on the way home from work today i purchased a liter of sailor jerry's finest virgin island rum and two liters of cola. had i been a real asshole i would have just ingested the whiskey and schnapps that craig left in robert's freezer. however, i am not that guy. i should probably be in pearland right now drinking with the screw loose crew, singing alkaline trio songs with the boys in brett's garage... but i chose to stay in austin and poison myself while watching the university of alabama (led by elitist douche bag nick saban) deystroy clemson in the georgia dome. if this were an analogy, my liver would be clemson, and...well, if you're not retarded, you can figure out the rest. about halfway through the game i decided to turn the sound of and begin blasting explosions in the sky, hoping that i would fall asleep before an angry blog crept onto the web and any promise of sleeping off tomorrow's hangover was destroyed. such is life.
the last two weeks have been painful. i am now alone. sleeping on a couch in someone else's home. eating his delicious cookies and avoiding the apartment i pay rent to live in like a voting booth come november '08. it's not that i don't love her anymore, because i do. (i've always been cliche...get over it.) it's not that i don't want to roll around on the floor with my dogs and cook gourmet meals in our sub-par kitchen anymore. these are all things that are very important to me, but they are mutually exclusive with my personal happiness. and hers. we cannot spend our middle ages resenting each other in front of the children that were imminently looming in our future.
i grew up in a household where complacency and apathy took the place of weekends on the lake. her parents walked away from each other in an attempt to protect their children from the things that held mine together. we were doomed from the start.
in an effort to distract ourselves from the fact that we did not belong together in the first place, we ammased large amounts of high interest debt and a stockpile of shit that the prince of brunei would envy. and what do we have to show for it now? 30% interest on an overpriced dinner at some sushi restaraunt in vegas. game, set, and match chase bank.
i could have sworn that i wasn't supposed to feel this fucked until i was 45, but apparently some gypsy put a curse on me when i was born. the grey hair at 16 should have been a clue.
also, how many hurricanes does it take before we realize that ray nagin should be president. that guy is a political genius. we would all be shitting rainbows and riding unicorns if he was in charge. or at least he would have us believing that we were.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
Face Melting Awesomeness
This weekend saw many an amazing event in the Colby Louis Hates Everyone camp. To start, we celebrated 25 years of cynicism and utter distaste for pop culture by getting hammered on 6th street. This involved friends from Houston, the gay faction from work, my good friend Uncle Pervy, and a band that got me harder than a Viagra overdose mixed with pictures of world class athlete Leyrna Franco.
I'm speaking of Houston's own cock rock powerhouse American Sharks. After 3 or 4 hours that involved wandering around East 6th in jeans that were way to tight for an August night in Texas ,my friends and I stumbled into The Creekside Lounge to discover the greatest thing to happen to rock and roll since Elvis started ripping off black people. They've got songs about flames. They've got beards. They play guitars that ooze swarthiness. I haven't been this excited about rock since Songs For the Deaf was released. The appeal that American Sharks have is that they aren't as morbid as Mastadon, and they're definately not some kitchy vanity project like The Eagles of Death Metal. Behind chunky distortion and lyrics about angels of fire dealing cocaine to groupies lies the true deviant soul of rock, that has unfortunately been bastardized by acts like the Jonas Brothers and the most recent Alkaline Trio release.
While trolling around the Sharks' myspace page this afternoon I've discovered that they will be playing in Houston with the Israeli phenomena Monotonix who were the Belle of the Ball at this years SXSW. I can smell the hot garbage and warm beer now. This show has already been loaded into the Outlook calendar at work with a reminder to pack for the road trip set to go off every 15 minutes between now and the October 10th show. Hopefully gas prices will drop to a resonable $2.89/gal so I can afford to get to the Mink and see it.
While trolling around the Sharks' myspace page this afternoon I've discovered that they will be playing in Houston with the Israeli phenomena Monotonix who were the Belle of the Ball at this years SXSW. I can smell the hot garbage and warm beer now. This show has already been loaded into the Outlook calendar at work with a reminder to pack for the road trip set to go off every 15 minutes between now and the October 10th show. Hopefully gas prices will drop to a resonable $2.89/gal so I can afford to get to the Mink and see it.
Friday, August 8, 2008
CELEBRITY UFC 115: KAOS IN THE KITCHEN: RAY VS. DE LAURENTIIS
Dateline 2014
In yet another attempt to distract debt ridden Americans from the reality that we are now knee deep in the worst economic situation since our grandparents were ruled by a crippled pseudo-dictator, The Food Network and the Landry's media conglomerate have teamed up to bring us a battle royale that could only be rivaled by the riot that took place during Martha Stewart's first week in prison. That's right, domestic goddesses Rachel Ray and Giada De Laurentiis will be going toe to toe in a mixed martial arts extravaganza next month on pay per view. This bout of the beauties promises to be infinitely more sexy than anything broadcast in the past few years, and is expected to bring in more money into Vegas casinos than Paula Deen vs. Barefoot Contessa bikini cage fight and Lagasse vs. Flay death match combined. As an added bonus, the two culinary queens will forgo the traditional UFC octagon format and have opted to duke it out in an ankle deep pool of EVOO thus fulfilling every 30-35 year old male's ultimate cream dream.
