

We have ours. What are yours?

A-Team theme
Sponge - Speed Racer Theme
Manic Hispanic - Brand New Impala
Youth Brigade - Full Speed Ahead

Posted by Michele Christopher at 10:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (19) | TrackBacks (5) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Ok, let's move this along. Six songs from the turtle and michele, marked accordingly.

As always, please send your songs in. We don't really care if you send us in a name and a song. That doesn't help us.

If you want to be in this tell us why you like it. What brought you to this song.

You think that song is so fucking cool?

Then tell us why and you will be on here.

65. SOD - "March of the SOD"
Oh, you knew it was gonna happen. Don't shake your head cause you damn well knew it was coming. This was a song everyone waited for. Waited for on Friday nights when MTV played that stupid music show that featured music bands that played funny things called music videos. I know you are all surprised, but Headbangers Ball was something that was an era ago. Something that when you heard the grind of this song, you knew it was going. Before Carson Daly took over, this is what we waited for. The bullrider, the trainwreck, the opening song. March of the SOD. You could hear it at any party we were at. It was song that meant that every thing you heard in the past was the past. Things were gonna get a bit harder now. (T) download

66. Germs - "Lexicon Devil" This one is for Tesco. I was listening to an old D.I. tune. Something off some album. I remembered sitting in a bar with D.I. and stupidly asking them about that song. "You guys didn't do this did you? Who did it?" Being immediatly shamed by them for not knowing this was the Germs they were covering. That's what made me buy the album. I won't lie. This stuff was way before my time and sometimes I can't understand it. They way Darby sings. I can't hear it. Fuck, I'm almost fucking deaf. Gimmie a fucking break. We have talked about this before. But this song had energy. And it was mean. What was it about? Don't ask me. But I remember two songs and this was one of them. This song moved and surprisingly, Darby could keep up. I wasn't one of those people who wouldn't get a Germs burn but this song was coolio enough to light a cigarette too. (T) download

67. The Accused - "Grinning Like an Undertaker"
Take a kid and put him in a hospital. A punk rock kid who hates speed metal. Is it speed metal? Is it punk? Is it freeform fucking art? I have no fucking clue. Make your own fucking decisions cause I'm turning it up. Anyways take this kid, leave him there with just a Walkman and just this one tape. 24 hours of this tape. Drugs and alcohol (we can talk about alcohol in the hospital in another story). Mix it all together and you have the turtle. By the time I walked out of there I was a full on pissed off, broken, machine. If you get used to Blaine's voice, this shit fucking rocks. It takes about ten times til you kinda get it, and you can call it punk or not, but the Accused move and Blaine holds on. Great stuff from a great band that I'm not even sure are around anymore. (T) download

68. MC5 - "Kick Out the Jams"
So I’m in the car with my 13 year old son, listening to the punk rock station on XM radio and this song comes on. Kick out the jams, motherfucker! Kid says, hey this song sounds old. I said yea, 1969, dude. This is like the original punk rock song. The original punk rock band. He says “they said motherfucker in 1969??” That made me laugh. But hey, he rocked out to the song and immediately hit his Fender when we got home to try and work it out. Over 30 years later and some 13 year old kid is laying down your notes on his guitar and thinking it’s one of the coolest things he ever heard? Rock on. (M) download

69. Husker Du - "Divide and Conquer"
What? Two Husker Du songs and no appearance by anything from Zen Arcade yet? Hey, it's everybody else's favorite album, not mine.

This particular song always got me going when I needed some motivation to get off my ass. I’m not saying it inspired me or anything, but the groove got me up and going when I might have just stayed in bed all day going over my bad life choices. The lyrics are kind of like reading the notes of a drunken conspiracy theorist and the music, well, it moves on and on and on and you keep holding your breath waiting for a hook or an extended fuck you chorus or something but it’s just that cool, winding melody over and over and the occasional “divide and conquer” and finally Mould gives you a bunch of patented la la las which isn’t much of a payoff, but damn that guitar lick kicks some ass. (M) download

70. Misfits - "Bullet"
Yea, more Misfits. Hey, at least it’s not another Minor Threat song, because I could easily go there, too.

