I pity the fool that fails to see the nerd glory in this.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
“The Cocaine Hornets” (June, 1987)
l to r: Yohan Lixx (guitar), Frankie Lasers (drums/lasers), Tomasso Gunnzz (lead vocals) "Pretty" Bobby Feather (bass)
The Cocaine Hornets were a notorious Eastern Ohio Roller Derby gang/Stryper tribute band known for their elegance on wheels, as well as their taste for violence.
The original four band members met while employed at the Millersburg Long John Silvers in the summer of '86, and soon formed strong friendships over their mutual passions for shredding, stealing cosmetics from customer's purses, and of course, Cocaine.
The band recorded only one album, 1987's disappointing "Wheelz of Pain", which failed to break onto the charts and received a overwhelmingly lukewarm response from critics. Later that summer, Tomasso got a job as an assistant floor manager at a local Skating Rink. Soon after their wave of terror began.
A former juvenile delinquent and registered sex offender, Tommy was trained in ruthlessness as a lion-feeder in the Albanian Circus as a boy. Circus life was hard on him, his only happiness being the 30 minutes he was allowed out of his cage and permitted to roller skate. Being no stranger to violence, he had the markings of a natural born killer. A perfect candidate for leader of a Roller Derby gang.
The others soon followed, and within a year The Hornets controlled every Rink in the state, squeezing the throats of local business owners and engaging in glam violence all over town. Many refuse to talk about those days. Others recall the Hornet's unique brand of glamour-infused Hooliganism as "Lisptick Extortion". A thing they all grew to fear.
Then came the night of July 12th, 1988 when everything fell apart. Bobby, frantic in the throes of a PCP frenzy, crashed the Hornet's tour van into an oncoming train. All except Tommy died. Bobby lived fast. Tequila in his heartbeat, yet his veins burned gasoline. It might of kept his motor running, but it never kept him clean.
That was many years ago. Since then, Mr. Gunnzz had been in and out of jails and married and divorced a few times. But the head Hornet's sting is noticeably softer in 2009. Today Tommy owns his own Skating Rink, a multi-level entertainment megapark called "Tommy 2000". He owns a cat, listens to NPR, and no longer enjoys doing cocaine or stabbing people. He does still skate occasionally.
(pic via static.metal-archives.com)
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Wait, where am I? Oh yeah. Check out the M4H "Tumblelog" HERE. Or just scroll down and peep the jazzy little "Widget" I put underneath the Chatbox. +83 nerd points for yours truly! High five, myself. I am very proud of you. Good job.
But why step into the future, you ask? If gum-snapping Tweeners barely old enough to think can tweet their awful, streams of vapidity on bejewelled Miley Cyrus Blackberries standing up on a bumpy rush-hour crosstown bus ride, I can throw together a fucking microblog out of principle alone.
(PPS: "Tumblelog" and "Widget" are not words. One sounds like an Appalachian Woodsman sport and the other is an Ewok.)
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
And Elmo can really role with the punches. There's a lot more to this little guy than incredible endurance when faced with sustained tickling.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Friday, March 20, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
If you can make it to 1:37, you're in for a terrifying surprise.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
No way. Forget it.
Look at him. He loves you.
Doc. I just...can't.
Try. Deep breaths.
Oh God..He's giving me the devils eye.
Don't be silly. He's just admiring your necklace.
Jesus..I can't breathe.
Just try and relax.
I can't relax with that guy staring at me. I'm sorry.
There's nothing to be sorry about. Don't judge yourself. Do you remember the visualization exercise we went through last week?
Yeah Doc, but I gotta be honest..it sounded gay so I just stopped listening to you after a while.
Well I didn't write it.
All I'm saying is whoever did...it's sort of gay the stuff you were saying, that's all. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I'm hip. It is what it is.
Well I guess if it's gay to try and be a good person and help a friend out then I suppose I'm sorry for even trying. That's fine.
C'mon. C'mon. Don't do that.
No. It's too late.
Don't get hot. I was just trying to...
Ok. Well if that's all, I have other patients to see, so...
It's fine. Whatever!
Jesus. Let me go get you a Fresca from the lobby.
....I do like the Fresca.
Let me get you one. It'll make you feel better.
Ok. A can of Fresca would be really nice. Thank you, Anthony.
I'll be back. Two and two.
(whispers to rabbit)
It's OK, Peppers. I know he's crass. But he has a heart of gold. You'll see it..soon..you'll see.
Monday, March 16, 2009
The truth is I'm pissed before I even get on it. I guess I'm old fashioned. I've never been a big fan of high-pitched metallic screeching type sounds. Maybe it's a generational thing. I don't know. I'm not a scientist. But when that lumbering train awkwardly slides into its loud, squealing halt in front of me, time after time I often wonder, did we lose a war recently? I know we're technically in a war and it totally sucks, but we didn't actually lose one, right? It's 2009. The future. C'mon, NY. Fork over some of that Bloomberg money and get us some of those fancy Japanese-style trains. They even have subway masks there. (Fact: Did you know that the Japanese train system of Japan is powered exclusively by the power of Laser Power? Google it.)