TALE OF THE TAPE:
Rachel Ray seems to be the overwhelming favorite at Las Vegas sports books, bringing to the table a larger frame, proven endurance and a rumored reputation of being a ruthless bitch behind the scenes of her 15 hit television shows. The 45 year old Ray has been training for the contest in seclusion for past 6 months and has reportedly been sparring with UFC legend Chuck Liddel. Sources from Camp Ray tell us that she has really taken to the ground game and plans to take De Laurentiis to the mat early in the match and score a win by submission in the first round.
Giada De Laurentiis seems to be enjoying her underdog status, saying "It only motivates me more when I someone tells me I'm going to have my ass handed to me. What the book makers don't know is that for the past 15 years I've been keeping this tight body of mine in shape with Muay Thai and Brazilian Capoeira." Convinced that size does not matter the 43 year old Giada hasn't let anyone in on her fight strategy, only saying "...that peppy, thunder-thighed bitch has no idea what she signed up for." Though the smart money is on Ray, De Laurentiis is clearly the fan favorite, and promises to provide an amazing opponent for Ray.
Undercard match-ups for the September 11th have yet to be confirmed, but there are rumors that exiled former President Barack Obama will be taking on former NFL disgrace Adam "Pac-Man" Jones and musical genius Ryan Cabrera has been in talks with the UFC in hopes to lure arch nemises Jesse McCartney out of rehab for a first blood match in which the loser would vow never to crack the Billbord Top 40 ever again. This proposition still seems highly unlikely to insiders in the ultimate fighting community, not because of a lack of physical ability by either of the former TigerBeat heart throbs, but more simply because neither of them have made there way up the Billboard charts in the first place.
TALE OF THE TAPE:
Rachel Ray seems to be the overwhelming favorite at Las Vegas sports books, bringing to the table a larger frame, proven endurance and a rumored reputation of being a ruthless bitch behind the scenes of her 15 hit television shows. The 45 year old Ray has been training for the contest in seclusion for past 6 months and has reportedly been sparring with UFC legend Chuck Liddel. Sources from Camp Ray tell us that she has really taken to the ground game and plans to take De Laurentiis to the mat early in the match and score a win by submission in the first round.
Giada De Laurentiis seems to be enjoying her underdog status, saying "It only motivates me more when I someone tells me I'm going to have my ass handed to me. What the book makers don't know is that for the past 15 years I've been keeping this tight body of mine in shape with Muay Thai and Brazilian Capoeira." Convinced that size does not matter the 43 year old Giada hasn't let anyone in on her fight strategy, only saying "...that peppy, thunder-thighed bitch has no idea what she signed up for." Though the smart money is on Ray, De Laurentiis is clearly the fan favorite, and promises to provide an amazing opponent for Ray.
Undercard match-ups for the September 11th have yet to be confirmed, but there are rumors that exiled former President Barack Obama will be taking on former NFL disgrace Adam "Pac-Man" Jones and musical genius Ryan Cabrera has been in talks with the UFC in hopes to lure arch nemises Jesse McCartney out of rehab for a first blood match in which the loser would vow never to crack the Billbord Top 40 ever again. This proposition still seems highly unlikely to insiders in the ultimate fighting community, not because of a lack of physical ability by either of the former TigerBeat heart throbs, but more simply because neither of them have made there way up the Billboard charts in the first place.
Vegoose re-issue in preparation for ACL 2008
This weekend Sam Boyd Stadium saw hoards of frat boys with their penises in decoratively wrapped boxes chasing a cornucopia of sexy nurses, sexy cops, sexy red riding hoods and more than one fat chick in a Rainbow Bright costume. That's right folks, Las Vegas' own version of Coachellaroolapalooza City Limits festival took over the intersection where Russel Rd. dead ends into the Silver Bowl parking lot. Ladies and gentlemen, this is the Vegoose redux.
I knew it was going to be an interesting weekend when I saw Tom Morello and Mr. De La Rocha at the Boulder Highway Wal-Mart with a shopping cart full of rotisserie chickens, the newest issues of People En Espanol, Cosmo Girl and The Beanie Baby Pricing guide, and hidden at the bottom of the cart were several four packs of Bartel's & James Pina Colada wine coolers. As I looked upon Zach disapprovingly, he turned to me and said, "Seriously dude, do you think after selling this many records and t-shirts we could NOT embrace a capitalist economy? You know every time someone buys Killing In The Name of from iTunes, the rims on my H2 get an inch bigger. Oh yeah, FREE CHIAPAS AND SHIT!"
(The preceding was only a figment of my imagination that was strongly influenced by TheraFlu's new Warming Severe Cold Liquid Relief. Cherry flavor of course. Had this actually occurred, I would have immediately marched to the sporting goods department and purchased a shotgun and the appropriate ammo and subsequently feasted upon an all-u-can-eat buckshot buffet.)
Now that we've established the most unlikely possible scenario that could have unfolded this Halloween weekend, it will make everything that actually happened to me at the Star Nursery Fields a lot easier for you to swallow.