How many ways can you offend people in one song? When I heard these lyrics for the first time I could almost hear the collective gasp of middle America. I could see scarf-wearing suburban women fainting in shock, grown men in seersucker suits and military hair cuts banging their fists in anger and demanding death to the Misfits. I mean, my god. Masturbation, eating cum out of your palm, shattered head on concrete - dude this is more offensive than the time when I was working at the record store and put out a display of Dead Kennedys record on November 22. But really, anyone totally appalled at this song only has to watch the Misfits perform it to see it go from tastelessness to, well, campy tastelessness. (M) download

See the complete list in progress here.

Side note:

A lot of you readers have been sending us cool stories about your favorite shows and your experiences at these shows (going back to this post). You didn't just name a time and a date and band, you went all out and told us how you felt and what was going on. Thank you for doing that and for you guys, we will be posting all of them tomorrow. If you want to still get in, tell us your favorite, well fuck, it doesn't have to be you favorite, but a memory from a show. Something you remember, something that made this show different from any other. Gmail it to us, kinda fast cause this thing is going up tomorrow. Any show, any time, any place, any band. Just do it quick.

And thanks guys. This has been fun so far.

Posted by Michele Christopher at 3:43 PM | Permalink | Comments (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Hey, turtle is unavailable at the moment and I'm bored. So I've put the work-in-progress list of 100 best punk songs that we have so far in one convenient place, just so you can see at a glance what's there in case you want to send your own songs in to us, or just mock the list or yell at us for what we missed so far or question what we call punk or completely agree with us (I suggest that one) or whatever.

Songs are markes: (T)-turtle (M)-me, (R)-reader entry.

Remember, you can still get in on the list. Just send us your songs along with a short blurb about each. No more than three, please. Contact info in sidebar.

1. SNFU - She's Not On The Menu (T)
2. The Business - Harry May (T)
3. Hellacopters - Fire Fire Fire(T)
4. Rocket From the Crypt - Salt Future (M)
5. Fugazi - Promises (M)
6. Rich Kids on LSD- Scab on My Brain (M)
7. Black Flag - Rats Eyes (T)
8. Fang - Berkeley Heathen Scum (T)
9. Angry Samoans - Lights Out (T)
10. The Clash - Complete Control (M)
11. Exploited - Sex and Violence (M)
12. GBH - Knife Edge (M)
13. Spermbirds - My god rides a skateboard (R)
14. Suicidal Tendencies - Institutionalized (R)
15. Bad Brains - House of suffering (R)
16. Dr. Know - Burn (R)
17. Descendents - Parents (R)
18. Minutemen - Corona (R)
19. MDC - I Remember (T)
20. Husker Du - New Day Rising (M)
21. Radio Birdman - New Race (T)
22. Misfits - Some Kind of Hate (M)
23. DI - Youth In Asia (T)
24. Richard Hell and the Voidoids - Blank Generation (M)
25. BGK - Youth For Crime (T)
26. 7 Seconds - Remains to Be Seen (M)
27. Minor Threat - Salad Days (M)
28. Sham 69 - Sunday Morning Nightmare (T)
29. Dead Kennedys - Holiday in Cambodia (R)
30. The Stooges - Search and Destroy (R)
31. The Clash - London's Burning (R)
32. Ramones - Beat on the Brat (R)
33. Jim Carroll Band - People Who Died (R)
34. Sex Pistols - God Save the Queen (R)
35. Circle Jerks - Live Fast, Die Young (M)
36. NoMeansNo - Big Dick (T)
37. Feederz - Games (R)
38. Negative Approach - Evacuate (R)
39. Clash - White Man in Hammersmith Palais (R)
40. Swingin Utters - Derailer (T)
41. The Explosion -No Revolution (T)
42. Strung Out - Ultimate Devotion (M)
43. TSOL - Code Blue (M)
44. Fang - An Invitation [to a Suicide] (R)
45. Noh Mercy - Caucasian Guilt (R)
46. Christian Death: Dogs (R)
47. Flipper: Life (R)
48. Bad Brains - Banned in DC (R)
49. The Dicks - No Fuckin' War (R)
50. Fear - Gimmie Some Action (T)
51. Butt Trumpett - I'm Ugly And I Don't Know Why (T)
52. Down By Law - 1944 (T)
53. The Jam - Down in the Tube Station at Midnight (M)
54. Refused - New Noise (M)
55. Minor Threat - It Follows (M)
56. The Bags - We Will Bury You (R)
57. Dicks - Dicks Hate the Police (R)
58. Buzzcocks - Fast Cars (R)
59. Rancid - Sidekick (M)
60. Operation Ivy - Sound System (M)
61. Dead Milkmen - Bitchin’ Camaro (M)
62. Turbonegro - Don't Say Motherfucker, Motherfucker (T)
63. New Bomb Turks - I Want My Baby...Dead? (T)
64. Subhumans - Susan (T)
65. SOD - March of the SOD (T)
66. Germs - Lexicon Devil (T)
67. The Accused - Grinning Like an Undertaker (T)
68. MC5 - Kick Out the Jams (M)
69. Husker Du - Divide and Conquer (M)
70. Misfits - Bullet (M)

