your cache of stolen instruments brought in just enough, well, cash, at the pawn shoppe to make for an interesting afternoon. what can truly be said of this kind of bartering? well if you've gotta ask then you ain't invited, friend.
rock and roll of a different sort. your fingertips are blackened, the preexisting calluses now resembling the stark, dead surface of sun-scorned Mercury. but physical appearance is the least of your fucking worries.
there's things to forget, obligations to flake on, expectations to fall far, far short of.
none of you care for what's been set out before you. it didn't make sense 10 years ago and as you draw nearer to the finish line, it still doesn't mean shit.
you watch X as he prepares his kit and it is fucken amazing! his preparation man. the focus. he doesn't even blink! his boney fingers load up the rock with the hurried determination of a revolutionary soldier loading his musket, fervent redcoats bearing down on him, drawing ever nearer, ready to run their bayonets right into his chest cavity.
for god, for country, for spinal bliss. your central nervous system will thank you later.
Y is just as fascinated by X's skill and focus. he spends extended slices of time watching him, half making sure he doesn't fuck up on account of the speed bumps, half waiting in anticipatory silence, like a Nazi doberman awaiting the shrapnel-laden scraps of American war dead. yeah. he's really chomping at the shit. he has a drug test next week.
as for you? you've got your rights and you plan to exercise them.
rock's in. your turn. you hold the pipe at a 60 degree, your knuckles caressed by the sagging headliner of Y's piece of shit Cutlass Supreme. the car reeks of dick, Doublemint, and now, drug smoke.
none of you wear seatbelts. that way if you crash, you'll be more certain to go. take the mystery out of things.
and the way Y is air-drumming on the steering wheel (Hot For Teacher tends to do that to people, especially when the neurotoxins start flowing), a crash seems about as certain as certain can be.
you worry, as you tend to do. but, in a moment of inspiration and genuine goodwill, X throws another rock in.
"Yeah?" he asks, as though you wouldn't approve.
"YEAHYEAHYEAH!"
"i'm HOT FOR TEECHUH!" screams Y at a terrified Arab couple in a hybrid. a role reversal of sorts.
baby on board! baby on board! baby on board! baby on board! baby on board! bright yellow beacon fucking your world up.
little do they know that given the state of things, their cargo's gonna end up riding in the Cutlass Dream Supreme someday, blasting rocks and punching hookers in the stomach with the best of 'em.
and oh boy, oh henry, the best of 'em are in that vehicle. that raggedy showcase of post-oil crisis American craftsmanship. Buy American, Bleed American, Blow American.
this is the 7th straight day you've been at it. you're a real hero, you know that? i wasn't sure about how to go about this, so i'll just ask. do you want to be the godfather of my kid? actually, don't answer now. i'll give you some time to think about it. this is an important thing this. wouldn't wanna RUSHIT.
the world streaks by, seemingly in as much of a pre-mortem daze as you. the windows are filthy, but the streets are filthier. best-week-EVERRRR!
no food, not much sleep. just a healthy regimen of heart-stoppingly wonderful amphetamines to keep the day away. in that plush backseat, you feel like your respiratory function is being compromised. fight through that shit.
Y is going on about how flashing your high beams at traffic lights changes them from red to green.
"it's called Strobe Alert. 911 amberlance trucks use it and shit. for EMERGENCIES."
given that you're all walking, talking, living, breathing emergencies at this point (and at all corresponding points), the word resonates in the hollow cavities not occupied by toxified grey matter and strained muscle, bouncing around like a SuperBall made of pure adrenochrome. you all laugh in unison, tickled pink at the thought of your earth-shattering lunacy.
head thrown back, eyes closed, Y tears through the next interjunctionsection, not really bothering to test his Strobe Alert theory.
you've never heard so much horn-blowing, nor have you seen so much finger-throwing.
he pushes that whip to its limits and it gives as good as it gets baby. the Blue Banshee powerslides into Number 1 Liquors, but not many are in the parking lots to be appalled. you can't fathom that it's 10:17 a.m. doesn't bother you though.
makes you feel like some sort of fucking WarMachine, some sort of nutso, fucked-though maniac jumping out of a plane and slitting like 50 throats before banging out every horizontal cunt in Khe Sanh. then you know what you gotta do right? burn that motherfucker!
