Yeah, we got our asses kicked by Mother nature and Sandy. No power, no hot water, no utilities. Trees uprooted everywhere. Long Island, New York is officially a third world nation for the next 7-10 days (writing this from a remote bunker).
Here's an example of Mr. Nazz's neighborhood: You can see the trees and sidewalk got uprooted and crashed into the power lines. Our street's transformer is in front of our house. I watched it explode.
We're all safe, so that's what counts. Lots of house and car damage to some neighbors.
And there are some bars open. No power, but the tap beer is still cold. Even if it is shitty Budweiser.
of course, I might be whistling a different tune come Tuesday if my house is underwater.
The gas stations had lines, the beer distributor was full of folks grabbing water and extra beer... though, it is Sunday- so alot of that coulda been for football. I picked up a couple of Growlers full of cider. And went to the drug store to get refills.
“ forgot to take my head meds”, I thought as I had passed the point of no return. I was driving to the train to haul into NYC for the Social Distortion show.
I immediately took stock of what I had: Earplugs (nearly deaf from r n r ) check. Knee brace (I tore my MCL) check. Crappy beers for the train ride in? Check. Ganj? Check. Ipod? Check. That’s alot of stuff just to go out for a frickken concert.
Guess what- this is the first time a W.A.S.P. is not among the 4
candidates for Prez and Veep- Ya got- 1 Muslim/Christian, 1 Mormon,and 2 Catholics. So, that’s an interesting
trend.
Of course, it’s gonna still come down to racial lines. A lot
of folks who voted for “the black guy” last time (or voted AGAINST the
Repugnikkkans), are going to flip. The “feel
good” moment is gone.
I can’t see how ANYONE that’s paying attention could vote
for Romney/Ryan. Romney made his bones fucking over the very people he now
panders to. Guess what- it’s Romney and his crony’s financial and employment
practices that put so many people out of work. And Ryan (the “budget mastermind”)
is more than willing to cut aid for education, college, medicare and other
social programs.
That will screw the very people who are gonna vote for them!
They're laughing at you!
I couldn’t watch the circle jerk that was the debates- it’s
sickening.
If this country elects Mittens…. Then they deserve
everything they’re gonna get.
Isn´t life a blast
It´s just like living in the past
We go downtown to do our shopping
And we live in suburbia
And I say
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
Ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho
He he he he he he he he
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
What is there to do she said
He said come on baby
And i´ll show you a good time
So they went on down
To one of those cheap motels
And they got all gushy and wet
And I say
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
Ho ho ho ho ho ho ho ho
He he he he he he he he
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
It was time. The records and the comics had to go.
You know, part of the exit strategy.
When I was a kid, I was a pretty big comics collector- Mostly Marvel. Yeppers- MAKE MINE MARVEL.
I used to go to the old Marvel and Creation conventions. I’ve been storing about a thousand comics for the last 30 plus years- everytime I moved, so did the comics. I sold off my old monster magazines (mostly Famous Monsters of Filmland) years ago. Some of the comics I had acquired were valuable (the first Punisher appearance in Spiderman, some old X-men, some early 60’s Marvels), but for the most part the majority were the run of the mill 70’s stuff that I bought, read and read again.
When I was a Music writer back in the golden age of Punk/New Wave, I got records from all the labels pretty much for free as review copies. Plus all the Punk collector’s items 45’s I’ve been storing and the usual gamut of records that every geek has (ranging of course from the Beatles thru ZZ Top), meant that my basement was full of slowly rotting cardboard covered slowly warping vinyl.
I probably haven’t even played a record in 4 or 5 years (I checked and my dust covered turntable still had a Damned bootleg on it).
And... money’s tight.
So, I posted a comics “for sale” notice on Craigslist and invested about a hundred bucks in securing a table at a big record fair.
I had a few people inquire about the comics, and three actually showed up to look at them. The comics were purchased for the most part with my Uncle (he actually was the guy paying for them!), who passed away a few years ago. I have memories of riding the subway to meet him in NYC (unbelievably, I was about 12 and my brother was 9 and we were on the trains by ourselves!). I always thought that my kids would inherit them, but they really have no interest.
The years had not been kind to many of them. The valuable ones had been cardboarded and put in bags, but the majority had simply been put in a camp trunk and while they hadn’t suffered any real damage, but the rot was beginning to set in.