Links to the lists are in the sidebar in case you want the downloads, or want to read the explanation of why each song was chosen. Also, don't forget there's going to be a huge poll thing going on at the end and we're gonna place these fuckers in some kind of order.

Posted by Michele Christopher at 9:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (4) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Moving right along. You want your three songs on the list, gotta email us with the songs and a little something about each. Not like "this song rocks" something. More like "this song rocks because I got laid to it" something.

First up, we got three from Scott of the fabulous Strange Reaction

56. The Bags - "We Will Bury You"
Though they were best known by me and most of my friends through the first Decline of Western Civilation movie, I also knew this song from a cassette my brother had that was played repeatedly in my house during 1981 or so. Personally, I didn't care for The Bags circa the Decline period, but this song is still one of those that made me love punk music. Sadly underappreciated by too many. download

57. Dicks - "Dicks Hate the Police"
From the beginning lines of "Mommy, Mommy, Mommy" this song just kicks all sorts of ass. This is one of the best singles of all time, never mind the genre. download

58. Buzzcocks - "Fast Cars"
If you're doing a music list and adding the Buzzcocks, chances are Orgasm Addict will be the pick. If I was doing and English punk compilation and was limited to one song, I'd pick Fast Cars. The Buzzcocks are one of my favorite bands of any time and Fast Cars in particular has ended up on more mixed tapes/CD's I've made than almost any other song. download

And now, three more from us.

59. Rancid - "Sidekick"
This one appeals to the comic book lover in me. Because I first heard this song and thought hell, yea. Vigilante’s sidekick. That’s kinda cool. Runnin’ around town in our superhero suits, one of us with a V and one with an S (for sidekick, of course) and we’d be gunning down bad guys like some punk rock Milk and Cheese and..hey....I think he’s talking about soup kitchens and feeding the poor, or maybe the big bad wolf huffing and puffing and going 187 on a motherfucking cop..oh hell, I don’t know, I just know that someday I’m gonna write a comic book and it will start out by saying “My name is Tim and I’m a lesser known character.” -M download

60. Operation Ivy - "Sound System"
Dude, this song makes me happy. I mean, almost all the songs I’ve written about so far are drenched in alcohol and drug memories and lots of young adult angst and overwrought emotions. But this song. This makes me fucking happy. It’s about creating something, turning words into song, making those words come to life, taking a thought you have in your head, making something of it, and it’s not yours anymore because you’ve put it out there and gave it to everyone. And it’s about being fucking happy, not giving in to the shit around you and just living in the moment. Well, that’s what I get out of it anyhow. box in my hand music by my side. skanking to the rhythm of the music by my side. Yea, dude. [disclaimer: I do not skank, have never skanked, will never, ever skank. Though I have been called a skank] - M download

61. Dead Milkmen - "Bitchin’ Camaro"
Hey, you can’t have a great punk song list without this. The first time I heard it this I was thinking, hey this whole fake banter thing is kinda clever, and then hey, they are bagging on the Doors and...dude! I fucking saw Crystal Ship at least a dozen times, man. They’re totally making fun of me! And I was all set to hate them and then the song really kicks in and by the time I got to “Tony Orlando and Dawn” I was hooked on the song and on the Milkmen. I’m drunk on unleaded!