yeah that's right. you are the harbingers of a new era. an extemporaneous thing whose sole purpose is to destroy the psychological (and physiological) constructs of homo sapiens sapiens. a nuclear anachronism that, to be entirely honest, couldn't be more timely.
along with a staggering X and Y, you sidle up to Number 1 Liquors, telepathically agreeing to approach the place like you're going to rob it. but when will you stop pretending? will it be at the wheelchair dip in the curb? will it be the sound of the ding-dong at the door that snaps you out of it?
before YOU can decide, X is holding his hand, in a gun-shaped fashion, no more than one inch in front of the asian cashier's face. screaming at her. not really "gimme the cash" screaming. no. more like, "gimme that log of peach skoal" screaming.
you try to stop him, to get him under wraps, but then he points the thing at YOU. what the fuck?! i thought you were my boy and now you point a fucking gun at me?! fuck you dude! you whip out your strap, tom cruise-style and point it at his heart. you've seen a lot of movies. you know what you're doing.
"MOTHER-FUCKER!" Y comes into view, crushing on a bag of pork rinds and drinking an as-yet-unpaid-for beer.
startled, you both train your weapons on him. he drops the beverage and bag of pork snacks, both of them hitting the linoleum at the same time.
the objects hit the floor in that sick, slo-mo fashion that the kids seem to love so much these days. but while you and X were focusing on how cool that fucking looked, Y managed to grab his gat from his leg holster.
the three of you. the best of friends. now all heated and tense and enemy like, guns aimed at vital organs, silence broken only by the rotation of the poorly maintained ceiling fan overhead.
tension. drenched in sweat. most likely on account of the standoff, but that second rock might also have something to do with it. it was pretty big.
the room is spinning, but in your fucked-up headtrap, it feels more like one of those crazy, Jerry Bruckheimer-esque circular tracking shots where like 80 dudes have guns on each other, each one telling the one next to him to drop his weapon.
not til you drop yours man! then the skittish methhead has a miniature seizure or some shit and 80 people get their brains blowed offffff.
an interruption.
"you guys are weird." she's not afraid anymore, though she should be. because this just isn't "normal." she's cute. asian. blonde hair pulled back like a real k-pop superstar. probably gives terrible head though. awkward. you'd have to finish yourself.
she repeats her observation. perhaps because you're all still standing there, stone-faced, panting in uncertain desperation. or maybe it's because you're all still wearing those ridiculously large bras you stole from TJMaxx yesterday.
"are you gonna buy something, cuz if not, you gotta go!" look at her. trying to sound authoritative. "you-guys-are-weird." under her breath, but not entirely inaudible.
like a fucking organic version of the Blue Banshee, X breaks the tension of the standoff, springing up on the counter in an incredible display of athleticism given all the crack he's smoked in the last week. he nearly knocks over the lotto machine, but somehow has the presence of mind to grab it just as it breaches the precipice, preventing a fall.
this is gonna be good.
"WEIRD-" he stammers, adjusting his bra but keeping the gun trained on her. straight-faced, straight laced. all wrapped up. great support. a really beautiful pattern. i can't believe it was on sale! free.99!
he composes himself.
"WEIRD is a dastardly word madame! WEIRD has committed many young, brave souls to their ultimate demise! WEIRD has enslaved entire races and it has burned pre-teen girls at the stake! for its own sick enjoyment! WEEEEYYERDDD, young lady, is a vir-u-lent thing, so i suggest you exercise extreme caution before deciding to USE IT!"
the gun is shaking violently by now; like the rookie cop facing down the FBI's 5th most wanted fugitive at Penn Station.
"so you're not robbing me?" asks the Asian calmly.