I ended up getting about half the money that I hoped to for them... I’m sure I got ripped off, but I understand the guy who bought them has to make a profit and it would be a real pain in the ass for me to sell them piece-meal myself. And a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Yeah... bush.
I feel a major part of my childhood was traded in for cold cash- but these are desperate times, and the comics weren’t doing me any good slowly decomposing.
The record fair was crazy. I had spoken to the guy running it, expressing doubts that I would make back my investment in the table. He assured me that as a “new seller”, the other dealers would be all over my collection before the general public even got in. I shlepped 5 milk crates of 12” albums, three bins of 45’s, 3 bins of cds and 2 crates full of really cool rock n roll books.
My buddy Dan joined me to provide some muscle in carrying the stuff. As I started bringing the crates in, the other dealers started to crowd around the table. By the time I got back with another crate, the dealers were rifling through my stuff and pulling out dozens of albums. Out of the 5 crates of albums, 2 crates were sold before the show actually began!!!! All of my Black Flag, Replacements, Husker Du, Dead Kennedys... well you get the idea! I was basically selling everything for about $4 to 5 bucks per record in volume. I didn’t need the records anymore, and while I’m sure that alot of the records I sold were “bargains” to the buyers, I was sort of happy to be making money.
The rest of the day with the general public was sort of slow, but by that time, I didn’t really care, I was happy to drink Polish beer and compulsively caress the bankroll in my pocket.
The cd’s and books didn’t really sell at all- a bunch of 45’s sold- but not even the stuff that I thought would-
I ended up making about $1000 on the records- one guy bought 80 records all by himself... but once again, every time I sold something, the gut punch to my teen years was felt.
I still have about 500 records that I can sell at the next fair, as I didn’t bring everything I had.
Between the comics and the records profits I have enough money to fix my car and pay some bills. The memories will always be with me- well, I guess they would if I didn't have such holes in my memory that are only getting worse.
Now... if I could only find someone to buy the hundreds and hundreds of Dead and Punk bootleg cassettes I have!!!!!
I've got one Jealous Again, again I got one Killing Joke I got what was bound to happen What was broken now's been broke I parted with my Neurosis but I kept the Lookouts I got the record player but I didn't get the house
I've got one Black Flag Damaged And one Golden Shower of Hits I left the Misfits coffin set but I fucking kept the Spits Now I got Group Sex and No Control I got Suffer and Let's GO I left Freedom of Choice with the Guilt Show
I knew it was over when I put on Walk Among US You grabbed the TV remote control You put on Survivor and I put on some headphones And cheated with my first love rock and roll
I took back my Replacements and grabbed my E13, Bullet, Nihilistics, and the banned "God Save The Queen" This wasn't like the Faith/Void This was a clean split If I didn't grab my records They may all have been smashed to bits
Take your Guns N' Roses with the Robert Williams cover And I'll take the Fugazi picture disc 19 or 20 years ago, I labeled my slip coversThat was a union I wasn't willing to risk
I don't care
I don't care
I don't care
About this world
I don't care
About that girl
I don't care
I don't care
I don't care
About these words
I don't care
So it was the summer between high school and college and I was a full on drug and punk freak. Or, a full on punk and drug freak.
Things were going OK- I had my college plans (far far away from home) and I had a bit of money through my gas station job. I was going to go to party in the neighborhood and meet my "girlfriend" ("girlfriend" with the quotes because I hadn't fornicated with her. I had met her at a Ramones concert and made out with her- whats better then locking lips during "She's The One").
She left me there on the swings, as I tried to stuff all the sense back into my mind. Didn't work. Nope not at all. So now, with the insult and surprise of getting the "Dear John" oration, I had to figure out what to do for the next 12 hours or so until the dope wore off.
Soooo, I went back to the party.
Now, the attendees of the party and I shared exactly one thing in common- we were human beings. Actually 2, if you count that we all did drugs. But that was about it- they were all college folks, mostly gay and into the theater. I was a dirty high school punk who made fun of their Jackson Browne records and drank all their liquor.
But, having little choice- I stuck around, all the while watching my mind melt from the outside and my soul melt from the inside- of course everyone knew that I was
a) just used as an emotional tampon
and
b) tripping balls and in an extremely sensitive state; so they did what they could.
Like: "Nazz whatever you do, don't go into the bathroom and do not look into the mirror."
