Sunday, June 29, 2008

Hair Metal Heaven Isn't Too Far Away

After watching two consecutive hours of Metal Mania on VH1 Classic, I feel inspired to consecrate a hallowed ground where hair metal videos from the days of yore can be panegyrized for their decadence and synchronized headbanging sequences - a sort of Hall of Fame for hair metal videos.

Headlining the inaugural class of 2008 is “Turn Up the Radio” by Autograph.


I find it rather disheartening that most people who haven’t watched the Kirk Cameron classic, Like Father Like Son, or played Grand Theft Auto: Vice City until their thumbs blistered don’t remember the glam metal juggernaut from the City of Angels that is Autograph. Then again, I assume it’s hard to stand the test of time when your lead singer bears a striking resemblance to Carrot Top in red leather pants, only lamer and 30 percent more feminine (think Richard Simmons with fiery red locks).

Ronnie James Dio looks cooler now.

The video commences with the band marching through a futuristic opening in the wall. A homosexual Robocop that enjoys rainbow-colored laser light shows advises them to “sign in please,” a clever reference to their album which bears the same name. It all ties together quite nicely. Gay Robocop makes a pencil appear and hover in a ray of green light. The band knows what to do. They all sign their names next to their respective instruments. The drummer, however, signs his name with an “X,” which Homocop interprets as an error. He immediately erases it and stashes the pencil in his Jew ’fro.

Here come the keyboards, the surefire sign of a successful “metal” venture. A crowd of fans appear, including an extra from the Karate Kid set, and they know all the words. The body of the video follows the typical formula for the time: the drummer points his drumstick at the camera and there are many unfortunate close-ups of frontman Steve Plunkett giving abortive looks of intensity.

As the show nears its conclusion, the drummer pulls the pencil from his rat’s nest and Plunkett tosses it into the gathering of sex-crazed females. The bandmates look genuinely astonished that either a) semi-attractive women are actually interested in such hideous creatures and, for some unknown reason, desire their writing utensils, and/or b) one of the aforementioned semi-attractive women possesses the hand-eye coordination to catch the writing utensil. They give each other the thumbs up. They all hop in a vehicle with suicide doors and the homosexual Robocop transports them to their next hallucination.

It’s nearly impossible to describe such a groundbreaking artistic venture with words. No combination of sounds or morphemes has been assigned such a meaning in the English lexicon. The one adjective that comes closest is awesome. Keep a close eye on United States of Apathy as you never know when your favorite—"Balls to the Wall” by Accept or the Bulletboys’ “Smooth Up in Ya”—will receive the honor and deference it so rightfully deserves.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

Arm Wrestling with the Hands of Time

Now playing: Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer.”

A mixed crowd is gathered around the mahogany bar casually philandering under subdued lighting, many sipping wine from goblets or strange amaretto liqueurs like Disaronno on the rocks. The décor features wood accents and paneled walls, and a Yamaha piano accents the interior in the corner of the room.

I am shaking my groove thang in the center of the black and white mosaic floor with an urban cougar in a leopard-print skirt whose legs are so pale and riddled with spider veins that, from a distance, they appear to be glass structures that were dropped on the tile and sloppily glued back together with rubber cement. One can tell I haven’t wasted any time getting back to the bottle – and not just by the physical flaws of the monstrosity that is currently groping my backside. When I get drunk, I dance like Axl Rose. I gyrate like an electric eel being poked with a stick and sway from side to side to the rhythm as best as I can.

I take a step back during a brief moment of clarity. This broad bears a striking resemblance to Margot Kidder when the authorities found her huddled in a stranger’s bushes missing her front dental bridge with her hair hacked off to avoid CIA detection.

“So where ya from, handsome?” the cougar asks.

“The Big Fucking Apple,” I say. “Right at its fucking core!”

“Oh, wow, the Big Apple. Ya here on business?”

“Yeah, big business.”

I take a gulp from my glass and it stings like all get-out. My mouth, so riddled with ulcers, feels like I’ve gargled with a mouthful of thumbtacks and an AIDS patient’s urine.