"haha fuck no!" you assure her. during X's oscar-caliber mini-soliloquy, you and Y have loaded up on enough grain alcohol, bourbon, and Beast Ice to cause a billion drunk driving accidents. you hoist your haul onto the counter beside X. "fuck no. i don't gets down with dry anal rape. and i hear there's a lot of that in prison."
she feigns understanding.
you carefully pull X down from the counter, taking care that he doesn't slip on one of the scratch offs. none of you have insurance. you urge X to holster his weapon, and he duly complies. atta boy.
the asian popstar rings you up and as you leave, shouldering your load of booze, cackling like hyenas, she wonders if she'd just born witness to something ethereal.
fallen angels? time travelers? crossdressing alien bounty hunter club promoter pornstar activists? or maybe it was just your imagination baby. bad dream. now go back to sleep. we'll figure it out in the morning.
as the poem goes, the world may never know.
all that can be sure is that you're just gonna try to be as weird as you can be. because your best is all the world can ask of you.
have you ever awakened on a tuesday morning in your own private hell, sun mocking you through filthy, curtainless glass, the inside of your skull being scraped at by an agitated demon with an icy implement, simply because you've decided to "clean up" for the week?
is each week loaded with regretful incidents (usually involving the opposite sex) that secretly bring a smile to your face?
is your creativity flowing into new ways to cop rather than lucrative artistic ventures?
do you often find yourself selling things (TVs, DVDs, IPods, amps, guitars, stolen digital cameras) in sweaty desperation?
is the Kentucky Gentleman always at your side?
ever fallen flat on your face in a crowded American shopping hub, simply because you've neglected to feed the need for a few hours?
do you frequently find yourself succumbing to "rum fits?"
have you ever dreamt of being adopted by Pete Doherty?
do you enjoy the sensation of punching through glass?
is a gallon of cheap bourbon, some eightballs, a blowtorch, a couple of roided-up pitbulls, and a vintage stihl chainsaw your idea of a quiet night in?
are 'forced disappearances' and 'ransom negotiation' parts of your skill set?
do you see the speed limit as more of a suggestion than an enforceable law?
do you prefer intensive farm labor to a few quick sets at your local gymnasium?
have you ever pulled on dozens of car door handles on the way home with your mates from the pub, hoping that some hapless fuck has left his new 3-Series coupe unlocked?
are you considered reckless, irresponsible, or otherwise a danger to those around you?
do you entertain the notion of sending pipe bombs to MTV Headquarters?
can you take a punch?
can you take a bullet?
do you spend considerable portions of the day considering the best ways to pull off a bank robbery?
do you idolize 1989-1995 era Mike Tyson?
do you have a strong aversion to cameraphones?
are you trill?
are you constantly frustrated by the naivete, ignorance, and stupidity of those around you?
do you prefer 5.99 Zelko to anything on the top shelf?
is Hong Kong piracy in your near future?
have you ever beaten someone within inches of their life for no reason other than that you take orgasmic joy from the sight of bludgeoned flesh and shattered bone?
do you wish you could mastermind a heist rivaling Lufthansa, split to Bogata, and join the FARC?
do you consider marijuana an utter annoyance rather than a "hard" drug?
is at least one person after your life?
are you completely alienated from your family as a result of beasting out (or at least on the way)?
no?
kill yourself.
yes?
pull up that chair over there rhyme scheme jr.
we'd like to have a talk with you.
"Substance abuse is the cornerstone of beasting out." - No. 1 Sex Mouth
"Car bombs? Nice try pussy. Jager Bombs? Why not just watch Failure to Launch. Saki bombs? I'm not gonna say it, but you know what I'm thinking. No, no gentlemen, there is only one concoction sufficent for the manical substance cravings of Street Thunder: The Street Thunder Sawed Off. It consists of one shot of horse steroid, one shot of pure mexican black tar H, three lines of high grade cocaine, a vial of pcp, a bandana soaked in LSD (which you will be wearing), a fifth of Kentucky Gentlemen and a bench press set with three plates on each side of the bar. And the process? Pour the vial of pcp into the bourbon, drop your pants and prepare to intiate full bore beast mode: snort all three lines in succession and immediatly follow by chugging the entire bottle in under 10 seconds while your one friend shoots the steroids in your ass and your other friend fixes the H in your non-chugging arm. Finish the bottle, smash it over your head, rep the bar 10 times and then punch a woman in the face." - Dollar Bill
i'm growing quite lazy. but i feel like you ought to get to know me better before you use your mouth on me. it would make me feel better. i've been on pins and needles as of late. surely you can understand. i mean, the other day, i went to blow a line, and all i had was a mirror, and i hate using mirrors, for obvious reasons, but i went ahead and used it anyway.