DAY 1
I was unable to attend the first half of Saturday's festivities as I have a real job, that pays real money that required my attendance. From what I gathered through intense research later in the evening, Mastadon was loud and awesome, Blonde Redhead was indie and awesome, and all three hip-hop acts were slated to play at the same time, forcing broods of stoned frat boys to choose between Public Enemy, Cypress Hill and Atmosphere. I found throughout the weekend that this was only one of many stellar decisions made by a team of very intelligent and well seasoned concert promoters.
Luckily, while I was hard at work, I was able to tune in to the live web-cast in my inventory room to catch a few sets, including that of the Shins, who were dressed in matching costumes that looked like evil troll meets tin man meets can of Flat Black Krylon. They were as apathetic as usual, only showing true emotion when breaking wind in between songs. They're set list was very clearly laid out by Zac Braff, (as much of their career has been) and they veered from it only once to cover Pink Floyd's Time, after which they were promptly ushered off the stage and carefully placed in their hyperbaric chambers until their next mopey movie soundtrack recording session.
The mood quickly changed as the roadies began preparing the "Double Down" stage for Queens of the Stone Age, and while Josh Homme was probably engaging in something extremely homoerotic and awesome. God I love him. Not as much as Drenched In Blog does, but I would probably still dry hump him given the opportunity. They opened emphatically with No One Knows, and ran their way through the usual fare of songs about pills and promiscuity, and low and behold, it was time to clock out. I hastily sped out of the parking lot on the corner of Flamingo and Maryland, and trucked it on down to the concert site with hopes of catching a bit of The Sky is Fallin' or Sick Sick Sick, which I did, but only because I was able to finagle my way into some sweet VIP parking courtesy of a certain vendor sponsoring the show. As I snuck in through the back gate for wristbands only (also acquiring the wristband from the aforementioned anonymous sponsor), I hoped josh wouldn't see me coming in late, because if he knew the only Fabulous Weapon within a 1400 mile radius only caught the "drunk and sloppy" half of the set I knew my fan club membership would be instantaneously revoked. Luckily he missed me, and all was well in the universe. Their set ended, and my erection subsided, but only for a moment.
As I wandered through a sea of scantily clad sorority girls searching for their next ruffie infused cocktail, I came across a group of my degenerate friends who were heading towards the "Snake Eyes" stage to watch Iggy and the Stooges perform the Funhouse record in it's entirety. As an added bonus, Mike Watt, formerly of The Minutemen, was playing bass, which meant twice the humping and awkward flailing on stage. I will admit, I had my apprehensions about watching a sixty-something Iggy perform songs older than me, as I had been thoroughly let down by a certain folk hero earlier in the summer in a park called Zilker, but Mr. Pop is not one to disappoint. He's still ripped, the jeans are still two sizes to small, and the voice, along with the band backing it were still in tip-top shape. To think you can see an aging rock icon perform at a tenth of the cost of a Rolling Stones ticket and with ten times the enthusiasm blows my mind, which is exactly the goal of The Stooges. As expected, halfway through Funhouse, the button on Iggy's 501s popped off causing his genitals to be exposed to a crowd that only knows the words to Lust For Life. Rather than try to hitch up his britches, Iggy continued on with the high kicks and Mike Watt humping, until three quarters of his ass was exposed and shaking for of Lambda Chi Alpha Omega's pledges to see. I'm almost positive he waxes, because there wasn't a hair below his neck. By the time Electric Chair was in full swing, the master of ceremonies had pulled up half of the crowd on to the stage to join him in shrieking and raping The Stooges new bass player. This was just the level of pseudo-gayness I was hoping to achieve this evening, and I'm glad it was Iggy that provided me with it instead of Thievery Corporation, because I hear those guys can be brutal.
As the set wound down, and Iggy's limp became more prevalent, me and my crew of misfit toys decided to head to the beer tent and get just drunk enough to endure the laser light show provided by European demigods Daft Punk. After the first round of over-priced and watered down beers, we were approached by a beanie wearing dude-bro who offered to by us another round. Not because we looked cool, or had similar tribal tattoos, but because he was drunk, stoned, and probably on ecstasy, and we were the only group of people that didn't look like we would brutally rape him and leave him behind the Stratosphere covered in newspapers with a used condom still in his rectum. Not being one to turn down a free anything (e.g. my sweet wristband and parking pass) I "convinced" my cohorts to drink with Brosef for awhile before the incessant beeping and booping took over the fairgrounds and strobe lights hampered anyone from doing anything but retarded dance moves guided by glowsticks. After swindling Homeslice out of another round, we ventured off into the night, in search of a Port-O-John and another bar to hit up. With John Q. Frat in tow, we settled on a spot equidistant from the beer dispensary and the urine depository, and far enough from the stage to avoid the barrage of Hula-Hoops and baggy jeans that were sure to gather round to rock out to such hits as Technologic and One More Time. After one more round of rocky mountain refreshment, frat-dude's girlfriend found him in line to take a wizz, and they disappeared into a handicapped toilet to make passionate, yet sloppy love. I sure hope he was able to get it up.