“So…you wanna go back to my place?”

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Letter from the Editor

I recently “tied the knot” with a real Ride or Die bitch. As a gift, our generous friend, Mr. Jordan, provided floral arrangements for the bridal party and even supplied the men with masculine boutonnieres; however, he was unable to attend the festivities and witness the happy couple defecate on tradition, exchange championship belts instead of rings and make the officiant declare us "Tag Team Champions for Life." The following is a letter— a thank you card of sorts— I wrote to him:

Greetings, Mr. Jordan.

The intention of this correspondence is to serve as an expression of gratitude - a billet-doux for my sweet petunia - an epistle of appreciation for your commitment to excellence, good sir. Thank you. You went above and beyond. Because of your generosity, our wedding was able to meet the lavish expectations of a classy, modern society with a 40-60 percent divorce rate.

We sincerely wish you could have been there to share our joy. Here’s a quick recap: We exchanged vows by sacrificing furry woodland creatures at a black altar, the dinner music consisted of power ballads such as Tesla’s “Love Song” and Slaughter’s “Fly to the Angels,” and, during the reception, we poked a naked Mexican woman with sticks while trying to summon the Beast with some Latin chanting in B-sharp. Good times. Good times.

You’re aces, kid. We look forward to seeing you soon. This message will self-destruct.

Saturday, June 21, 2008

The End of the Beginning

Motoring through Southern Virginia at speeds exceeding ninety miles per hour, my eyes grow heavy and my mind becomes dull. Now playing: Metallica’s “Blackened.” Kirk Hammett’s thrashing overpowers the piercing sound of high-velocity winds cutting through the partially open window. Ken plays the air drums with a Camel dangling from his lips, even stomping his feet to replicate Lars Ulrich’s ferocious double-pedal assault. When I pass the Danville exit I suggest we pull off the interstate and find a motel, but my colleague insists we reach the North Carolina border tonight. We’re behind schedule, he says. I implore him to drive the remainder of the way, but he claims it would be foolish given his intoxicated state. I tell him he’s full of shit.
“I could fall asleep at any moment,” I say.
“I’ve got my seatbelt on,” he says, flicking his cigarette on the highway and closing the window. “This beast has a five-star safety rating. Dual-stage frontal airbags and head curtain side-impact airbags come standard. I’ll take that risk.”
Minutes later, a booming snore resonates from my right and a creeping tickle dances through what remains of my septum. My muscles instinctively tighten and my body jolts forward as spittle showers the windshield and drizzles on the dash. A throbbing pain shoots up my neck and across my shoulders as if half of my soul – or whatever’s left of it - just escaped through my mouth. I jerk the wheel slightly so two wheels are driving over the rumble strips on the shoulder of the road, the line dots vibrating the sedan like it’s reading Braille, delivering an invasive message to Ken: Wake up!
“Fuck, man…stay on the road, stay on the road!” he says, wiping drool from his chin before mumbling something barely comprehensible that can only be translated as, “Crazy bizzo…I’ll eat your heart.”
I pull off the highway in Raleigh, or somewhere in the surrounding barracks, and I follow signs to a hotel just slightly out of reach of suburbia’s stinking jowls. It’s quiet in these parts, and why shouldn’t it be? Maybe it’s the lack of pollution in the cool Carolina air that makes the moon shine so eerily bright, or perhaps the glowing orb senses the presence of outsiders, standing guard over the Great Southern Trendkill to ensure that the two manimals approaching in the ecru deathcraft don’t spew their foul, chemical-induced bile across this virtually untainted terrain and disrupt an otherwise serene evening.
Walking to the hotel lobby, sensors detect our presence and the automatic doors grant us entry. We are immediately greeted by the most pleasant woman you could possibly tolerate – a Southern lass so sugary-sweet she must sweat lemonade, bleed fruit punch, and shit milk chocolate. The nametag pinned to her lapel says Brianne and, strangely, it seems as if she sincerely cares about how she could help us this evening.
“Are you a teeth model?” Ken asks.
“Excuse me?” she says.
“Smile again.”
She flashes a grin. “Like this?”
“No, bigger…Bigger!”
Ken verbally directs the positioning of her straight, pearly choppers. His index finger presses under her chin, adjusting the posture of her head like a department store photographer.
“Are those implants?” he asks.
“What?”
“Dental implants? You have them capped or anything?”
“No.” Awkward pause. “I have a Sonicare Advance Model QP-3 though.”
“What the hell is that?”
“A toothbrush. Well, a sonic electric toothbrush.”
“Sonic, eh? Does it fly?”
Ken tells her she can do commercials for Crest or Oral-B. She smiles and blushes a little, not knowing how to respond to a comment like that. I can tell she’s uncertain if he’s hitting on her and, to be honest, I am, too. Right now, she’s pondering whether this is a legitimately innocent compliment or some eccentric pickup line they use north of the Mason-Dixon Line.
“Don’t mind him,” I say. “No one’s smiled at him in weeks. It’s been a while since he’s seen teeth.”
Brianne secures a room for us on the second floor and hands us two plastic keycards. She directs us to a display of pamphlets begging guests to visit local attractions like Confederate soldiers’ gravesites and the historic drag-racing museum.
“I see your fine operation boasts an Olympic-size indoor swimming pool?” Ken says.
“Yes, sir, that’s correct.” Brianne says. “But it’s closed right now. There’s a lifeguard on duty until nine. Pool opens up again tomorrow at six.”
“Well, my friend here was a rescue diver in the Coast Guard. He’s certified and all that jazz; he’s even got some medals, so we’ll be fine.”
“Well…um―”
“See you in the morning, sugar.”