And yea, I really saw Crystal Ship. A lot. Fuck you. I was young. -M download

62. Turbonegro - "Don't Say Motherfucker, Motherfucker"
I have no clue what this song is about. I woke up and heard this while passed out on a sofa. The words were like "Toliet bowls and puppies and motherfuckers?" I must have missed that. It had been a long night and I'm fucking half deaf. Put that thing on again and get me a beer cause we need to get what he is saying. Second play. "Toliet bowls and rubbing a dogs face in the dirt?" What the fuck is he saying? Third play. "Kick the sand in our face?" What the fuck? This is a song that grabs you and tells you it will fucking beat you if you don't like it. Love it to Deathpunk. -T download

63. New Bomb Turks - "I Want My Baby...Dead?"
Let's pick up the pace here. A song that you DON'T want to play at a sorority house. Even if you think it's the coolest thing you ever heard, explaining this to a bunch of girls in sweats is fucking hard. "He doesn't really mean he wants his girl dead, he is just sick of her. I don't want to explain this again." Hey dude, I'm not bagging on sorority chicks, but ...well yes I am. Dude, the song fucking rocks and lets you in on a little bit of inside information. Sometimes girlfriends don't rock and sometimes you feel you are better of alone. Meh. It happens. -T download

64. Subhumans - "Susan"
This might not be your favorite Subhumans song. You might not even call it punk rock. But to this day I still know the lyrics. This song always came up in my head when I saw someone who just wanted out. Trust me. A lot of people in my life wanted out and were just forced to keep going. But, they just wanted out. This tells you off a story of one girl who wanted out years before but couldn't go. A weird, dark song about her just wanting to die but staying alive just for others to smile, but in the end giving up. A really sad song about a girl who was forgotten in the end. -T download

update: the link to the turbo song has been fixed.

Posted by Michele Christopher at 3:12 PM | Permalink | Comments (7) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

Another one by request. This one is for Scott.

Scott asked that we do GBH's City Baby Attacked by Rats and we are complying and more. Being that we are also big fans of City Baby's Revenge, we decided to tackle both. I took on Rats, Turtle took Revenge.

GBH - City Baby Attacked by Rats

I was working at a record store in 1983 when a co-worker played this album for me, asking me to settle a debate with another co-worker. “Is this punk or speed metal?” I listened to the first four tracks or so, shrugged my shoulders and said “Why can’t it be both?” They looked at me kinda weird and the one guy said, “Well, you know, it’s got that whole fast guitar thing going on, so I’m thinking it’s more metal than punk....” Whatever, dude. I mean, yea, it’s got fast guitar. Fucking Yngwie Malmsteem plays a fast guitar too, but we’re not gonna call him anything other than a wanker, ok? The world isn’t black and white, guys. It’s not an either/or premise here. Labeling shit is for people who live in tight confines. That ain’t me.

Label? Call it what you want; thrash, punk metal, whatever. City Baby - and GBH by extension - doesn’t need no stinkin’ label. Violent, offensive, dark, dirty, crude, mean and faster than fuck, City Baby - framed by Abrahall’s guttural vocals and Blyth’s blistering guitar work - is an attention deficit’s delight. Blasting through the songs at an average of about two minutes, each tune does what it has to do and then quits. It grabs you in, fucks with your head, gets your heart pumping, slaps you around and then drops you on the floor. Then you get up for another. By the time the album is done, you’ll wonder if you just went through some Yngwie nightmare, where it’s proven that masturbating with your guitar may get people to call you a genius, but pounding your way through some punk-rock-on-speed and leaving people breathless, worn out, scarred and begging for more counts for a hell of a lot more than having 14 year old kids with used Fenders trying to mimic your licks. It’s when the 14 year olds with used Fenders break shit in their garage while going apeshit trying to play "Bellend Bop" that you know you kick some major fucking ass.