Which I immediately did of course!
After about 30 minutes someone noticed I had been gone along time and pulled me out of the mirror- where I had effectively climbed through my dilated pupils and into the psychedelic tunnel of horrors that my mind had decided to construct for me. By the time they knocked down the door, I was foaming at the mouth and screaming that I was Mr. Spock and no one would ever love me.
At this point it made the most sense to go for a walk- so me and a couple of baby sitter types (200 lb Asian chicks) allowed me to walk 4 miles barefoot and set up shop in a graveyard, overlooking the Long Island Sound (think Jimmy on the White Cliffs of Dover in Quadrophenia). So adding things up, it made perfect sense to dive from a 150 foot rocky cliff into the water. Which, I was forcibly stopped from doing, as a pair of 200 lb asian women can output a lot of torque on a 140 lb raving lunatic.
Eventually I settled down around dawn and the aforementioned Asian lifesavers got me home. Whereas my mom opened the door and threw a right hook to my jaw.
Years ago, when I was a young dad, my wife and I took my daughter to a kids birthday party. It was for one of my wife’s co-workers kids; and I knew no one there. I remember that the family was Hispanic, and the entertainment at the party was a Spanish clown. For some reason, I remember the clown’s name as Peyote The Clown… but that can’t be right.
Anyway, the clown was just fine and dandy, doing all the things that clowns do. We had a swell time, and I broke down the language/cultural barrier with my usual Anglo charm. When the party was breaking up, I picked up my daughter and put her on my shoulders and started walking. I passed through a doorway and never bothered to duck down. As a result, my daughter loudly, clearly and very noticeably smacked her head into the overhang.
This of course resulted in the truly mighty howls of a 2 year old, as my little pumpkin was screaming her head off. Which brought much attention to Mr. Asshole Dad (yours truly) who then had to endure the hysteria of his wife and the death glares of a house full of total strangers, looking at old Nazz as if he were Dr. Mengele. Even Peyote The Clown started yelling at me.
After a few minutes, my daughter stopped crying and we went on our way.
When we got home, I took a frying pan out and started to crack myself on the skull with it.
To this day (16 years later), I still haven’t been quite forgiven.
PS- We were never invited back for any subsequent birthday parties.
Saw the Riverboat Gamblers this past weekend on a boat appropriately circling the East River. Damn good show- Texas Punk Fucking Rock with shades of the NewBomb Turks, Nashville Pussy and the Stinson era Replacements.
Some of their "official" recorded output and videos veer a bit too close to pussy shit (ie- post Stinson 'mats) for my taste, but live they fucking shredded.
Remember when taking pharms (I guess the kids call em “meds”now)
was for recreation?
I have distant memories of being in my grandparents house
and rifling through their medicine cabinets and grabbing handfuls of every drug
on the shelves. When I got back home, me and my buddy Nick went through his mom’s
PDR and tried to match up as many pills as we could with the pictures. The ones
we couldn’t figure out, we tested on our older friend Ernesto. It was OK- he
had been in the Navy, so we figured nothing could kill him.
Nowadays a walk through MY legally prescribed stash makes
Elvis’s Dr. Nick period seem like Candyland. Lesseeee… we find upon quick scan… the generics for:
Valium, Vicodin, Klonipon, Wellbutrin, Zoloft, Ambien, Percoset. That doesn’t
include the various cold pills, decongestants, aspirins, etc. Hmm-= nothing for
menopause here- I guess I have a few years for that.
I checked with my
much saner brother- and HE’s got Lipitor and three of four other blood sugar
& cholesterol things in his cab.
To say that we gather and suck at the teat of big Pharma
would be an understatement.
Christ- what the hell has happened to me?
Yesterday was a leisurely Sunday football day and looking back- 2 Valiums, a Zoloft, 6 Advil because my back was sore, and 2 ambiens for beddy time plus a 6 pack of Rolling Rock
and a couple of tumbler fulls of Vodka.
Two things I was NOT looking for were female companionship
and a fistfight.
So, as I sat at the bar of my new favorite tavern, I was content to watch a replay of the
Yankees game and nurse my Guinness.