Thursday, June 19, 2008

Sao Paolo Free Verse: Arthroscopic Surgery for the Psyche

God has a vacation home in the West Indies where he stays once football is season is over

His mahogany liquor cabinet has a dark cherry finish and is filled with Prohibition whiskey

The humidor is stocked with pre-embargo Cubans

Ramon Allones Tubos from 1959

5 ½ inch, 42 ring gauge La Coronas from 1937

The tobacconist’s Philosopher’s Stone

He has a personal chef who followed Marco Polo’s spice route

Who marinates the lamb in monatomic gold

The palate of soft earth tones and amber resin lighting complements the Snapper Escabeche with red onion and Muscat grapes

A jeroboam of 1787 Chateau Lafite is kept in the wine cellar

It once belonged to Thomas Jefferson

The chef sneaks a Montecristo No. 2 from the humidor after preparing Osaka black cod with soy and a sweet mirin glaze

God doesn’t even notice

The deity business is lucrative

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

State of the Union Address

I want to travel to the nucleus of the epidemic, wherever that may be, and run roughshod in the belly of the beast, hopefully discovering a cure in the process.
The American Dream, at its inception, was about freedom, not just comfort. Many of the early colonists were indentured servants in the Old World, fleeing serfdom and expanding west against royal decrees to live as self-employed farmers and craftsmen, independent from a master or a boss. They worked long and hard and their standards of living were poor, but it was all theirs. They answered to no one. That America of generations past is now dying, hooked up to a respirator with its vital signs dropping, and the medical staff in charge is preoccupied with other interests.
The middle-class is not free; we are dependent on a corporate entity paying us a salary. We are dependent on interoffice politics and upward-mobile ghouls who would piss down our collective throats if it would result in a promotion and help them obtain new status symbols. We hold jobs that are dependent on factors beyond our control. We do not own our work. We are under the direction of others. We fucking resent the time we work under the supervision of someone else, some asshole, so we spend our free time at play like children – self-absorbed, watching TV and consuming, not giving a hot fuck about anything outside of the tiny spheres of life that belong to us.
The vermin have turned us into miserable, hollow vessels for human life powered by our own self-loathing. We are indentured servants and our souls are dog shit.

