A Night At The Toolbox

Valdas Paskas was doing his usual Tuesday night thing down at the Toolbox in Pembroke Pines, watching the sailor boys dance and listening to Slayer. He sipped his cranberry-and-soda and contemplated the unnerving events of the past week: the mysterious hang-up calls from unlisted numbers; the unmarked Crown Vic idling across the street from his chalet at all hours; the sudden freezing of his money-market account at the credit union in Davie; the notion that, though he wasn’t getting any richer, he certainly didn’t seem to be getting any younger. Also, the general feeling of malaise and perpetual exhaustion that seemed to embrace him like the folds of a wet ham that was about to be nuked gray and served for dinner with a side of powered potatoes and a hot glass of Tang.

Yes, it was clear that the ex-wives were closing in on him.

Just the thought of them made Valdas push his cranberry-and-soda aside and think about ordering a vodka. He couldn’t even concentrate on the smooth adolescent lines of the gyrating daisy boys, so unpleasant was the notion that he might have to speak with one of the shrill sows he had once been married to. He desperately wanted to order a vodka. Just one shot to dull the fear, the shrieking, the feelings of helplessness. No, he would hold fast. He would remain strong. He would remember what his sponsor said: “You are attached to something in time and space. You are identifying with your body, your feelings, your thoughts, your thirst. Recite your mantra and the rest will all go by.”

Valdas’ sponsor had suggested the standard and ancient Buddhist mantra: Om mani padme hum. To recite it continuously, his sponsor said, would result in transcendence and ultimately enlightenment. Valdas had tried it, but the mantra didn’t work. He had devised his own mantra. Or rather, he had nicked it from Mike Tyson: Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the face. Granted, it was wordier and more awkward to recite than Om mani padme hum, but it also had more modern relevance, Valdas felt. The words themselves were wiser and more useful. Plus, they were in English—not Valdas’ native language, but certainly his second tongue. It was true, too: Everybody did have a plan until they got punched in the face.

Fifteen years ago, Valdas had had a plan: To get famous, get rich, and retire to Florida with his trusty Thai pool boys, Tonto, Zorro, and the Lone Ranger. He had even made it to South Beach and lived with all three of them in extramarital bliss for a brief and fleeting period. Then the money ran out. Or was stolen from him, rather, via unscrupulous and mean-spirited litigation instigated by the ex-wives. They just couldn’t stand to see him happy. Especially Zoya, with her leopard-print stretch pants, yippy little dog and never-ending chain of lipstick-stained Virginia Slims. She was the most vindictive of them all. She had turned the screws on Valdas—hard. It was the only way she knew how to do anything: Negotiation by hammer. When they had met as teenagers back in Lithuania, she was already the most formidable hog-trader in the entire countryside. Her enthusiasm for hostile bartering was one of the qualities that first attracted Valdas to her. That, and her unstoppable ass. But now her ability to back any opponent into a corner with a withering sneer and a few choice words was being used against him. She was probably banging the lawyer, too.

The more Valdas pondered it, the more his situation seemed hopeless. He knew what Sid would say. Sid, his faithful companion and personal trainer: Wise beyond his years, however old he was, and Valdas had never been quite sure of that. But he knew what his friend would say, and it would be this: “Reality is on the other side of the visible.” Easy for Sid to say, Valdas frowned. On the surface, it was just another mantra. But like Iron Mike’s surprisingly astute observation, it had merit. It was possible, wasn’t it, that Valdas had not considered all of the potential options in his recent dealings with Zoya and the other ex-wives? Indeed, what guarantee did he have that all the relevant facts and angles could be understood strictly through the five senses?

At that moment, the sultry grind of the dancing boys regained its fleshy allure. Valdas couldn’t be a full one hundred percent positive, but he could just about swear that the blond one had winked at him. Finally he ordered a vodka and swallowed it down with a smile. Tomorrow, he would call Zoya with the bad news.

This bullshit originally appeared in the June 2011 issue of Decibel magazine.

Comets Are Born At Night

Everything will come in its time, inexorably.

