Monday, March 30, 2009

M4H Metal History Series, Part 1


“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

Sunday, March 29, 2009

Tecnhicolor Nerd Explosion


So I started a Tumblr blog this weekend, and I absolutely fucking love it. Microblogging is the equivalent to snorting lines of the internet. Instant geek gratification. I'll still be posting here plenty (or at least as much as I usually do:) This is just a way to share my links, pics, and random crap I might not get a chance to post or forget due to my ludicrous goldfish memory.

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.


(PS: words like "tumblelog" and "widget" make me feel like the future version of the person I actually am, which is kind of uncomfortable. I don't have nearly enough leather trenchcoats or Kung Fu skills to be equipped to live inside the Matrix.

(PPS: "Tumblelog" and "Widget" are not words. One sounds like an Appalachian Woodsman sport and the other is an Ewok.)

Thursday, March 26, 2009

The best picture of Jesus on the telephone you will see today.


Knock, Knock...

Who's There?


King Fantastic II, Undisputed Boss of Awesome.

Dude, I brought a fucking Sherpa pimp on a Dalmatian Horse. Let us in.

4 Horsemen of the Anti-Apocalypse


I'd probably catch an Amber Alert driving past these kids because I'd have to pull over and take a moment to let the awesome set in. Last time I checked Cops aren't big fans of strange bearded men in bomber sunglasses staring at kids from a parked car, regardless of reason.

(via fffound)

80's Cocaine Douchebags Of The Day


(via ffffound)

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Mess with Me Elmo

I happen to know that Recon is such a huge fan of Ricky Gervais that he plans on naming his first two children "The Office" and "Ghost Town" while the rest of his sizable brood will be known simply as "Extras."

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

This breakdance fight scene is so good it should be lllegal.


According to my research, India in the early 80's was the most Boss place in the known universe. I've been slowly convinced of this over some time. Any lack of faith in this conviction has been completely removed after watching this majestic work of purely masterful artistic genius. Why? Just one reason. Because the guy fights people while doing the motherfucking robot. Honestly, that simple fact would be enough to put it in my top 5. But when I heard fucking transformers sounds over him doing the robot I almost soiled my stylish man-pants with overstimulated nerd excitement. My God. It's like I reached the end of the Internet. Just stupendous.

Mithun just made it on my list of awesome people I'll probably never get to meet. I penciled him in between Chiranjeevi and Amitabh Bachan, right underneath James Brown, The Kool Aid Man, my future self, and God.

Friday, March 20, 2009

Kraftwerk - Die Roboter Live 2004


This is an absolutely outstanding live performance of "The Robots" from Kraftwerk's 2004 World Tour. Sweet Robot Jesus these guys are good. I can't imagine being there. My inner Rave child would catch an aneurysm and stroke out. All you'd see is a dude with his mouth gaping open from the awesome overload slowly collapse on the dance floor. Yeah, I'd die. But I'd look way cool with all those precise German lasers bouncing off my lifeless corpse. Rave or Die! That would be an awesome way to go out. People probably would assume I was doing something akin to modern dance and wouldn't check on me for at least an hour. And in that time, hilarity would most definitely ensue. Think Weekend at Bernie's at Burning Man.

Mantis's homeboy (and M4H compadre) Ryan saw Kraftwerk live back in the day and witnessed several grown men crying in the audience. I can now see why. If the robot that lives inside my chest and controls me was capable of producing tears, he'd be crying his little metal eyes out right now.

Happy Friday


F the haters. Get out there and enjoy yourself this weekend.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

Picture Of The Day


Listen to her, man. She's half-empath.

The Ballad Of Vincent


Vincent is a dapper, devoted man. He's a dancer and fashionista, which is all the more impressive considering he's most likely on large quantities of psychotropic medications. The more I watch, the more I love the man. That spin is money. He's really lucky that his one and only move is so undeniably fly. What an awesome human being. I want to to shake his hand and ask him what Dick Tracey is like in person.

If you can make it to 1:37, you're in for a terrifying surprise.

Tamil Matrix


This guy does what Keanu's Neo never could dream of doing: rocks a mustache AND a Canadian Tuxedo while disposing of agents with his fighting skills. His wire work is bush league, but his moxy and love for smashing people into glass things makes up for it. Along with the help of the world's worst special FX team, he takes these guys to Paintown. I'd argue that this 3 and a half minute clip is better than the second and the third Matrix movies combined. But my mustache bias might be affecting my judgement.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Tony Has a Rabbit Problem.

Look at my rabbit, Tony.

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 sounded gay so I just stopped listening to you after a while.

Really. Hmm.

I just figured we go back a ways, and thought that you'd want me to be honest with you in case you were maybe still working on it or whatever.

Well I didn't write it.

All I'm saying is whoever'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'll see.

Monday, March 16, 2009

moshi moshi

Sipping on Haterade: a brief but profanity-laden essay detailing why I hate the Subway.


I'm not a morning person. I fucking hate trains, uber-hate crowds, and double-plus ultra hate closed spaces. So you can imagine how pleasant I am on a packed subway car at 8:45 on a rainy Monday.

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..

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, rabbits cats, and birds..but only in that order.

(pictures via FFFound!)

Friday, March 13, 2009

Picture Of The Day


Oh, I’m sorry. Did I break your concentration?

Philip Michael Thomas - Just the Way I Planned It


After watching this video, I'm not sure about the conviction of the song title. I feel like Mr. Thomas is trying to convince himself that the vision of this laser-guided musical adventure is true to his original concept. But no amount of multimedia techno rave action can convince me that the person singing this song is even remotely talented. Yet entertainment isn't synonymous with talent. Which explains why a good mustache and wig combo is as riveting to me as Sean Penn going full retard or 3 hour movies with violins, long hugs and crying people.

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)