Monday, June 16, 2008

Ballad of William Bailey

When I open my eyes the only thing certain is W. Axl Rose. That inimitable voice instantly transports me to the days of my youth, before the definitions of basic words in the English lexicon (fun, happiness, problem, life, etc.) were flipped upside-down, erased, and surreptitiously rewritten while I slept. Now I’m being whisked away to a state of temporary euphoria as Slash’s massive solo at the end of “Rocket Queen” embraces me like a warm blanket. There’s a likelihood that I’m dreaming…and I’m not ruling out the possibility that I’m dead and this is what believers in the paranormal refer to as an “out-of-body experience.” I don’t really feel anything and I can’t seem to move my extremities under my own will, though it wouldn’t surprise me if I’m simply not trying hard enough. Ideally, I’ve always fancied the idea of “November Rain” playing as my soul departs from its external shell and ascends to the afterlife, but it’s highly plausible that The Man Upstairs prefers Appetite for Destruction, a divine selection with which I’d have no qualms.
For whatever it’s worth, I owe a lot to Guns N’ Roses for who I am today. Whether or not that’s a good thing is still under debate; however, I’d rather be in my current position in the universe than a god amongst men in an alternate reality who was never exposed to GN’R. I remember the first time I saw the video for “Welcome to the Jungle” like it was yesterday. I was eight years old and it changed my life. The sight of five longhaired, tattooed rebels making beautiful noise I never before thought possible awakened me to the fact that there was much more to the innocent world in which I existed. I became aware of a counterculture that rejects the societal norms being instilled in me by my parents, teachers, priests, and various other authority figures. From that moment on, Axl was my hero. I no longer dreamed of being a policeman or the starting shortstop for the Phillies. My sole aspiration in life was to be the lead singer in a Rock and Roll band. Though that’s the polar opposite of my current career path, I still fantasize about wailing into the microphone before a packed house of screaming fans. Today, however, if I were to step on stage in front of 18 mentally challenged third-graders and sing, speak, or even stand motionless, I would be terrified beyond the realm of human comprehension. My posture and movement would be as rigid as a month-old corpse. I’d be sweating like a whore in church. My heart would be pumping out of my chest as if a handful of cherry bombs were ignited in my aorta. Mutant butterflies would be slamdancing in the pit of my stomach. My breathing would be on par with that of an 85 year-old woman with terminal lung cancer and a deviated septum who was just whacked in the jugular with a ball-peen hammer. My brain would be functioning on the level of a single-celled prehistoric amoeba. Obviously, the aforementioned 1988 music video didn’t propel me on the fast track to rock stardom, but it initiated a passionate love affair with music that still burns strong today. Throughout the journey of life I have experienced so many uptight, closed-minded people who live boring lives and work jobs they despise merely because that is what society accepts and expects them to do. Every time I encounter one of these pitiful creatures, I think, “Damn…if they had only heard ‘Welcome to the Jungle’ when they were eight…”

Saturday, June 14, 2008

Four Bar Mitzvahs, Two Quinceaneras, and a Funeral

In my closet at home, I have one hundred or so postcards stashed away, all of them boasting the same generic beach locale – the sun glistening off crystal clear seas, a palm tree casting its shadow on the white sand, and the words WISH YOU WERE HERE in big block letters darting across the sky like one of those prop planes advertising drink specials for the No Shower Happy Hour at the Jersey Shore. These postcards will be bestowed unto my wife with strict instructions to mail them to their intended destinations exactly two days after my memorial service upon my death (which will be a pirate-themed affair complete with large steins of grog and eye-patches aplenty). Each card will be pre-stamped and individually addressed with personal messages scrawled on the back such as, “Dude, the Afterlife is all that and a bag of Andy Capp’s Hot Fries!”, “I just whooped Keith Moon’s ass in shuffleboard. Holla!”, and “Don’t fuck with my grave or I’ll scalp you and pour road salt on your brain in hell.” Pretty standard material, really. Except for the note to Uncle Craig in Point Pleasant, which explains that, on the Other Side, the string of floss you use between your molars at the end of the day still smells more heinous than your worst bowel movement.
Wait, I probably shouldn't pre-address the postcards. What if people move prior to my earthly demise? And the price of postage seems to increase every six months or so, doesn't it? Perhaps I'll leave behind a "Stamp Fund" for the project. I'll work out the kinks and get back to you.