So, if you’re in the mood to get your heart pumping, get your throat burning, and maybe jump off your couch a couple of times and move around like you’re still 18 years and can take a musical beating, then crank up City Baby and prepare to feel that familiar surge of power and excitement like you had the last time you were at a show. And then prepare to feel the agony of defeat as you lay on the ground holding your knee and cursing father fucking time. Not saying I did that, but...yea.

Oh, and dude....if you get offended at "Big Women", you fucking deserve to be forced to listen to nothing but Yngwie fucking Malmsteem records for the rest of your life.

*Big Women is on the reissue

Bellend Bop
Boston Babies

GBH - City Baby's Revenge

This was my first real exposure to GBH. Great Big Hair, Great Britain Hardcore, Grevoius Bodily Harm. Whatever the fuck it meant. Years later I found out what it meant in a different country, but that's a different story for a different time. Right now we are talking about City Baby’s Revenge.

I don't know if this was a part two to City Baby or just some cocaine fueled idea that went to far. Doesn't matter. The song kicks about why they hate politicians and why they hate their attitude. I have no idea what was going on in the UK at that time, but it seems to me like a politician did something bad. Fuck if I know, but the song fucking rocked.

Fuck, I was a kid. Make the fucker kick and I'll like it. Make it fast? I'll like it more. Talk shit about the privileges of politicians? Well just call me fucking Bill Cosby in full on motherfucking dancing mode cause I'm happy as a motherfucker.

This shit was good. It pulled up everything a kid needed to hear about. Politicians. Women’s rights. Vietnam. Bad dope.

I think that’s sarcasm but who fucking knows. Maybe it was good for me to hear about in the long run.

Cause without it you wouldn't have the turtle you know and love today.

Oh yeah....I'm modest too.

Hit a kid with all those topics when I'm still trying to find my "Capt Crunch" cereal. Make me think that wars ten years before my time were bad, the president sucks, politicians are corrupt, bad dope kinda sucks, and maybe me calling my mom a bitch wasn't that cool of a thing to do at seven in the morning.

Kinda grabs you.

That was this album. This is what made you rumble when you sat down. Shake when you stood up. Made you pay attention at school and made you shiver as you fell asleep. The album that some guy wasted off his ass on speed or LSD, or maybe both, would steal from your locker, give back to you broken and apologize for it. This made you think that there might be fucking something out there you didn't know about. It was an eye opener. And for me.....just a start.

High Octane Fuel
Drug Party

Hey, we are still taking requests for album reviews and cars and whatever. We've got several waiting to go already, but if you want in, just tell us what you want and we'll put your request in the queue.

Posted by Michele Christopher at 11:28 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

It's been four years and a thousand tears, but it's back. Back to kick you in the ass and frustrate the living fuck out of you. This is where it all comes down. World Cup time, baby. It starts in a week. This is when teams try to make up for losses in goals while the fans try to make up for losses in wars. This is nationality on the line. This is war.

This is World Cup.

Wanna play?

Here we go!!

For those of you who don't know, this is when average punk rock/muscle car writers go a little crazy. This is when you get to look confused at our site and wonder what the fuck we are talking about when we say "GGGGGOOOOOOOOOAAAAAALLLLLL"

Hey guys, this only happens once every four years. This is the time where the UK tells Americans to fuck off, the French tell the UK to fuck off, America tells Mexico to fuck off and Brazil just sits and laughs. This is World Cup, baby. And we are gonna be writing about it. Hold on guys, cause things could get bumpy..

The muscle car and album reviews will still continue as well as the Underground and the Top 100 punk songs.

But we thought we might just warn you.