As I came to terms with the fact that I was about to willingly watch two grown men in space suits push buttons on really expensive computers, I thought maybe i shouldn't judge DP so harshly. I've never been a fan of electronic music, but if two DJs from gay Pareee could amass a following that easily outnumbers Joel Osteen's congregation, then maybe the won't sound like cheese on a turd. Five minutes into the show, Daft Punk "ttlly pwnd" my soul. I felt things I hadn't felt ever before, namely eleventy billion watts of bass coursing through my body, but also an intense urge to party my ass off. Without hesitation I robbed the first dredlocked, JNCO wearing candy-raver I could find of her glow sticks on ropes and began undulating like I'd never undulated before. Before I continue with this part of the tale, I would like to take this moment to let my readers know that I do not use narcotics or hallucinogenics of any kind, so the activities that followed were of only a slightly drunk and impaired mind. With that being said, my partners in crime followed suit, and soon enough, they had mugged an unsuspecting group of 24 Hour Party People. Between the five of us we had 3 Hula-Hoops, 30 glow sticks, and handfuls of knappy, patchouli smelling hair. This went on for about 45 minutes, until the eight dollar nachos caught up with us, and we all collapsed on to the turf and counted stars, and looked for hilarious Halloween costumes. During our recovery, we counted 27 sexy nurses, 53 not-so-sexy nurses, one very well done Dog The Bounty Hunter, and 3,000 decoratively wrapped penises. I awoke to the grounds crew politely asking me to leave, and drove home to complete silence in awe of what I had just witnessed, and in anticipation of what I would absorb on Sunday.
DAY 2
I awoke Sunday morning smelling of all sorts of contraband, and a little sore from all the windmill kicks I let loose from the night before, and also to my girlfriend complaining about not having a fancy wristband. (What can I say? Corporate sponsors can only do so much, and I only have so many favors to cash in on in this town. Maybe next year babe!) To avoid being yelled at too much, I did the dishes without being asked to, served my special lady friend breakfast in bed, and waited for my accomplices to arrive so we could head out to Vegoose for round two of the most interesting festival I've been to in a while. I was extremely exited as the day's schedule promised great acts like Muse, Ghostface Killah and The Rhythm Roots All-Stars, Michael Franti & Spearhead, and everyone's favorite anarchists, Rage Against the Machine, along with several others.
After parking in the ultra-exclusive Lot 10, my friend (who will now be referred to as Millhouse) and I made the short walk to the VIP gate, and walked in on Ghostface Killah and his posse, most of whom may or may not have been members of The Wu-Tang Clan, rocking the house in purple hoodies and various throwback jerseys. I've always been a fan of hip hop that sends a message that is more political than not, as songs about shiny rims and bejeweled pimp cups don't tend to promote social harmony as well as genuine lyrics and heartfelt prose. Along with acts like Mos Def and Common, GFK has found a way to provide the public with this brand of rap music, with beats that come from actual musicians playing actual intsruments, not from some six thousand dollar beat box in a studio far away from reality. It's a shame no one was there to see it. My advice to you, find out where the guys are playing their next show, and go there. And be moved. And pour one out for Ol' Dirty Bastard with GFK. And then burn all your 50 Cent and Eminem cds. You'll thank me later.
After the GFK show, Millhouse and I wandered over to catch the Ghostland Observatory set, a duo that I was lucky enough to see earlier in the year at The Austin City Limits Festival. I say lucky because in Austin, Ghostland put on an amazing lighshow to match their unique brand of electropop. On Sunday, in amazing stroke of genius, Vegoose organizers scheduled G.O. to play at 3 in the afternoon. I guess these guys thought we would actually be able to see lasers and strobe lights beneath the scorching October sun. Good call team Vegoose, you ruined what would have been an amazing acid trip for thousands of people. I hope your happy. As for the music, it sounded great, but it looked like crap. We left after 20 minutes to go enjoy free smokes provided by another corporate sponsor who also had an air conditioned tent. Good call small tobacco, way to keep me from going completely insane.
Without another interesting act scheduled before the 6:30 Muse set, I decided to ditch Millhouse with some people dressed as iPods, and head home for lunch. (Another perk of the glittery bracelet is the gift of re-entry, a luxury not afforded to the schlubs who actually paid to get in.) After refueling on some whole wheat pasta, I headed back with a tupperware container full of humus and pita bread for Millhouse to munch on. The wristband also means that security doesn't rifle through my man purse, so I could smuggle in not only delightful Mediterranean snack food, but a flask full of cheap Dominican Rum. Take that over priced beer vendor.
I returned just in time to wait an hour or so to see Muse, who were also in Austin last month, but did not have the pleasure of performing for me due to a scheduling mistake on the part of their manager. (Yes, I like to believe I am that important. Unfortunately I'm the only one.) By the time the trio of skinny Brits took the stage, the crowd had tripled in size, forcing my to stand between a burning man reject and some jerk who had the nerve to wear a Muse shirt to a Muse show. This is a major no-no at any rock show, as any hipster will tell you. You're not even supposed to buy the t-shirt until after the show is over, and if you really want to be awesome, you need to steal it from the merch table on your way out. But I digress, this is supposed to be about the music, not about the social pariahs that get past the ticket takers. Muse is a band that as been selling out soccer stadiums in Europe for a few years now, and didn't gain any real notoriety in the state until supporting emo-gods My Chemical Romance on their most recent tour. Indie rock nerds will try to tell you that they owned a Muse album before you knew who they were, but chances are, they were still blasting Hot Fuss when they parked their Corolla on Sunday morning. They opened with their current radio hit Knights of Cydonia, and continued their space themed rock all the way in to stuff off the Absolution record. Think Hitch Hiker's Guide meets arena rock, and add a dash of hipster pretentiousness and you've got a Muse stage show. I needed an organic cigarette after this one, and thanks to an earlier stop, I had one.