Friday, June 13, 2008

Metaphysical Attraction

I go to the movie theater on opening night as if cinematic features are investments that depreciate in value by the screening, or perishable goods with a dangerously close expiration date stamped on the film canister. To me, the idea of seeing Harold & Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay next Friday is akin to buying a gallon of whole milk that expires tomorrow (three days ago if I lived in New York City).
Let it soak in.
I’m glad I incorporated dairy products in a metaphor for the fuzzy logic which fuels my obsessive behavior.
What makes milk in the Big Apple expire two to four days prior to its date of demise in Secaucas? Do the five boroughs have inferior refrigeration capabilities? What would happen if I transported a carton with a looming deadline from Jersey City to Manhattan? Would it immediately sour and begin to coagulate as I crossed the George Washington Bridge?
Is anyone looking into this?
If I were the American Dairy Association or the Board of Agriculture or whoever the fuck has a vested interest in the popularity and/or consumption of milk in this country (probably whoever ejaculates on the upper lip of quasi-celebrities like Haylie Duff in those “Got Milk?” print ads), I would investigate this post haste.
When Big Milk starts advertising aggressively, you know the market must be fucked. I assume they have enough shit between their cheeks to deal with between health nuts, the lactose intolerant, dirty hippies a.k.a. vegans, and a culture too apathetic to wake up in time to eat breakfast. Now they are beleaguered by the heart of their product line spoiling prematurely in the most populated city in the nation. Three days? This is a significant discrepancy in the life of a quart of half-and-half.

Thursday, June 12, 2008

West Memphis Free Verse: Barbecue Sauce for the Human Spirit

God is overweight

He lives in a highly fortified compound with an extensive collection of impractical automobiles and World War II militaria

And snow leopards

He is surrounded by five-year-old Japanese guitar prodigies

Playing Van Halen’s “Eruption” on red Flying Vs with yellow polka dots

The guitars are the size of eight-year-old German boys

He moves like an early-’70s acid rock video

Transposing live performance with still photography

The snow leopards are malnourished

Animal rights activists surround the compound with crude homemade signs and rocks the size of racquetballs

A giant, inflatable rat with a collective pulse

They smash his beautiful bay windows like this is All Hallows Eve and he lives in the old Myers house

The guards are compensated handsomely and they are armed to the teeth

This environment is not conducive to snow leopards.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Long Live the Dream

I fantasize about fronting an a cappella black metal group complete with corpse paint and iconoclastic aesthetics. I am depicted on the album cover as decapitating a small horse with the sharpened point of an inverted crucifix. Critics compare the sound to the Nutmegs and Gorgoroth sharing a cathartic sexual experience and bearing an interracial lovechild. You may be thinking the concept sounds like an abortion on the surface, or at least some twisted incestuous relationship, but I know a guy in Baltimore who can perfectly emulate tremolo-picked riffs from a Christ-loathing, Scandinavian battle axe by reproducing the melody with his vocal chords. And my death growl is nasty, kid.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Chapter One