so i came up, bill still in my nose, and there he was. grinning like a fiend, fucking staring up and out at me. only his eyes were gone. just pink coves where they should've been. completely missing. nothing to house his soul.
he's fucking trouble.
i mean it!
real trouble.
i want you to stay away from him ya hear?!
can't seem to shake him loose though. damn this photographic memoreee 'o mine!
sooo... for the sake of familiarity, here are some of my interests and favorite activities, as dictated by a certain social networking site i plan on removing myself from in the near future:
rickenbacker basses,
decapitation,
marcy homes,
quantum physics,
100 years,
thrift shops,
the electoral college,
sweaty wet/dirty damp,
dying before i'm 35 in a blaze of glory and gunfire,
burning myself with cigarettes for drug money,
the DEA,
formula one,
life sentences,
starting and purposely losing fights,
ketamine and other tranquilizers,
string theory,
LPs,
making people feel bad,
illmatic,
japanese cell phones,
bunson burners,
atom heart mother,
krav maga,
near death experiences,
used fender jaguars,
zaireeka,
the presets,
crashing '80s proms,
knife hand chops,
babies with 90 dollar shoes,
light years,
used bookstores,
climate change,
freaking out the squares,
teenagers,
clairvoyence,
alchemy,
mercantilism,
structural collapse,
shitheads,
john bonham,
fucking hairy asian pussy,
twilight zones,
making people look dumb,
lawsuits,
destroying social constructs,
four horsemen of 2012,
killing animals to make jackets out of,
snuff films,
phone booths,
jerking off,
vandalism,
lara flynn boyle,
my fucked up ipod,
pbs and npr,
easy rider,
all dinosaurs,
hollistic medicine,
reebok pumps,
closed hi-hats,
hokusai,
geothermal energy,
contradicting myself,
lasers,
teflon,
gulf coast recovery,
interpol's new album,
missing treble knobs,
capsized ships,
guy fawkes masks,
nigerian black paper scams,
one armed push-ups,
handgun hunting,
DARPA,
real club kids,
air traffic control,
new-rave,
go-karts,
the french touch scene,
dream teams,
chucks,
magic carpets,
jade jagger,
the rapture (both the band and the reckoning)
miles davis,
reckless driving,
dj battles,
videotaping sex without prior consent/permission,
The American Century,
eradicating dirty hippies,
Ableton Live 5,
glass jaws,
embezzlement,
diamond smuggling,
party monster,
the 1968 democratic convention,
atlantis to interzone,
chord charts,
digitalism,
jackie brown,
james brown,
caravaggio's murder charge,
sarkozy,
capitol hill,
christian hosoi,
drift racing,
abbie hoffman,
alienating people,
turbo lag,
the rolling stones,
bald chicks,
photoshop,
beat poets,
zeus,
boozing,
movies featuring talking animals,
anthropomorphism in general,
somnambulatory sexploits,
boy-cut panties,
motogp,
lifetime supplies,
nanotechnology,
delta blues,
dogfighting,
birds,
falsetto,
superman,
fingerfucking,
pinky up, pinky down,
any gibson sg,
the distant, distant future,
manipulating people,
circuit bending,
vulcanology,
no-film photography,
ducatis,
synchronicity,
pitch-bending,
biocomputers,
immortality,
small press publishers,
endangered species poaching/trading,
Guns & Ammo,
pretending i can skate,
the tornados,
actual tornados,
the x-men cartoon on fox,
interesting films made by boring people,
misanthropy,
dorm rooms,
ultra-marathons,
nike montreals,
novelty car horns,
the desert,
small breasts (A-cup aficionado),
"shit jokes but not shit stories,"
pre-oil embargo automobiles,
MicroKorg,
wamp wamp,
the hidden tree of life,
apple,
moon bounce rental,
Baltimore free book thing,
bars i can't get kicked out of,
skipping work,
bashing nerds,
calling 911, just to chat,
arpeggiators and vocoders,
people who fuck prostitutes,
the truth,
keef's tolerance,
aphrodisiacs,
the past,
tiny dogs,
hazing,
spell-check,
poorly maintained machine guns,
beat repeat and eq three,
illegal prescriptions,
jack nicholson,
warrantless misogyny,
your mother,
threatening people,
inconvenient truths,
hyperviolence,
epistemology,
nanofiction,
maritime cannibalism,
existentialism,
harp arpeggios,
hatemail and death threats,
sea changes,
norfolk, virginia,
haldol,
materialism...