There were probably a few bands that played between Muse and the newly reunited RATM, but i doubt anyone cared as both bands played on the same stage. A word of advice to the folks that planned this shindig: If you schedule the headlining act to play on opposite ends of a festival venue, you will force people to walk across said venue. As a direct result of this two things will happen, 1) while walking, people will become thirsty and/or hungry, and will then patronize your commissary, paying outrageous prices for food and beer that most dogs would turn their nose up to and 2) They will stop and enjoy the music of bands that may be awesome, but that no one knows about, keeping them entertained, and giving them something to pirate from the internet when they get home. You guys probably cost some no name European act their big American record deal. Lets give this concept a shot next year and put The Spice Girls and Pearl Jam on opposite ends of the grounds. It just may work.
As the giant red star fell across the backdrop of the main stage, goosebumps covered my body. I had sworn to myself that I wouldn't fully accept a Rage reunion until I had received a formal written apology for Audioslave. And again, I changed my mind. This time all it took was Tom Morello striking a single screeching note, and I was the angry pubescent teenager my mother hated so much in 1996. I went into a frenzy of unexplained motions and emotions, wanting to break shit and kill people, and to liberate southern Mexico. I was so enthralled in the moment that i don't even know what song came across the crowd first. When I came to, Bulls on Parade was halfway done, and I had found myself standing next to Millhouse screaming "Is this really happening?" The next 45 minutes was live rock 'n'roll's triumphant return. I imagine somebody said the same thing about their Coachella performance, but I wasn't there, so it doesn't really matter. My erection had returned, and this was one raging hard on. (Zach and co. Please excuse the horrible pun.) And I don't think I was the only one with an engorgement in my pants, as thousands of 20 to 30 something people, some pushing strollers into the mosh pit, were inspired to think on their own, all at once. Zach took time to remind us that our "anger is a gift", and Tom showed us all what truly innovative guitar playing can be. Needless to say, we all rocked out with our cocks out.
As the show closed, and the stage was torn down I no longer had mixed emotions about Vegoose. It was the most enjoyable clusterfuck I have ever had the pleasure of attending. The artist lineup didn't make much sense. The production team didn't put any thought into anything except how to charge seven bucks for a stuffed artichoke. But there were sexy nurses and political uprisings, if only for a moment. And everyone was entertained. Which is all that really matters in situations like this.
I knew it was going to be an interesting weekend when I saw Tom Morello and Mr. De La Rocha at the Boulder Highway Wal-Mart with a shopping cart full of rotisserie chickens, the newest issues of People En Espanol, Cosmo Girl and The Beanie Baby Pricing guide, and hidden at the bottom of the cart were several four packs of Bartel's & James Pina Colada wine coolers. As I looked upon Zach disapprovingly, he turned to me and said, "Seriously dude, do you think after selling this many records and t-shirts we could NOT embrace a capitalist economy? You know every time someone buys Killing In The Name of from iTunes, the rims on my H2 get an inch bigger. Oh yeah, FREE CHIAPAS AND SHIT!"
(The preceding was only a figment of my imagination that was strongly influenced by TheraFlu's new Warming Severe Cold Liquid Relief. Cherry flavor of course. Had this actually occurred, I would have immediately marched to the sporting goods department and purchased a shotgun and the appropriate ammo and subsequently feasted upon an all-u-can-eat buckshot buffet.)
Now that we've established the most unlikely possible scenario that could have unfolded this Halloween weekend, it will make everything that actually happened to me at the Star Nursery Fields a lot easier for you to swallow.
DAY 1
I was unable to attend the first half of Saturday's festivities as I have a real job, that pays real money that required my attendance. From what I gathered through intense research later in the evening, Mastadon was loud and awesome, Blonde Redhead was indie and awesome, and all three hip-hop acts were slated to play at the same time, forcing broods of stoned frat boys to choose between Public Enemy, Cypress Hill and Atmosphere. I found throughout the weekend that this was only one of many stellar decisions made by a team of very intelligent and well seasoned concert promoters.
Luckily, while I was hard at work, I was able to tune in to the live web-cast in my inventory room to catch a few sets, including that of the Shins, who were dressed in matching costumes that looked like evil troll meets tin man meets can of Flat Black Krylon. They were as apathetic as usual, only showing true emotion when breaking wind in between songs. They're set list was very clearly laid out by Zac Braff, (as much of their career has been) and they veered from it only once to cover Pink Floyd's Time, after which they were promptly ushered off the stage and carefully placed in their hyperbaric chambers until their next mopey movie soundtrack recording session.