- Victor Serge, The Case Of Comrade Tulayev, 1942

It was a frigid and unforgiving midnight in Petersburg. As he bombed down the Nevsky Prospekt on foot, Kiril licked the blood off his gauntlets and contemplated the evening’s activities. The concert had gone well, for the most part. That one citizen up front had been a relentless douche, but had received what was coming to him. Hence the blood on Kiril’s spikes. As he fortified himself against the winds screaming off the Neva, he made a mental note to have a sit-down with Kostia to remind his guitarist as firmly as possible that “practice” equals “rehearsal” and that Kostia should do all his practicing before rehearsal. The bridge section in “Flash-Frozen Steppes” needs to happen five times, not four. The open space in “Blaster, Berator” should be held for one beat longer. As Kiril saw it, this was strictly a case of behavior modification, but it should be accomplished swiftly and with as little moaning as possible.

But then what? How best to integrate his artistic desires with the vagaries of the cosmic unconsciousness? Kiril knew he needed to go bigger. And blacker, in the most metal of senses. Siberian Destiny’s corpsepaint designs were cutting-edge, obviously, but they were not the next-level shit that Kiril aspired to. Minds had not been blown. How to find the path among so many potential others twining through his psychic forest like snakes fleeing fire? He thought of Tunguska: the felled trees, the peat bogs, the aerial photographs destroyed by Yevgeny Krinov. The whole incident had been a cover-up, no doubt about that, but what had happened? And cui bono?

But he was derailing himself. How to ease the gnawing at his brain pan, the slow fissure in what he felt to be his soul? He knew he had to think in terms of the eternal present, in terms of enlightenment as freedom from attachment. He would have to breach and forsake established norms. He would have to transcend.

Stage armor had been briefly considered and hastily dismissed. Too cumbersome, too cliché, too readily compatible with swords and then too easily associated with battlefield reenactments. Perhaps something involving lasers? Garish and much too expensive, probably, but he felt he had stumbled upon a general direction: The transmutation of energy. In terms of pyro, KISS had done it first and arguably best. Financially, Siberian Destiny just couldn’t compete in any sort of meaningful fashion. An elaborate light show was too predictable and not entirely in step with the band’s carefully honed image of cold steel and icy darkness. But then... perhaps that was it!

A working snow machine could be had fairly cheaply on the black market. While he was at it, Kiril would secure a few other necessities, including mirrored pick-guards and several large fans. Yes, the next performance would surely be an unbridled success. The Petersburg winter would continue indoors to the glorious soundtrack of merciless post-Soviet black metal. Indeed, the Winter Palace would tremble to its very foundations. The Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood would weep black lazurite tears of terror and distress. The Neva itself would vomit forth creatures of unknown origin and the barnacled corpses of ancient wars. In short, it would be totally fucking awesome.

He remembered the words of Victor Serge: “The human body is ugly, and if man has only his body, if thought is only a product of the body, how can it be anything but doubtful and inadequate?” It was true: Kiril’s dream was as vivid as it was implausible, but it was his own way of holding the world in his hands. And it provided crucial inspiration for the next phase of Siberian Destiny’s career. Kiril felt at one with the universe, secure in the knowledge that inspiration comes from within just as it does from without. Despite the icebound darkness through which he trundled, everything took on the rosy hue of unlimited success. The possibilities stretched to infinity in every direction. Kiril suspected that he was in love.

This bullshit originally appeared in the May 2011 issue of Decibel magazine.

Intervening Circumstances

Is it my turn to hold the talking pillow now? Great. Let me just suggest you take these next few moments to calm the fuck down already. Take a deep breath. Find your center, say your mantra, do whatever Ram Dass shit you need to do to pull it together. Because I think you’re gonna stroke out if you keep at it like this, Jeff. All this stuff you’re blabbering about, day in, day out—the black helicopters, the Philadelphia Experiment, the guitar-solo bonus disc from Formulas Fatal To The Flesh—nobody gives a shit, okay? You just sound like a crazy person when you talk like that. A crazy person with enormous pit stains and mustard on his shirt. Just change that thing, okay? We all know that Bolt Thrower is your favorite band. We’re your friends, remember?