It's World Cup time. -M/T

What the hell do I know about soccer? Oh, I'm sorry. FOOTBALL. Honestly, I don't know much except that every four years I pretend to have this great interest in FOOTBALL and I go all World Cup crazy. That is, until America gets its collective ass handed to it and I go back to watching baseball like a good American.

I do know enough about football to carry on a decent conversation. Or get one started. Whenever someone mentions the sport, I just say, in no particular order: Pele! Hooligans! Maradona! And depending on who you are talking to, that last one might get you a smack in the head, especially if you follow it up with the phrase "Hand of God!" Which I often do because, hey, if you're gonna get yourself all excited about a sports tournament which your team really has no chance of winning, you might as well get some good, sporting fun out of it by pissing some people off.

See, I think the World Cup is nothing more than a good excuse for nation hating. It's no longer politically correct to just bag on other countries for no good reason. So we use football as an excuse to say things like "Mexico couldn't play their way out of a fucking pinata!" or "England sucks!" Ok, maybe we say that one anyhow. No offense, Brits. It's just the way it is. Kinda like a Mods/Rockers thing, you know? Friendly rivalry. Yea, friendly.

I mean, look at all the countries we get to make up chants about. Trinidad and Tobego! Ghana! Iran! Oh, fuck yea. We're gonna go Ayatollah on your ass, Iran! See? See how easy that is? Think of it as misplaced national pride. Where else are you gonna shout USA! USA! USA! these days without someone thinking Karl Rove gave you eight bucks and a candy bar to say that? See, World Cup is for everyone. It works out great for people who measure their patriotism by bumper stickers because they can drape themselves in a flag and just call it football frenzy. And it also works out for people who have been kinda down on the state of the union since, oh, November 2004, because they can wave a flag and shout America, fuck yea! without feeling like they are betraying their ideals. It's all about the soccer ball. Uh, sorry. The football.

So I'm looking forward to World Cup 2006. I think I still have a Pele shirt from that Giants Stadium gig in 1977. I'm brushing up on my 'let's mock the cockney accent' phrases. I've been practicing saying the word 'hooligan' several times a day (hey, it's a fun word). I have sharpened my "hand of god" conversation starter so that I can ignite a heated argument in under five seconds. I've got a bunch of UK punk songs about football loaded up and ready to go.

See, it doesn't take much to feel part of the action. Say it with me. Pele! Hooligans! Maradona! ENGLAND SUCKS!

Bring it on. -M

World Cup time. Smell the dust and just keep walking.You don't know what is gonna happen but the screams tell you that whatever it is, is gonna be big. Something like you have never seen. Just keep walking. Dust will fly as you move towards the staduim. Let it get deep in your nose before you walk in. Savor the moment. Ignore those assholes over there. Their team hasn't even hit the pitch yet, god dammit. It was too early to start chanting about how the other country could kiss your ass. Screams of why I suck so bad can wait till after this thing starts. Got my sunscreen and got my food. Fuck anyone else cause we are gonna take this fucking game today. I got my hotdog in hand and I can take the abuse. Hey, I can take abuse from anyone like no fucking other man, but a whole country yelling at me? That's a little much.

Jesus

That's asking alot from me.

Savor this moment. Cause this isn't a game. This is fucking war. This is where all the divisions hit the line. Where you bring the players back from other teams from around the world. Huddle them together and ask them where their loyaties are. Are they with you or not. Cause that bus is still god damn running and there is always time to get back on. This is a tournament where friends, loyaties and trust all get put to the test.

Fuck the Superbowl. Thats one damn game out of the year with two teams. This is the world fighting. And only the best are here.

Welcome to different time zones. Get used to it fast cause you are gonna be sweating blood for 90 minutes and no one cares if you get hurt. You get back up and you play, dammit. You keep this fucking train going till it fucking blows up.

You stopped playing for a team when your foot hit that god damn pitch. You weren't on a team anymore. This was a country you were playing for. And if that truck comes on to pull you off that grass cause you can't stand, you better be god damn dead.

This is where you know everyone hates each other for being from a different country , but won't say anything but "you suck."

What?

Why?

"You just do."