Alas, the fates wouldn’t allow me to leave well enough
alone, and soon enough, I was accepting free shots from one of the owners of my new favorite tavern (some concoction
of coffee flavored Patron Tequila- tasty enough, but sort of sacrilege), trying
bottles of bottled brew I was unfamiliar with (a banana bread beer, and a Quadruple Ale
called Three Philosophers and lord knows what else).
Still content on not socializing with the other patrons, I nonetheless
ended up in a conversation with the guy on the next barstool. He was hammered.
Good for him. I like talking to hammered people, they've been touched by the beer gods, and I like to bask in the glow of their drunken holiness. Next to him was his sister- they might have been twins- didn’t
look alike, but I think they said they were twins. Twins- I don’t get it- it’s
like fuckin’ magnets. Or something.
Soon enough, many more drinks were consumed- somehow I
started alternating shots of Balvenie Single Malt with Jagermeister and we were
all friendly like.
So when my new
favorite tavern was closing, I was invited to join my new friends at
another bar- to put it nicely- a “skell bar”- $1 Budweisers , faded neon and a
couple of somewhat burly guys drinking. Funny thing is, I’ve lived in my town
for 14 years and I had never even noticed this bar before.
And, if there’s one
thing I DO notice, it’s bars in my neighborhood.
That’s when the “twins” told me they lived a few houses away
in back of the graveyard. Once again, I never even knew there was a graveyard a
few blocks from my house.
And, if there’s one thing I DO notice, it’s graveyards
near my house.
I called “bullshit” on them, and the sister tells me that it’s
a small boneyard in back of “the church”.
I asked if she was referring to the church down the block
(which I knew about, as Princess Nomad had spent several nites in her youth as
a Girl Scout doing overnites there), or if it was the church where the Priest
had gotten busted for fondling little boys (I know- hard to believe a Priest
would get busted for buggery).
She tells me it’s yet another church- which once again I
knew nothing about.
And, if there’s one thing I DON’T notice- it’s churches around my
house.
So anyway, I say something like “very nice” I’ll have to go
look for it. She responds “I’ll take you to go see it now”.
At this point the Robot from “Lost In Space” was screaming “Danger Danger Nazz Nomad” in my ear, and I, for once, listened.
“Well, I just got another beer, another time, maybe”.
She goes outside to smoke a cigarette and I brood silently
over my beer. Keeping an uninterested eye on drunken boy twin fall off his stool and the 2 burly guys
down the bar.
She comes back in and says “you stole my $5 dollars”. I look
at her and say- “What are you talking about” and she tells me she had a 5
dollar bill on the bar and now it’s gone. By the lateness of the evening, in my pocket, I have a
$100 dollar bill and 4 singles. I show it to her and say something to the
effect that she is incorrect. Verrry politely and verrry slowly. Of course this brings the crazy out and she
starts screaming and calling me a thief. I respond that: #1 I never steal
anything small and #2, how likely is it I hung out with her and her brother
all nite just to steal $5.
At this point I decide to call it an evening. I throw my $4
in singles on the bar and tell Ms. Nutty that I didn’t take her money, but if it
makes her feel better she can have my singles.
She takes them and is screaming “thief” as I leave.
Only to be followed by the two guys, who confront me a few
yards away and ask me why I stole the money.
This is going to end in violence, I thought. Despite my amazing powers of MMA, I'm a little too weary to throw a beating at these two.
So, I calmly again explain that I didn’t take psycho bitch's
money and I had better things to do than discuss this with them. We're about 15 seconds from lighting the powderkeg.
Then I noticed one of em was wearing a Rush t-shirt.
So, I asked him what the deal was with Rush and he tells me
he’s a drummer and that he loves Neil Peart.
And we get to talking about Rush and maybe us jamming
together while his friend stomps away, pissed that the fight ain’t gonna
happen. He shoulda counted his blessings.
After a few minutes we exchange phone numbers to gig
together and I depart for home.
But first I decide to go find the church with the graveyard.
As I was walking in the church courtyard, the automatic
sprinklers started spraying everything.
I went home wet & drunk, but unbloodied & unbowed.
All files posted on this site are for educational, testing and entertainment purposes only.If you like what you hear, please buy recordings, t-shirts, dvds and other merch from these bands. This is a non profit site and is here to give some publicity to deserving bands and artists. If you’re in a band whose music is found on this site and you want songs removed, please let me know. Songs and other media will be up for only a short time. After that, just like our hopes and dreams, they're gone.
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