Look, a wise man once said that human beings are completely unreliable because their entire DNA regenerates itself every few years. Makes sense, right? So why are you so surprised that Debbie split? Or do you think it could have something to do with, I don’t know, all this flying fucking saucer shit? Or the Morbid Angel bonus disc routine? Dude, that shit is not dinner music. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that before it sinks into that obscenely thick, greasy skull of yours. Also, you should think about washing your hair. That could be another reason right there. I mean, dude. Gross.

Another thing we should probably discuss: This house is not haunted, okay? No, no, let me finish—I have the talking pillow—I don’t care what Maud or anyone else told you. I know you think you heard a voice or something like that. Fine—voices. The place was built in 1933. It creaks, alright? You know this. Just forget whatever you heard about the little girl—the alleged little girl—who allegedly fell down the stairs in the ’50s and allegedly broke her neck. She wasn’t moaning. Or calling you for help. You had too much to drink, end of story. You know how you get when you do shots. And that other thing? That other thing was just Randy fucking with you. He was pressing your buttons, man. Yeah, yeah, I know: “Plausible deniability.” Whatever.

I think what it comes down to is, you watch too many of those conspiracy theory movies. All that shit about the Bilderbergers and fluoride and chemtrails is turning your brain into oatmeal. Okay, okay, so the shit about 9/11 is probably true. That’s one thing out of… too many, Jeff. And that’s my point, dude. You’re on overload. Unemployed and way over-stimulated. So, look, I cancelled the cable, alright? That’s step one in terms of getting things down to a dull roar around here. I don’t know what to do about the goddamn Internet though, buddy. Maud needs it for the email, and we can’t realistically expect to go all Chinese government on you with that one. So I’m just asking you to take it easy, okay? Go outside, get some fresh air. I don’t know; take up bird watching or some shit. Because honestly, I think I speak for all of us here when I say that you’re working our last nerve.

Okay, buddy. I’m gonna hand you the talking pillow in a second here so you can say your piece. I just want you to know that we’re all just trying to look out for you. We’re here to help, you know? Like, remember that time that Maud’s schnauzer—what was his name? Basil? Yeah, Sir Basil Rathbone—right. Remember when Sir Basil Rathbone fell into the pool and you were the only one who saw it happen and you ran over and saved him from drowning? That’s what we’re doing here. We’re trying to save you from drowning. We love you, man. We just wanna help you work through this. Together.

This bullshit originally appeared in the April 2011 issue of Decibel magazine.

Out Foxed

I miss the lovin' that you gave to me/On top of you is where I wanna be/Your body's carved in stone in my mind/I see your pony tail from behind.

- Britny Fox, “Six Guns Loaded”

They say history repeats itself, but they never seem to mention that it will occasionally try to finger-bang you in a Hollywood rock bar on Saturday night.

There we were—your humble narrator, my business manager, Juan Perez, and our manservant, Gerwick—knocking back a few cold ones in our reserved booth at the Burgundy Room on Cahuenga Boulevard. We’d just been informed by the owner that they no longer soak the bar down with lighter fluid and set it on fire to the tune of Motörhead’s “Ace of Spades” at midnight, so there was no real reason to stick around.

My business manager got up for one last round, and spotted a pile of teased blonde hair hunched over a warm Heineken at the bar. I’d noticed the dude a few minutes after we walked in, and he hadn’t moved since. When I owe my business manager money (which is pretty much always), he likes to torture me by hauling the drunkest shithead in the bar over to our table and then leaving him/her with me. I had already sponged three drinks off him tonight, so I wasn’t the least bit surprised when he came back with the hair farmer in tow. Dude was in his mid-to-late 40s, rocking a sky blue Miami Vice-style sport coat and a black shirt unbuttoned down to his sagging navel. Like every third person I meet, he seemed convinced I was “Rob Zombie” and settled into our booth next to my business manager, who immediately got up and encouraged his companion to “slide in next to Rob.” He was swollen and puffy, his jowls flecked with spit as he launched into a half-coherent tirade about what he perceived to be the dismal state of the Hollywood rock scene.