The mood quickly changed as the roadies began preparing the "Double Down" stage for Queens of the Stone Age, and while Josh Homme was probably engaging in something extremely homoerotic and awesome. God I love him. Not as much as Drenched In Blog does, but I would probably still dry hump him given the opportunity. They opened emphatically with No One Knows, and ran their way through the usual fare of songs about pills and promiscuity, and low and behold, it was time to clock out. I hastily sped out of the parking lot on the corner of Flamingo and Maryland, and trucked it on down to the concert site with hopes of catching a bit of The Sky is Fallin' or Sick Sick Sick, which I did, but only because I was able to finagle my way into some sweet VIP parking courtesy of a certain vendor sponsoring the show. As I snuck in through the back gate for wristbands only (also acquiring the wristband from the aforementioned anonymous sponsor), I hoped josh wouldn't see me coming in late, because if he knew the only Fabulous Weapon within a 1400 mile radius only caught the "drunk and sloppy" half of the set I knew my fan club membership would be instantaneously revoked. Luckily he missed me, and all was well in the universe. Their set ended, and my erection subsided, but only for a moment.
As I wandered through a sea of scantily clad sorority girls searching for their next ruffie infused cocktail, I came across a group of my degenerate friends who were heading towards the "Snake Eyes" stage to watch Iggy and the Stooges perform the Funhouse record in it's entirety. As an added bonus, Mike Watt, formerly of The Minutemen, was playing bass, which meant twice the humping and awkward flailing on stage. I will admit, I had my apprehensions about watching a sixty-something Iggy perform songs older than me, as I had been thoroughly let down by a certain folk hero earlier in the summer in a park called Zilker, but Mr. Pop is not one to disappoint. He's still ripped, the jeans are still two sizes to small, and the voice, along with the band backing it were still in tip-top shape. To think you can see an aging rock icon perform at a tenth of the cost of a Rolling Stones ticket and with ten times the enthusiasm blows my mind, which is exactly the goal of The Stooges. As expected, halfway through Funhouse, the button on Iggy's 501s popped off causing his genitals to be exposed to a crowd that only knows the words to Lust For Life. Rather than try to hitch up his britches, Iggy continued on with the high kicks and Mike Watt humping, until three quarters of his ass was exposed and shaking for of Lambda Chi Alpha Omega's pledges to see. I'm almost positive he waxes, because there wasn't a hair below his neck. By the time Electric Chair was in full swing, the master of ceremonies had pulled up half of the crowd on to the stage to join him in shrieking and raping The Stooges new bass player. This was just the level of pseudo-gayness I was hoping to achieve this evening, and I'm glad it was Iggy that provided me with it instead of Thievery Corporation, because I hear those guys can be brutal.
As the set wound down, and Iggy's limp became more prevalent, me and my crew of misfit toys decided to head to the beer tent and get just drunk enough to endure the laser light show provided by European demigods Daft Punk. After the first round of over-priced and watered down beers, we were approached by a beanie wearing dude-bro who offered to by us another round. Not because we looked cool, or had similar tribal tattoos, but because he was drunk, stoned, and probably on ecstasy, and we were the only group of people that didn't look like we would brutally rape him and leave him behind the Stratosphere covered in newspapers with a used condom still in his rectum. Not being one to turn down a free anything (e.g. my sweet wristband and parking pass) I "convinced" my cohorts to drink with Brosef for awhile before the incessant beeping and booping took over the fairgrounds and strobe lights hampered anyone from doing anything but retarded dance moves guided by glowsticks. After swindling Homeslice out of another round, we ventured off into the night, in search of a Port-O-John and another bar to hit up. With John Q. Frat in tow, we settled on a spot equidistant from the beer dispensary and the urine depository, and far enough from the stage to avoid the barrage of Hula-Hoops and baggy jeans that were sure to gather round to rock out to such hits as Technologic and One More Time. After one more round of rocky mountain refreshment, frat-dude's girlfriend found him in line to take a wizz, and they disappeared into a handicapped toilet to make passionate, yet sloppy love. I sure hope he was able to get it up.
As I came to terms with the fact that I was about to willingly watch two grown men in space suits push buttons on really expensive computers, I thought maybe i shouldn't judge DP so harshly. I've never been a fan of electronic music, but if two DJs from gay Pareee could amass a following that easily outnumbers Joel Osteen's congregation, then maybe the won't sound like cheese on a turd. Five minutes into the show, Daft Punk "ttlly pwnd" my soul. I felt things I hadn't felt ever before, namely eleventy billion watts of bass coursing through my body, but also an intense urge to party my ass off. Without hesitation I robbed the first dredlocked, JNCO wearing candy-raver I could find of her glow sticks on ropes and began undulating like I'd never undulated before. Before I continue with this part of the tale, I would like to take this moment to let my readers know that I do not use narcotics or hallucinogenics of any kind, so the activities that followed were of only a slightly drunk and impaired mind. With that being said, my partners in crime followed suit, and soon enough, they had mugged an unsuspecting group of 24 Hour Party People. Between the five of us we had 3 Hula-Hoops, 30 glow sticks, and handfuls of knappy, patchouli smelling hair. This went on for about 45 minutes, until the eight dollar nachos caught up with us, and we all collapsed on to the turf and counted stars, and looked for hilarious Halloween costumes. During our recovery, we counted 27 sexy nurses, 53 not-so-sexy nurses, one very well done Dog The Bounty Hunter, and 3,000 decoratively wrapped penises. I awoke to the grounds crew politely asking me to leave, and drove home to complete silence in awe of what I had just witnessed, and in anticipation of what I would absorb on Sunday.