Oh yeah. World Cup is war. Don't fucking let yourself believe anything else. This is fucking war.

By the time this thing is over, countries will have cried at the collective loss of their team. Cause when their team loses, it's kinda like they lost. As a country. The feeling of it's gone. Fuck. We can't be in fucking Euro. Fuck. Four more years till will are back. A country sighs when they lose. National pride is on the line and that brings out the worst in people. Hell, even in me. I never thought i'd ever be screaming "Fuck Mexico!" but I sure as shit did at an after hours bar last time round.

Late night in a smoke filled bar. Shit loads of people staring at a TV at 3 in the morning. Cheap English bar screaming in part to keep awake, and in part to cheer their team on. The doors were locked. You had to walk in the back. And for three fucking hours we drank and cursed at each other. Us with flags on and them with sombreros. Hating each other before the ball hit the pitch, then having a good time while it was going.

It's kinda funny. We are all talk til the ball is kicked. Then it's all friendly like. Everyone is just trying to get through this. Just watching and waiting and wondering what's gonna happen next.

We didn't fucking start this and if it had to happen, at least we would smile. A beer was cracked and the ball was dropped. This is when you stand or fall. This was the game. It was on. Two countries fighting for what they wanted. And us just watching at 3 in the morning at an underground bar that couldn't sell beer but let you bring it in. The bartender taking my abuse. "You guys need to stop yelling at other!" Me replying "You need to get a real fucking accent and a decent team cause your fucking next you stupid limey motherfucker."

Oh yeah. War was on.

The sombrero on the pitch at the end of the game brought a smile to my face. The Mexicans at the bar were crying. Like a battle we both had to fight, they lost. We didn't want to do it but we did. Two teams. Two countries. One battle.

Some one had to walk away covered in blood and someone had to die.

Mexico - 0

USA -1

I just smiled. We beat you. So who the fuck is next?

Thats World Cup

Savor the moment. -T

The Business - Maradona
Bouncing Souls - Ole

Thansk to Scott and DK for coming through with some songs for this series. Hey, this Bouncing Souls song is a lot of fun. The Business song is just mean, but good. Check them out.

Ok, look for Ole! to appear over there in the sidebar under my top tracks of the week list. I can't stop listening to it.

technorati tags: world cup football soccer

Posted by Michele Christopher at 7:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBacks (2) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

So Ken has requested show stories. Turtle has the floor on this one.

This was a Saturday night. Or it could've been a Friday night. Hell, it could have been a Tuesday for all I know. Drinking straight vodka in the back of a car kinda leaves you...well, you kinda stop caring. But we were on the way to a show. Chasing vodka with Budweiser or maybe it was the other way around. Doesn't really matter. Two drunks in the back seat up a beat up old car with two straight edge punk rockers in the front telling us we were going to hell, or some other place, for drinking. Not really caring about anything but the wind in my face and meeting my friends at the show. They could lecture me all they wanted, but in the end, the show would be seen and the booze would be gone and they could talk til they were blue in the face cause I stopped caring right after we hit the liquor store.

Hey. We were kids.

We sat in the back of a car not wanting to see any openers. Just the headliner. FEAR. We wanted that. We didn't really care about anything else but the burning feeling as you pour down booze into your throat and you put off going in. Cause hell, tonight wasn't a night to find some new band or see something new. Tonight was about getting fucked up and having fun. My straight edge friend yelling "get out of the fucking car! You are missing the fucking show!" Me saying "Hey dude, you need to fucking calm down dude. I still got a beer with my name on it, ok dude?"

Hey. We were kids.

Cash paid, hand stamped, clothes searched, push you away. Thats pretty much the standard gig. Take your cash, stamp your hand, search you, then push to what always seemed like the bathroom. Or maybe that was just me. But it didn't matter. It was FEAR. And I did the impossible. I got out of the car. I can go through this. Hey dude, I didn't set the bar pretty high back then.

So it was set. We missed all the openers, cause we were, well, lame and drunk. Fear was coming up and I was fucking higher then jesus getting an enima. I'm not sure what that means but it sounds funny to say. Lee Ving walks out and tells us "If any of you spit on us, we leave."