Upon learning that our new friend was a former member of a reasonably successful 80s cock rock band (for anonymity’s sake, let’s just say it was Britny Fox), my manager immediately bought him another drink—which was to be expected, really: My manager is a notorious cock rock fiend who will buy drinks for and/or share drugs with anyone even vaguely affiliated with the genre, no matter how obscure. I could tell by the look in his eyes that his only regret was that our new friend (henceforth known as Britny) wasn’t his personal hero, former Bang Tango singer Joe LeSte.

“You guys are cooool,” Britny slurred, as he kept shaking our hands and toasting us every 3 ½ seconds. He was a close-talker, and spittle flew from his mouth in torrents as he ranted and raved about his glory days on the Strip. At one point, he also claimed to be a former member of Spread Eagle (a band that released two seminal coke-metal albums in the early 90s), but this turned out to be false when my business manager checked his LP collection later that night. Which is too bad, ’cause it would’ve made our boy seem a lot cooler.

About ten minutes into the conversation, Britny had fucking X’s in his eyes. He was also touching my arms, like, a lot—and the incessant spitting was really starting to get on my tits.

“I used to run the Strip,” he moaned.

“Then what the fuck are you doing on Cahuenga?” my business manager replied.

“Who’s got the drugs?” Britny asked.

“We thought you did,” I said.

“Yeah, I’ve got the drugs,” he replied. “You guysss are really cool.”

He kept touching me as he talked, and then started pinching my arms with his long yellow fingernails. He clearly wanted to sniff coke off our buttholes.

I turned to Gerwick and said, loud enough so Britny could hear me, “I’m done with this guy. I’m gonna tell him to piss off.” But Britny was oblivious—or was at least pretending to be, so I looked him in the eye and said, “It’s time for you to go.”

When Britny lolled around for another minute or so, panting obscenely and cackling for drugs, my manager put the hammer down. “Dude. Go. Now,” he barked. But Britny was in his own little world, muttering into his Heineken and picking his nose. My manager proceeded to have him escorted out by the seven-foot bouncer.

When we left the bar a few minutes later, Britny was slumped over in the alley next door with a dark stain on the front of his pants.

The point, I think, is this: Fifteen years from now, a group of 30 year-old Warped Tour refugees from Orange County will spot one of the dudes from Avenged Sevenfold at Party Boys 2 in the Valley and buy him a drink. And trust me on this one: No one from Avenged Sevenfold was in Spread Eagle.

This bullshit originally appeared in the November 2005 issue of Decibel magazine.

Christmas With Thunderstick

12.25.10

Dear Diary,

Christmas infuriates me in a thousand different ways, but mostly because Mum gives my brother Lightning Rod all the best gifts. This year he got an iPhone and one of those ’lectronic readers wot let you get the Times paperless-like. She give me a Lucha libre mask and a carton of ciggies again this year, which only proves that she has never understood me or my refined sense of aesthetics. After presents, I went to my room and listened to Slade’s “Merry Xmas Everybody” over and over again on my old Hello Kitty 45 player. Then Dad busted in without knocking. Again. “Quit sulking,” he tells us. “It doesn’t become you.” What he means is: “You get free room and board here, innit? So don’t act all pissy when your stocking comes up light.”

Back when I was in Samson, I didn’t have to put up with this shite. I was king of the neighborhood in them days, lead drummer for one of the most popular NWOBHM bands in the land. We opened for Robin Fucking Trower at the Hammersmith Odeon in 1980, don’t forget. AND I WAS THE SECOND-EVER DRUMMER FOR IRON MAIDEN FOR FUCK’S SAKE. Lightning Rod used to follow me around like a wee puppy back then. He wouldn’t even be called Lightning Rod if it weren’t for me giving him the nickname as encouragement, like. He would be just plain old Clive Graham, assistant to the assistant of the vice president of the local council estate. But I’d still be Thunderstick, even though Bruce Dickinson won’t return my calls. Alas, I guess nobody gives a toss anymore. Not even me own Mum.

