Monday, December 20, 2004

Pillow Fights, Not Boogie Rock

Went to the Thrasher Skater of the Year throwdown at the Great American, featuring Turbonegro. My friend S. works there, and he was a little shaded about getting Heather and I in, since it was all invite-only and strictly for the glamorous types. I was supposed to pretend I didn’t know him when I got there…just in case. We ended up getting parking right around the corner, and walking past this big clusterfuck of a line to the “V.I.P.” line…not because we were V.I.P.s, but because it’s better to be rejected sooner than later. The security guy asked the guy in front of me for his ticket, and I thought, “Ah shit, the jig’s up.” But he didn’t ask either of us for tickets, and everything was golden…

Except for Eagles of Death Metal. So ironic, it’s even dripping from their name! Not only are they not death metal, they don’t rock as hard as the Eagles. Yeah, no shit—a forty-five minute version of “Hotel California” would’ve been better. Whatever hype is getting them booked to open for bands like Social Distortion and Turbonegro has apparently not died down—i.e. people are still giving them clout because of the Queens of the Stone Age connection. When all the hipsters realize that the emperor has no clothes, and that mustaches are no longer ironic (were moustaches ever ironic?), they’re going to be pointing the finger at each other saying, “Wait, you’re the one who said these guys were cool, right? Hey, you have a mullet.” Speaking of mullets, the drummer’s pretty boy shag was the best thing about EoDM—but only because it frames a face so singularly ugly he gets sympathy cards from the Phantom of the Opera. I guess I’m not immune to irony. Really, though—what the fuck is this shit? You’ve got a guy with a Telecaster, too tight jeans, a pompadour and a wishfully ironic Reno 911 moustache doing the Achey Breaky shuffle, an ugly pretty boy, and a clapped out old dude with a flying V, looking every bit like a geriatric Richie Stotts from the Plasmatics, sans tutu, and they’re playing fucking washed out feel-good dance rock that wouldn’t fill a Humboldt State bar to half-capacity. This is the next thing? This is what the kids are crying for—the return of Boogie Rock?

You really can’t get more gimmicky than Turbonegro. I mean, c’mon—a fat Norse made up like King Diamond in a fur cape, a pudgy Baby Huey in a sailor outfit, a tranny in a SS officer’s hat and Marilyn Manson make-up, the Mad Hatter, a jailhouse rock drummer in Elvis shades, and a manic homo who forgot to take his Ritalin fronting to play the keyboards, singing songs like “Wipe It ‘Til It Bleeds.” Fucking ridiculous—a Viking Village People. However, they bring the fucking rock. They’re entertaining, and oh yeah—once again—they bring the fucking rock. If they didn’t have all the silly ass costumes and anal sex references, they’d still be worth paying to see. EoDM’s J. Devil (ooh, fake names, how punk…) can say “We’re in it for the ladies” as much as he wants, but that doesn’t excuse the fact that anyone under 50 shouldn’t be listening to the goddamned Doobie Brothers, let alone playing that shit. Take your lightweight, ironic ass to the parking lot, smoke the ass end of a joint from a feathered roach clip, and get the fuck off the stage, because that shit isn’t funny enough to laugh at or good enough to rock to. You rock like Carrot Top tells jokes, man. Your moustache says it all: prop rock.

So the famous Ted Shred was the DJ. I know this because Heather is an undercover scenester. And while it’s interesting to hear someone mix beats into Johnny Cash and 80’s butt-rock, and it’s good to hear a DJ who actually does something creative instead of change records, the guy is the epitome of self-indulgent. Maybe it’d be more enjoyable to just hear “Ring Of Fire” all the way through—the man is one of the most powerful, understated vocalists since the dawn of recorded music. I’m not so sure he needs your spastic Eric B. on bathtub speed scratch attack over every fucking line. I will say this was the first time I saw people breakdancing to Slayer. I’m all for the one love, brothers of different mothers, Hands Across America thing, but I’m not sure this type of cross-pollination is entirely good.

Turbonegro. All right! That’s really all I have to say. Much better than the only other time I saw them, at Slim’s. During the encore I got smashed into by two guys doing some kind of Greco-Roman wrestling thing…being a peaceful, lover not a fighter type, I decided to break it up. Somebody grabbed one guy, I grabbed the other. He was lanky fellow and squirmin’ like an eel, so I relived my club-workin’ days and locked him up in the legendary Full Nelson while delicately screaming into his ear to mellow the fuck out. He screamed back “I fuckin’ work here!” over and over. That’s when I saw the laminate hanging from his hip. Oops—my bad. I think he was the sound guy or something. The Good Samaritan is always the last to know.

So Heather and I went to the Grubstake, since I was Somalia-style dying of hungervation. I wanted to get to the show early, get in, get stamped, and go get Indian food…little did I realize that there were no ins and outs. Oops. And we were too late to fuck up the Thrasher deli tray. So we went to Grubstake after, wherein my hunger and crankiness and Heather’s hastily pounded Rockstar lead to a strange miscommunication and awkward stare-down of sorts. I like to think I’m a communicative type, but when I feel that someone is fucking with me, or a situation is past the point of no return, I’m big on the disconnect. I was right about to throw down some cash, get up, and get in a cab… It all worked out in the end, however… if you want the play by play on that, you’ll have to wait until I become a foxy camgirl, showing the world my private boudoir moments. As of now, I don’t kiss and tell—much.

Speaking of camgirls, I was guest star on Sassy and Sedusa’s Crafty Cam last night. It was all under control until an hour long, no-holds-barred, Superfly-Snooka-from-the-top-rope, pillow fight broke out. This was no joke. I mean, serious commando-style, Green Beret, hand to hand pillow-fighting. Sassy’s nose got elbowed, my wrist mala blew apart, and socks were stuffed into mouths. Needless to say, at the end of an hour, I was bashing the ladies at will, screaming “Capitulate!” but they put up a valiant fight and refused to surrender. In the end, the sweaty specter of Exhaustion ruled the day. It was positively cathartic; I recommend pillow fights as a cure for what ails you. I don’t think I’ve ever had that much fun sweating on a couch with two hot chicks with my clothes on.

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