now fuck off. get outta here! i'll finish on my own.
the time? well, that would be the penultimate day of perhaps the most horrifically insane amphetamines binge i've ever partaken of. about 6am. the place? the Crime Scene of course. the players? well. Tits Zawodny has left the building after Timemachine threw an enormous metal clothes rack at his face. make it home safely Matthew. you'll be in our prayers.
sun's coming up. not out of the ordinary.
hey. Real World's on. i've never really fucked with it, but Timemachine hearts it pretty severely, so teeth chattering, sweat glands working overtime, tremors making sitting still an impossibility, we set up on our respective couches and watch.
it doesn't take long for the magic to happen.
we'd discussed trying to finagle our way onto the show for quite some time. there's never really been an out-and-out criminal/scumbag/addict/tragic figure/pussy magnet beast amongst the casts of the past, sooo...
then the ideas start to flow, because god knows BEING on the show wouldn't be enough to satiate our need to feed. or is it our need for speed? both then.
anyway, somehow, in that early morning haze, we came up with what will be affectionately referred to as the Chainsaw Diaries. fucking MTV won't know what the fuck to do with it, but they'll love it nonetheless.
basically, things will go as follows:
Timemachine and i arrive at the house a day early to set up our equipment. accordingly, the entire upstairs of the house will be our playground. we shall fly in the Ministry of Sound PA system and install it in various rooms of the house. one song will play, at full volume, at all times, on a continuous loop: Nine Inch Nail's "Closer." 24/7. push the bassbins to 11 pleeze.
upon their arrival, our housemates are unsettled by the booming chorus: "i wanna fuck you like an ANIMAL!"
but we're not nearly done. oh no.
once the soundsystem's in place, we will take delivery (through an upstairs window) of our Stihl 025 chainsaws.
PARTY TIME!
during the obligatory co-mingling period of the first day in the house, the friendly schmoozing and boozing will be interrupted by more than the pulsating beat of Reznor's masterpiece.
maybe an astute cast member will notice that the ranks are two bodies short. just as they all agree that they are indeed undermanned, one of us will cut a hole in the floor/ceiling, Looney Tunes style, and drop the running chainsaw down to the floor below. someone may or may not break its fall. mtv hasn't gotten back to us on that.
the image of a falling, running chainsaw will set the tone for the season and let the entire cast, from the frat dawg meathead fuckface to the woefully insecure house cockpocket, know what time it is and who the fuck runs shit.
to keep up with the frenetic pace of the constant loop of NIN, we will of course procure a member of the Pagans motorcycle gang to supply us with more meth than you can shake a stick at. he will be one of the few allowed upstairs. more on that later.
at random moments during filming, we will terrorize our housemates with the whine of chainsaw motors, occasionally throwing them in unprovoked, meth-fueled tantrums.
of course there will be protest. these losers will complain that they feel "unsafe" sharing the house with such maniacs and that "the music is driving them nuts" and that they didn't "sign up for this." but MTV producers will be forced to keep us onboard as they log a 100 share Nielsen rating week after week. maybe they'll make things more lucrative for our fellow castmembers to keep them down for the cause. whatever cause that might be.
after a few weeks of chainsaw-driven tyranny, an entourage will form around us. in addition to our Pagan meth dealer (who, upon our insistence, will drive his bike inside the house on a nightly basis), Trent Reznor and Marilyn Manson will come along to join the party, every so often having chainsaw swordfights for money and meth. of course, best buds Pete Doherty and Mike Tyson will want in, and maybe Pete will seduce the "innocent girl next door" character and get her hopelessly addicted to heroin.
additionally, we will breed fighting pitbulls, placing no fewer than ten steroid patches on the muscular haunches of each dog, tazering, beating, and starving them before setting them loose downstairs.
as a show of diplomacy, we will hire an electrician to help splice into the house's breaker box electrical grid thinger, giving us full control of the joint's power. this way, we determine when the others get electricity. how does an hour a day sound? good. good.