Christmas supper is awkward, as usual. Mum’s half in the bag by 3 o’clock, and Dad’s well on his way. Meanwhile, Lightning Rod keeps looking things up on his iPhone just to annoy me. “According to Wikipedia, Blackpool is the fourth most densely populated district of England and Wales outside of London,” he informs us with a giant shit-eating grin. “Isn’t that where your old drum kit washed ashore after you tried to give it a proper Viking funeral in Troon?” When I fail to react, he starts downloading fart apps and working them relentlessly, occasionally chiming in with his own not-so-virtual contributions. Our idiot cousins are in stitches, of course, but he’s really starting to get on my tits.

I spend the rest of the evening resisting the urge to throttle him into oblivion while all the aunts and uncles fall asleep in front of the telly. I picture my hands wrapping around his soft white throat, thumbs pressed firmly on the Adam’s apple, fingers squeezing the carotid artery like one of those grippers with the plastic handles that I used to nick from the gymnasium. His eyes bulge from their sockets as his face slowly turns purple. I can see his blood vessels and, like, capillaries starting to burst. Sputtering like the mental midget he is, he grasps at the air for help that never comes. And then I punch his fucking card, once and for all. Free at last, it seems! Free at last!

But mostly I just bide my time, watching the clock until that magic hour when I can go down the pub, have a pint or twelve, and wear my new rhinestone mask in peace. Occasionally, some of the boys from Fist or Praying Mantis turn up and we have a laugh. Inevitably, someone will put Maiden on the jukebox and I’ll have to open up that someone’s face up with a left cross. At which point I will be politely asked to leave. At which point I will probably tell everyone in the pub to fuck off. At which point I will be escorted out by Terry, the bouncer and my old mate from primary school. At which point I will stumble home, only to find Lightning Rod giggling like an idiot, probably watching that Shaker Weight video on his iPhone for the three hundredth time.

Like I said, Christmas infuriates me in a thousand different ways.

This bullshit originally appeared in the March 2011 issue of Decibel magazine.

Jesus Yelled At My Hotrod

Repent, brothers and sisters!

Repent, for you do the Devil’s handiwork every time you raise those unholy fingers in the sign of the horns!

REPENT, for Jesus cannot love you if you do not love him! Even though Jesus loves everybody. Except fags. And liberals. And/or those who cannot bring themselves to vote Republican in the next election.

Repent, for the music of Satan will only plunge you further into the depths of hell! And that hell is HOT, brothers and sisters. It is fiery and merciless. It is fierce and unforgiving. The flames will scorch your flesh and blacken your very soul. And then your soul will be blacker than it is right now, at this moment, as you blast that Satan music from your car full of illegal immigrants and hoist your middle finger in what you imagine is defiance. Blacker than that indeed, brothers and sisters! And blacker still, until there can be none more black. Do you hear me, my wayward lambs? NONE! MORE! BLACK!

REPENT, I say! For I have spoken with your spokesperson, a certain Mr. … Lant. Yes, Conrad Lant, from Newcastle-upon-Tyne, which I’m told is in some faraway place called Europe. And it has not been a reassuring conversation, brothers and sisters. No! It seems this illegal foreigner has some ideas of his own about the spiritual needs of this fragile human enterprise and its relationship—or lack thereof—with a higher power. Indeed, many of Mr. Lant’s illegal comments and sentiments were decidedly un-Christian. He made several references to my unmentionables, for example. But I suppose I should not be surprised, not with the unruly state of the great unwashed that stands before me today, what with your unkempt beards and your abortions and your heavy metal. What’s next? Drugs? Oh, but I imagine you’re already into those—the uppers, the downers, the all-arounders! And what about anal? Yes, ANAL, brothers and sisters! Be it between a man and a man or a Muslim and his dog, it is BLASPHEMY. But I can already smell it on you. I can smell it like I can smell the poop in your pants when Jesus comes to judge you. How will thee be judged? Harshly and swiftly, I should think! HARSHLY AND SWIFTLY!