This evening is not unlike any other that has preceded it in recent memory. The smell of vodka and regret permeates the room as my strained eyes remain fixated on the computer screen before me. The cursor blinks repeatedly on the top line of a blank word-processing document, serving as a low-fuel indicator for my parched creative tank. I gingerly tweeze the remnants of a poorly rolled joint from the ashtray and pull on the roach until my thumb starts to blister. George Costanza’s voice blares from the television in an adjacent room as the temptation of voluptuous lesbian nymphs being ass-rammed by a German Shepherd just one click of the mouse away further distracts my vagabond mind.
This has become a staple in my daily routine.
I think it’s safe to say the creative flame that once burned so ferociously in the crux of my gut has been extinguished. The light inside me, however unique it once was, has been dimmed by the collective mind I have embraced. I am, for all intents and purposes, useless to society. I have no special skills, no valuable experience, and I possess no advanced knowledge of any subject matter deemed relevant enough to warrant compensation. I am doomed to spend the remainder of my existence trapped in a six by nine-foot prison behind corkboard walls. My life sentence will be served delivering Power Point presentations to the warden, drunk off his own blood, in wrinkle-free Dockers and a burgundy power tie with a subtle geometric print.
Corporate culture is mind control. A hypnotic alpha state bordering on theta. A cult of zombie foot soldiers no longer able to critically evaluate, discern, or pass judgment from their own moral database on anything between the hours of nine to five. Independent thinking can be grounds for termination.
Ah, corporate culture, where checking my e-mail is generally the emotional and spiritual apex of my day, where I exchange strange queries with coworkers like If the Allman Brothers’ song “Midnight Rider” were a woman, would you have sex with her? Substitute “Midnight Rider” with Deep Purple’s “Perfect Strangers.” Nazareth’s “Hair of the Dog.” And so on.
In the present day, would you rather be Mick Mars and suffer from the degenerative rheumatoid disease, Ankylosing Spondylitis, or Vince Neil and be the Grand Marshal of the World’s Largest Chicken Dance?
That was the question to which I was responding two weeks ago, noshing on a shitty tarragon chicken salad sandwich from the Starbucks across the street, when I realized John Oliphant was peering over my shoulder.
John Oliphant. He’s the “warden” in my clever rhetoric, the Divisional Sales Manager, or DM, as they say in the industry. However, in my everyday life, I typically refer to him as the Antichrist.
“Can I see you in my office?” he says, the light on his Bluetooth earpiece blinking symbolically every five seconds like the homing device of a house arrest anklet.
Naturally, I follow like a trained dog chasing a Snausage. Like a convicted felon reporting to his parole officer.
Everything in his confines is made of oak, polished until it reflects light like the tinted rear windows of a limousine. His bookshelf is overflowing with titles like The Warren Buffett Way, The Art of the Deal, Lessons for Corporate America, How to Influence Others; bloated propaganda that I probably couldn’t read all the way through if there was a cage fighter holding a buck knife to my gizzard. Sitting on his ergonomic, leather-bound throne, our dark antagonist opens a manila folder and leafs through its contents, not making eye contact, his mouth not emitting a sound for a solid minute and a half. I gaze down at the image of my face reflected in the wood of his desk, my hand leaving a greasy palm print on the shiny lacquer, which slowly evaporates into nothing.
“I think you know why I called you in here,” he says, sucking air between his teeth mid-sentence.
Cue the piano outro to “Layla.” You can find me in the proverbial meat freezer.
I’m not sure how he has ascended the ladder of success in pharmaceutical sales. I wouldn’t buy a keychain off that ghoul. If he told me the sky is blue, I would be so skeptical as to go outside and look up to confirm his statement. I wouldn’t place my hand and apply pressure on his open wound if he was bleeding profusely from the abdomen. If I had a squirt gun filled with Hepatitis, he'd be the first person I'd shoot. Right in the white of the eye.
Now, back to the blank computer monitor. Back to the blinking cursor on the top left corner of a solid white screen. The goddamn paperclip with eyes and thick black eyebrows, its thin bottom wire tilted outward to resemble some sort of twisted smile, popping up on the bottom right every so often, asking if I need help.
Go Fuck Yourself, I type into its little text box.
I have grown numb and detached. If you were to hold one of those ghetto blasters I’d imagine were quite commonplace in Harlem breakdancing circles and Grandmaster Flash videos next to my ear and crank up Judas Priest’s “Hellbent for Leather,” it would have no effect on me. I feel like a fictional character played by Nicolas Cage, complete with lifeless facial expressions and monotone dialogue, in some hackneyed movie my girlfriend is making me suffer through, just waiting to have that cliché epiphany right before the end credits scroll down the screen. You get the point.