An unspoken challenge. OK, hero.

Hey. We were kids.

Spit flies on the stage as the set hits. Men, women, girls and boys. Fuck, if there was a dog there he would have been spitting, too. Just covering the band. You could see the frustration in his eyes. The song stopped and he warned us again. "I'm leaving if this shit keeps up!" Song starts. Spit flies. In a look of anger and frustration he leaves. Sets down the git. The drummer walks off with his middle finger up to us. Two songs.

Two fucking songs.

Fuck that.

After we decided they weren't coming out anymore, my friend walks in the girl's bathroom. We had no idea why. He just did. House lights came on and he walked out of the bathroom. Shirtless except for a steel garbage can in one hand and a smoke in the other.

You have to know something about my friend to really get this. The humor in what I saw that night. He had a Superman "S" tattooed on his chest. Same size as Superman's. The only ink he had. Don't ask me what he was thinking when he did what he did, but really, it was kinda cool. Or funny. Or lame. You make the call.

He got on the stage and started banging the living shit out of the riser with the can. Screaming about "How the prices are getting for cheeseburgers" or something like that. Fuck if I know. I was barely able to breathe much less comprehend what the fuck this crazy man was ranting about.

The bouncers and "friends of the bouncers" came running out.

Oh shit. Things are gonna go fucking nuts now. A shirtless Superman with a garbage can whacking the shit out of a spit covered bass drum. If this wasn't the onset of the 4 horsemen coming, I don't know what the fuck is.

The side door was kicked open and I was pushed, no really, grabbed and forced to the door. My friend, crazy motherfucker, pulled the bouncer of me and simply told him, "Hey man, you don't wanna do that." Horsemen coming. I can feel the horsemen coming. I can feel it.

I finally was pushed outside where kids were smashing bottles and just being pissed off. We lost a show. Fear wanted us to spit on them. They knew what was gonna happen if they said what they said. So why would they say that?

I leaned up against a pick-up truck. Pissed off, not knowing where my friends were. Just watching this scene get worse and worse. I was pretty pissed off. Two songs. Two fucking songs. The place was in riot mode. Serious fucking riot mode. In my older years I wouldv'e walked away. But this was the baby turtle. Young and dumb. Baby turtle.

I leaned on the pick-up and wondered how far this was gonna go. Then I looked in the back in the pick-up. Horseshoes. Tons of horseshoes.

They wanted the fucking four horsemen, I found them.

Horseshoes went into the windows. More people caught on and it was a full fucking flying rodeo. Young dumb and drunk, we let those things fly. Now it was a riot. What started of as just a bad show had turned into something different. Was it fun? I'm not gonna lie to you. Smashing windows is always fun. I was young and dumb and just a kid. Things are different now, but then, it was all about breaking things. And if it was a bad day, breaking alot of things. This was a real bad day. I wanted to see glass on the street like fireworks on the fucking Fourth of July.

Tons of police. Kids running everywhere. Cars up and down the block. Lights and sirens and yells of "You need to go home!" on the loudspeakers from inside the venue and from the police cars. Yeah, go home, yeah, you need to fuck yourself cause I got more horse shoes and my blood is 99 percent grain fucking alcohol right now. So I'm gonna be here for awhile.

A firetruck passes me by. Lights on. Screaming. Shit faced drunk being pulled away by my friends I yell something that to this day was the stupidest thing I ever said.

"Fuck you fire pig!"

What the fuck is a fire pig?? Where did that come from??

A fire pig???

The fire truck stopped. Skidded to a stop when they heard me say that. And I swear to god, the biggest man I have ever seen came walking at me. With an axe.

Thats when I knew not to spit on FEAR ever again.

Hey. We were kids.

Fear - Let's Have a War
Fear - I Don't Care About You
Pennywise - Fuck Authority

I'm sure you've all got a story to tell about a show you went to. Let's hear it!

Posted by Michele Christopher at 9:35 AM | Permalink | Comments (9) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It