REPENT, for you are unknowing and ungrateful! The almighty JEEEEZUS will have no use for you. Not now, not ever … UNLESS! Unless you kneel down before Him and beg his forgiveness and the forgiveness of Glenn Beck and swear upon your heart that tax cuts for the ridiculously wealthy are the only way to ease our earthly woes! Yes, prostrate yourself before Christ! I beseech you to beseech Him! It is the only way to absolve your filthy, homosexual, heavy metal abortionist lifestyle in the eyes of the Lord! ABORTION! HOMOSEXUAL! FILTHY!

Repent, I tell you! Do it now or suffer the consequences on Judgment Day! Because that day is coming soon, you dirty gaylords. And punishment will be worse than anything described in that Devil music you listen to, worse even than the bloody, half-formed fetuses you throw in the trash can after having all that hot gay sex out of wedlock and smoking crystal meth for three days with unwed mothers and heavy metal. REPENT! REPENT! REPENT! And write to your senator to tell him that God HATES “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.” It is then and ONLY then that JEEEEZUS can forgive you! He is the only way out of the darkness and into the light! Tell your senator that unemployment benefits are for COMMUNISTS! Tell him to give that money to the corporations and giant banks that NEED IT! Tell him you believe in the trickle-down economy and that you will believe in it until you freeze to death in your own bed come February, bloated from starvation! Tell him you want more predatory loans! Tell him that women belong in the kitchen, barefoot and pregnant! GET THEM SHOES OFF, BEEETCH! Tell him that all brown people should be shipped back to ESS-PAN-YOL! Ask him, does he realize that the president is A BLACK MUSLIM FROM AFRICA? Do it now, brothers and sisters, do it now! HOMOSEXUALS! HEAVY METAL! ABORTION! REPENT! REPENT! REPENT!

This bullshit originally appeared in the February 2011 issue of Decibel magazine.

Couch Trip

From the transcript of a free psychoanalysis session requested by an unnamed patient and conducted by his childhood friend, Dr. Kenneth Noisewater, April 21, 1984. Reprinted with severe reservations.

Unnamed Patient: “My spirit animal came to me in the night. At least I think it was my spirit animal.”

Noisewater: “What was it?”

“A jackalope.”

“Fuck off.”

“That’s a little unprofessional, don’t you think?”

“Sorry, but you expect me to believe you had a dream about a jackalope? Just consider my chain yanked and let’s move on.”

“It was a man-size jackalope. He was riding a white horse. And he was wearing a denim vest with a Motörhead patch on it. And I think maybe one of those Metallica ‘Metal Up Your Ass’ patches.”

“What’s a motorhead?”

“You know, like a tweaker. A speed freak. One of those amphetamine people with the scabs and green teeth and whatnot.”

“Why would a jackalope have a patch of that?”

“It’s also a band.”

“Oh. Any good?”

“The best.”

“So what happened?”

“With the jackalope? He gave me a sword.”

“How do you know it was a he?”

“I don’t know. I just sensed it. He seemed very masculine.”

“Then what happened?”

“I think he wanted me to cut his head off. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t kill my new friend because he was an awesome jackalope and I just wanted to hang out with him and maybe pound some brews or whatever.”

“Why do you think he wanted you to cut his head off?”

“I have no fucking idea, man. But the whole thing just felt weird, like he was trying to tell me something that I could only find out by chopping off his head. For a second I thought maybe the idea was that he’d grow a new head that would tell me something important. Like the second head had all the secret info but was being suppressed by the first head.”

“I see.”

“Could you move your chair like three feet further away from me? I can smell your breath. What did you eat for lunch, a can of pickled assholes?”

“Smoked salmon, actually.”

“Shmoked shalmon, actually.”

“Why are you being such a dick?”

“I’m being a dick? I told you in all earnestness that I had a dream about a jackalope—my spirit animal—and you told me to fuck off.”

“I think maybe the problem is that…”

“Look, I know what the problem is. But what the shit can I do about it?”

“Wait, what do you think the problem is?”