as a friendly practical joke, we will, in anticipation of some adolescent, MFF jacuzzi romp, dose the water with no less than a liter of GHB, to be absorbed cutaneously by the frat dawg meathead closet gay and his two drunken bimbo marks in the wee hours of the morning. we will be as conspicuous as possible while poisoning the water, revving our chainsaws and such, so that when it comes time to finger the culprit, there is no doubt as to who did it. but what the fuck are they gonna do about it? we've got chainsaws, steroid-addicted pitbulls, mounds of methamphetamine, and mike tyson. sit down bitch. and somebody get rid of these bodies.
so yeah, things are in the pre-pre-pre-production phase as of right now, but i'd say it's a sure thing. i mean, who in TV doesn't love ratings? and controversy? oh my gosh! that's reality TV's middle name.
Real World: Chainsaw Diaries - ETA Q3 2008
the first time i saw this mini-doc, i was firmly entrenched in a "Crime Scene" of my own. a tiny little house just outside the nation's capital, breaking hearts and federal laws, pushin up daisies and having the time of my life.
if i remember correctly, timemachine had smashed a framed reproduction of the Last Supper in a drunken rage the night before, so shards of glass were all over the sofa and the already-blood-stained, matted carpet. bare feet, not an option. add to that various stems, scales, and big-faced bills littering the filthy "living room" table, and you're on your way to a head full of nightmares and a nose full of trouble.
so how inspiring it must've been that weekend to see one of our greatest heroes, desperately beckoning for a shirt, amidst the filth and the nastiness and the disorder, crashing about Crime Scene Central. Tagged the wall, just so the haters wouldn't forget.
"hey you guys, that's what we call this place." you should've seen us. filled with glee and hope and pride. like the young buck who rocks the new Lebrons and comes to believe that he can do what the actual Lebron can do, just by virtue of the shoe. you know how it is.
our exploits aside, "Hired Gun" offers in-depth insights into both Pete Doherty's lunacy as well as his stellar musicianship. won't you give it a go?
timemachine hipped me to this vid of a young, pre-Libertines Pete Doherty queueing up for the "new" Oasis album. basically the fledgling poet turning the MTV ethos on its head, long before "Kate-gate," blood paintings, or vintage Jaguars. fucking blowing the micman's mind with his lyrical wisdom. lest you forgot that the man is a fucking poet. emaciated, troubled, and drug-addicted, but still a poet. i don't know about you, but that's how i prefer my artists.
there was a time when i was slightly embarrassed to mark pete doherty as one of my heroes. biggest rock star in the uk, yet belly broke? constantly shooting drugs yet as lucid as if he'd been chewing flinstones vitamins? a menace II society, bashing about albion in margaret thatcher-era jaguars, perpetually under arrest? going to rehab like most people go to safeway? this is your hero kasai? jesus.
(scornful looks and scoffing ensue)
exactly.
look at what the last few months have brought for the kid and you'll know who's got the last laugh you squares.
hell, there was a time when even pete-o-philes like myself thought he would be strung out and dead at the crime scene by now, particularly after the whole blood painting scenario. but i guess that's the thing about expectations. just prospecting. like playing the lotto. can't count us out, can't keep us down!
shine on you tiny diamond!
"leaving coke under your nose is the new leaving the tag on your baseball cap!"
fucken priceless. if only i had come up with it.
ps. it's national unicorn week here at the savant, so expect lots of pics of unicorns for the next few days, even if they have no bearing to the corresponding post. what can we say? we love unicorns motherfucker! N.U.C. might extend into national unicorn month, or year, or whatever period of time we deem adequate to pay homage to this most majestic of earth's endangered species.
if you have any thoughts or anecdotes or websites about unicorns and unicorn-related things that you'd like to share, please do comment below. thank you.
i consider myself a devout atheist, an out and out denier of all things supernatural. but this has got me wondering. something i thought to be wholly impossible goes and happens. and i believe that that, my friends, is synonymous with a miracle.
the chemistry of these two legendaires (and the gloriousness of their art) is indelible, and though we can't possibly foresee what's going to come of this reunion, let's just float on our backs and bask in the glow a bit, eh?
kinda like the way pete is basking in that first picture. feeling all safe and warm in carl's loving embrace of forgiveness. truly what the game's been missing.
epilogue.
if you don't know who these two are, hang yourself. or ask me. then hang yourself.