DAY 2
I awoke Sunday morning smelling of all sorts of contraband, and a little sore from all the windmill kicks I let loose from the night before, and also to my girlfriend complaining about not having a fancy wristband. (What can I say? Corporate sponsors can only do so much, and I only have so many favors to cash in on in this town. Maybe next year babe!) To avoid being yelled at too much, I did the dishes without being asked to, served my special lady friend breakfast in bed, and waited for my accomplices to arrive so we could head out to Vegoose for round two of the most interesting festival I've been to in a while. I was extremely exited as the day's schedule promised great acts like Muse, Ghostface Killah and The Rhythm Roots All-Stars, Michael Franti & Spearhead, and everyone's favorite anarchists, Rage Against the Machine, along with several others.
After parking in the ultra-exclusive Lot 10, my friend (who will now be referred to as Millhouse) and I made the short walk to the VIP gate, and walked in on Ghostface Killah and his posse, most of whom may or may not have been members of The Wu-Tang Clan, rocking the house in purple hoodies and various throwback jerseys. I've always been a fan of hip hop that sends a message that is more political than not, as songs about shiny rims and bejeweled pimp cups don't tend to promote social harmony as well as genuine lyrics and heartfelt prose. Along with acts like Mos Def and Common, GFK has found a way to provide the public with this brand of rap music, with beats that come from actual musicians playing actual intsruments, not from some six thousand dollar beat box in a studio far away from reality. It's a shame no one was there to see it. My advice to you, find out where the guys are playing their next show, and go there. And be moved. And pour one out for Ol' Dirty Bastard with GFK. And then burn all your 50 Cent and Eminem cds. You'll thank me later.
After the GFK show, Millhouse and I wandered over to catch the Ghostland Observatory set, a duo that I was lucky enough to see earlier in the year at The Austin City Limits Festival. I say lucky because in Austin, Ghostland put on an amazing lighshow to match their unique brand of electropop. On Sunday, in amazing stroke of genius, Vegoose organizers scheduled G.O. to play at 3 in the afternoon. I guess these guys thought we would actually be able to see lasers and strobe lights beneath the scorching October sun. Good call team Vegoose, you ruined what would have been an amazing acid trip for thousands of people. I hope your happy. As for the music, it sounded great, but it looked like crap. We left after 20 minutes to go enjoy free smokes provided by another corporate sponsor who also had an air conditioned tent. Good call small tobacco, way to keep me from going completely insane.
Without another interesting act scheduled before the 6:30 Muse set, I decided to ditch Millhouse with some people dressed as iPods, and head home for lunch. (Another perk of the glittery bracelet is the gift of re-entry, a luxury not afforded to the schlubs who actually paid to get in.) After refueling on some whole wheat pasta, I headed back with a tupperware container full of humus and pita bread for Millhouse to munch on. The wristband also means that security doesn't rifle through my man purse, so I could smuggle in not only delightful Mediterranean snack food, but a flask full of cheap Dominican Rum. Take that over priced beer vendor.
I returned just in time to wait an hour or so to see Muse, who were also in Austin last month, but did not have the pleasure of performing for me due to a scheduling mistake on the part of their manager. (Yes, I like to believe I am that important. Unfortunately I'm the only one.) By the time the trio of skinny Brits took the stage, the crowd had tripled in size, forcing my to stand between a burning man reject and some jerk who had the nerve to wear a Muse shirt to a Muse show. This is a major no-no at any rock show, as any hipster will tell you. You're not even supposed to buy the t-shirt until after the show is over, and if you really want to be awesome, you need to steal it from the merch table on your way out. But I digress, this is supposed to be about the music, not about the social pariahs that get past the ticket takers. Muse is a band that as been selling out soccer stadiums in Europe for a few years now, and didn't gain any real notoriety in the state until supporting emo-gods My Chemical Romance on their most recent tour. Indie rock nerds will try to tell you that they owned a Muse album before you knew who they were, but chances are, they were still blasting Hot Fuss when they parked their Corolla on Sunday morning. They opened with their current radio hit Knights of Cydonia, and continued their space themed rock all the way in to stuff off the Absolution record. Think Hitch Hiker's Guide meets arena rock, and add a dash of hipster pretentiousness and you've got a Muse stage show. I needed an organic cigarette after this one, and thanks to an earlier stop, I had one.
There were probably a few bands that played between Muse and the newly reunited RATM, but i doubt anyone cared as both bands played on the same stage. A word of advice to the folks that planned this shindig: If you schedule the headlining act to play on opposite ends of a festival venue, you will force people to walk across said venue. As a direct result of this two things will happen, 1) while walking, people will become thirsty and/or hungry, and will then patronize your commissary, paying outrageous prices for food and beer that most dogs would turn their nose up to and 2) They will stop and enjoy the music of bands that may be awesome, but that no one knows about, keeping them entertained, and giving them something to pirate from the internet when they get home. You guys probably cost some no name European act their big American record deal. Lets give this concept a shot next year and put The Spice Girls and Pearl Jam on opposite ends of the grounds. It just may work.