“The problem is that I need to figure out a way to re-enter my dream so I can cut off the jackalope’s head and find out what the second head needs to tell me.”

“I thought you said you didn’t wanna do that.”

“I know. But I think I need to. I think it’s crucial to my development as a human being.”

“Since when did you care about that?”

“Fuck you, Kenny. I’m serious.”

This bullshit originally appeared in the January 2011 issue of Decibel magazine.

Letter To The Editor

On Oct 4, 2010, at 11:05 AMthisisnotmyemailaddress@gmail.com> wrote:

Hey, Alberto –

It was awesome hanging out with you down in Richmond the other day. Psyched you could make the trip. My favorite part was when Witte ran over that old lady with his fixed-gear. That’s what you get for being a cripple in public.

Sorry about that thing with those dudes at the bar, though. I didn’t realize how pissed and, like, Samoan they were until his fist was about four inches from your skull. I know you’re a vegetarian and all, but that trick with the steak over the eye really does reduce swelling. I know ’cause I saw it on The Brady Bunch once. That was a sweet episode. How hot was Maureen McCormick back in the day, by the way? I would’ve loved to get handsome with her when she used to swap hand-shandies for cocaine. I had some pretty vivid dreams about that chick until my adolescent fantasy rolodex replaced her with Phoebe Cates from Fast Times and Samantha Fox’s chest.

So, I’ve been mulling over some of the stuff we talked about. In retrospect, I realize that 5000 words of speculative meta-history on how the lyrics to Siouxsie and the Banshees’ “Night Shift” provided the basis for every Cannibal Corpse song ever written is a bit excessive. But I think my point remains valid. Would you let me go 1800?

You’re totally right about that Appice Brothers cover story. I don’t know what I was thinking on that one. Yeah, they’re drum legends and all, but dB readers probably aren’t super-familiar with the work of King Kobra and, like, 3 Legged Dogg. I don’t care what anyone says, though: That first Blue Murder album is Hall Of Fame material.

I’m torn about the “Win A Candlelight Dinner With Glen Benton” contest. I’ve met that cat, and I’m fairly certain he’ll be bummed if a dude shows up to that fancy French joint the label is trying to book this thing at. Also: Since when does Tampa have a restaurant that serves something other than tainted shellfish and Coors Light?

I know I told you this already, but it bears repeating: I am totally cool with turning the entire Up Front section over to Fenriz.

Despite the fact that I argued vehemently against it for like 15 minutes, I’ve decided that letting Jeff Walker and Seth Putnam write all the reviews next issue might actually be kinda fun. Especially if we can dress it up with some of those photos Seth has been posting on the Interhole lately. Historically, dB seems to do really well at the newsstand when we have shirtless fat dudes in the mag. I’m not sure if the numbers will hold up if we switch it to bottomless fat dudes getting their dicks sucked by bony skanks from Revere Beach, but there’s only one way to find out.

Can you imagine the elegant romance of that first date, by the way? I can:

Seth: On your knees, bitch. This thing ain’t gonna suck itself.

Skank: Do you mind if I smoke while you fuck me?

Seth: You are so goddamn hot right now.

Skank: Do you mind if I snore while you fuck me?

Seth: Oooh, baby. I think I’m gonna come.

Skank: Just whip your dick out and chuck it into my pussy.

Other stuff I’ve been thinking about:

* Do you think we can get Deepak Chopra to interview Trey Azagthoth? Because I just don’t have that kind of time. (Is that new Morbid Angel album even coming out?)

* Can you hook me up with Jerry A. Deathburger’s email? I need to tell him about the grind band I’m pretending to start with a couple of the dudes from The Red Chord. We’re gonna call it Scab Mangler. Our first album will either be I Hope You Die In A Cancer Fire or I Love It When You Call Me Big Poppa.

* Q&A’s with Marty Friedman and Merle Allin. Seriously.

Okay for now. Talk soon, dude.

- JB

P.S.: I got dibs on the Leatherwolf Hall Of Fame.

This bullshit originally appeared in the December 2010 issue of Decibel magazine.