But seriously. New trains, please. Maybe something quiet, and relaxing? Things millions of people spend a substantial chunk of their day in shouldn't feel like a Quaalude hayride and definitely shouldn't sound like a cat baseball game between Cylons and Vampire bats.
I hear it now. That high-pitched Hellsong. Getting closer. The sounds of my inevitable misery fast approaching. All aboard. Next stop, panic attack.
When those car doors open all I see is a wall of frowns coming at me. A blue and Grey flurry of leather briefcases, crinkly newspapers, and blackberries. I smell cigarettes and cologne. It's gross. I tell the guy next to me that I'm dissapointed in him with my mind thoughts. I notice that the speaker that the train guy talks out of is humming ominously. It sounds like a growling robot.
I make an executive decision to keep my sunglasses on. Yes. I look like a douche bag. I don't care. I need them. They allow me to spend my 35 minutes of misery doing what I enjoy most in the morning: Rolling my eyes and sending invisible hate beams in the direction of those I hate. Specifically..
1: Anyone engaging in any form or variation of what can be considered Ipod dancing.
2: Those clever little Cosby sweater type dude he guy who thinks he's a Sommelier for microbrews, plays bass or DJ's in 4 bands, and definitely would have sex with Brooklyn if Brooklyn somehow transformed itself into a artsy Japanese girl.
3: Blissed-out passengers that whisper-sing Dave Matthews violin solos. Fuck the fuck off. Go by another scarf and choke yourself with it, you horrible, horrible, person.
4: Air drummers. WTF? What's the functionality and purpose of air drumming a Rush solo at 9 in the morning? God help you.
5: Yawners, moaners, T-Mobile walkie-talkie people, and any and all that engage in repetitive motions, excessive paper folding, sneezing, chewing, coffee slurping, etc. you know what I'm talking about. To the dude grossing me out in the seat across from me: Eat your Everything Bagel like a ninja, not a Golden Reteriver, barbarian. Shut the fuck up already.
Wow, I'm kind of a dick, huh? Oh well. (PS: Don't call me a dick.)
I also make sure to save a certain "emergency reserve" of negative energy for others like me. There's always one other asshole besides me on the train. I usually spot them. But sometimes I get caught giving them the evil eye, which naturally prompts a justified counterattack of sighing, muttering, and scornful body gesturing back at me.
Well played, Mr. Asshole. But I don't fight back. I just keep an eye on them. Real bad boys move in silence.
By the way, if you ever encounter an asshole showdown on the train, whatever you do, don't even think about rolling your eyes back. The double eye-roll is the first stage of the dreaded passive-aggressive feedback chain, a highly dangerous scenario that left unchecked is capable of transforming everyone located in the immediate vicinity of exposure into an instant asshole. And too many assholes doesn't do anyone any good.
The kid standing in front of me is wearing a massive fucking book bag. It's so big I'm giving me anxiety. I know that the train is going to stop short, and my over-burdened friend is too distracted Twittering the morning commute to notice that his Peruvian pack mule-sized rucksack is about to crash into my kidneys, battering my weekend-weary hull like a zippered pendulum of suckitude. Pointy umbrellas and plastic shopping bags swing precariously, seemingly bending themselves towards me, like the One Ring trying to get back to Sauron. The utter annihilation of my personal space is methodical and systematic. They're like Panzer fucking tanks, these people. Invading my aura like I have asshole magnets sewn into the lining of my winter jacket. (*And judging by the surprisingly sharp elbow of the purse-rummaging Chinese lady sitting to my left, I'm also very pokeable. So I got that going for me too.)
I for one applaud them. If you think about it, a coordinated offensive move from all angles is the best way to disarm your enemy. I'm convinced they synchronize watches and discuss attack strategy during their pre-commute Starbucks gatherings. It makes sense. How else do you explain how a bunch of strangers somehow manage to successfully annoy and offend me simultaneously day after day? I don't know. Or Maybe God just hates me more than he hates everyone else.
They're really brilliant at it, actually. Like a pack of carefully trained Ronin warriors hunting the angry Grizzly Bear that lives in the woods on the outskirts of the village.
(Fact: Like bears, I too also enjoy stealing freshly-baked pies off of windowsills. I also take pleasure in making small children cry. Bear style! Booyah. Life is really all about the small things.)
Anyway, I'm done. I feel like I needed to blog that out before I face another week crawling inside that squealing, hellish iron horse of death. Thanks for tolerating the Whingebag I temporarily became for this post. In return for your tolerance, I present you with this tremendous picture:
I thought it was appropriate because that is the exact face I make at people when on the subway. And I love lightning,
(pictures via FFFound!)
Friday, March 13, 2009
Check out Rico Tubbs getting the Michael Jackson "Rock with You" treatment. The video is terrific, but the director might have considered leaving the psychedelic medium close up shots on the editing room floor.
He looks like a Latino demon monster from the seventh level of 1980's Hell. Maybe that's the look they were going for. If so, great job, and please ignore my observation.
(via Everything is Terrible)