As the giant red star fell across the backdrop of the main stage, goosebumps covered my body. I had sworn to myself that I wouldn't fully accept a Rage reunion until I had received a formal written apology for Audioslave. And again, I changed my mind. This time all it took was Tom Morello striking a single screeching note, and I was the angry pubescent teenager my mother hated so much in 1996. I went into a frenzy of unexplained motions and emotions, wanting to break shit and kill people, and to liberate southern Mexico. I was so enthralled in the moment that i don't even know what song came across the crowd first. When I came to, Bulls on Parade was halfway done, and I had found myself standing next to Millhouse screaming "Is this really happening?" The next 45 minutes was live rock 'n'roll's triumphant return. I imagine somebody said the same thing about their Coachella performance, but I wasn't there, so it doesn't really matter. My erection had returned, and this was one raging hard on. (Zach and co. Please excuse the horrible pun.) And I don't think I was the only one with an engorgement in my pants, as thousands of 20 to 30 something people, some pushing strollers into the mosh pit, were inspired to think on their own, all at once. Zach took time to remind us that our "anger is a gift", and Tom showed us all what truly innovative guitar playing can be. Needless to say, we all rocked out with our cocks out.
As the show closed, and the stage was torn down I no longer had mixed emotions about Vegoose. It was the most enjoyable clusterfuck I have ever had the pleasure of attending. The artist lineup didn't make much sense. The production team didn't put any thought into anything except how to charge seven bucks for a stuffed artichoke. But there were sexy nurses and political uprisings, if only for a moment. And everyone was entertained. Which is all that really matters in situations like this.
My Current Reality
someone mentioned to me a while back that if you're not unnecessarily liberal when you're young and then equally yet oppositely conservative when you're older, then you will probably never have a true grasp on the way the world works. this may be true, and it accurately describes me to this juncture in my life.
my problem, though, is this: what about the 30 to 40 years between the time that i start dumping money in to a 401k and the time that i cash it in to buy a lake house?
this is probably whats wrong with middle aged, middle class americans, and may very well explain why we spend years 25 through 60 of our lives living vicariously through people like bret michaels and midget mac rather than researching which of the two presidential candidates is the lesser of two dimwits.
seriously guys, are we that easily distracted? is the kool-aid that strong? what would happen if all of a sudden millions of americans started actively taking an interest in what was going on around them, even if just on a small scale? what if rather than depending on low priced salmonella injected tomatoes from wal-mart you bought local produce from a farmer's market? imagine that, stimulating the local economy and eating healthy at the same. i'm pretty sure i just solved america's recession problem and it's obesity issue in one fell swoop. and i dealt a crushing blow to the retail anti-christ. not bad for an alcoholic college dropout.
as it relates to more global issues, i think that the majority of these conundrums could be dealt with by a very remedial means of population control by gagging certain propaganda campaigns. simply put, people that need to be constantly reminded not to smoke, do drugs or have promiscuous sex with many partners would probably be better of dead anyways. besides, imagine how much crude oil would be saved because these assholes weren't driving around looking to score dope, pussy, or tobacco. i guess you could call it a more advanced natural selection theory. instead of spending millions of government dollars trying to keep my downstairs neighbor off meth and on welfare, why don't we just let the guy kill himself in a moment of delusional invincibility, and then invest my hard earned tax dollars into........ACTUALLY STIMULATING THE FUCKING ECONOMY. or developing a vehicle that runs on a relatively renewable fuel source, like the blood of the homeless.
i guess for tonight my infinite wisdom well has run dry, but i imagine that i will soon enough develop another brilliant idea that will save american lives will ridding the world of meth heads and the homeless.
my problem, though, is this: what about the 30 to 40 years between the time that i start dumping money in to a 401k and the time that i cash it in to buy a lake house?
this is probably whats wrong with middle aged, middle class americans, and may very well explain why we spend years 25 through 60 of our lives living vicariously through people like bret michaels and midget mac rather than researching which of the two presidential candidates is the lesser of two dimwits.
seriously guys, are we that easily distracted? is the kool-aid that strong? what would happen if all of a sudden millions of americans started actively taking an interest in what was going on around them, even if just on a small scale? what if rather than depending on low priced salmonella injected tomatoes from wal-mart you bought local produce from a farmer's market? imagine that, stimulating the local economy and eating healthy at the same. i'm pretty sure i just solved america's recession problem and it's obesity issue in one fell swoop. and i dealt a crushing blow to the retail anti-christ. not bad for an alcoholic college dropout.
as it relates to more global issues, i think that the majority of these conundrums could be dealt with by a very remedial means of population control by gagging certain propaganda campaigns. simply put, people that need to be constantly reminded not to smoke, do drugs or have promiscuous sex with many partners would probably be better of dead anyways. besides, imagine how much crude oil would be saved because these assholes weren't driving around looking to score dope, pussy, or tobacco. i guess you could call it a more advanced natural selection theory. instead of spending millions of government dollars trying to keep my downstairs neighbor off meth and on welfare, why don't we just let the guy kill himself in a moment of delusional invincibility, and then invest my hard earned tax dollars into........ACTUALLY STIMULATING THE FUCKING ECONOMY. or developing a vehicle that runs on a relatively renewable fuel source, like the blood of the homeless.
i guess for tonight my infinite wisdom well has run dry, but i imagine that i will soon enough develop another brilliant idea that will save american lives will ridding the world of meth heads and the homeless.
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