In 1994 Kurt Cobain faked his own suicide. 22 years later he’s ending his self-imposed exile.
“Wait, this doesn’t make sense. Do you know what he wants? Why in the world would this dude want to talk to me? To us?” I ask Martin.
I have Martin on speaker while I Google the lawyer he’s just mentioned on my aging laptop. The lawyer’s name, the guy who wants us to come see him, is Vincent Consuelo. I’ve heard the name before I think, but I can’t place it.
It’s September 1989 and the Irish punk band the Pogues is touring America. They play to a capacity crowd of 1300 people at the Power Center for the Arts at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. This night it’s immediately clear that lead singer Shane MacGowan isn’t up to snuff. Even while gripping the solidity of the mic-stand, the infamously testy and oft-drunken singer can barely stand. He’s off-tune, off-time and nearly doesn’t make it through the opening number.
I’ve gone back and forth internally about posting my reading list for 2015. The most persuasive argument thus far being “Who the fuck cares what I read?” That, however is the central dilemma, native to all writing having to do with one’s self. Where do you get the nerve to think that’s worth writing down? I’ve worked hard to ignore that thought though, because in the end, all writing is an act of narcissistic courage. Look what I have to say! I exist!
A personal recounting of the psycho-pharmacological experience that was a 1987 Butthole Surfers show.
The Butthole Surfers
When people asked me as a teenager what I wanted to do when I grew up I, at some point developed a stock answer. “I’d like to be one of three things,” I’d say. “A Butthole Surfer, A Beastie Boy or a Pogue.”
You people that get your jollies, your reason for living via the use and veneration of a gun are mentally feeble. A gun is a tool, nothing more. It’s a low preoccupation. Further, it’s sad that you worship these things and your “constitutional right” to own such a tool above all else, most notably an innocent person’s life. Can you think of nothing better to do? Why not worship a hammer or perhaps a lawn mower instead? Surely we’d all be better off. Especially you.
Such a condescending statement sounds awful, doesn’t it? But it’s how I feel. I’ve tried to be respectful and hold my tongue, but enough is enough. You people are feebs and I’m tired of you encroaching on my mental space.
Or – an alternate title – “Boston, The Racial Valhalla I Never Knew”
My wife and I went on a trip to New England, where I grew up, to visit my parents. It was pleasant in many prototypically New England ways; the leaves were turning and the angle of the sun painted the world in that most flattering light. Continue reading
Every few years a band comes along and manages to do nihilism right. And with their self-titled debut, the LA band Fidlar took the crown for 2013. The name Fidlar is an acronym. It stands for “F*ck It Dog, Life’s A Risk.”
I was sold on the name, but it was the music that cemented my ardor; these guys brought the goods. Their most popular tune in 2012 was a song titled, “No Waves” a fast paced sing-along, guitar anthem that spoke to me across the generational divide. It begins…
I feel, feel like a cokehead,
I feel, feel like I can’t get drunk no more,
‘Cause I’m on the floor,
Looking for some matches just to cook up a score,
Talk about painting a picture! And the song rocks! I was sold.