Don't Fuck With Dio (No, Seriously--Don't.)

I'm of Italian-American heritage and my grandmother used it to ward off the evil eye or to give the evil eye to someone who was messing with her grandchild.
--Ronnie James Dio, on why he can't stop throwing the fucking goat.

Question: If you put all the current and ex-members of Black Sabbath in a steel cage and made them fight to the death, who would live?
Answer: Tony Iommi

Question: What if Ronnie James Dio could somehow transmogrify into that red-eyed devil beast swinging the huge chain on the cover of Holy Diver and pretending not to jack off outside the bedroom window on the cover of Dream Evil? Then who'd win?
Answer: Dio.

Look out! He's evil but he's pretty. You can feel his heart but you know he's mean. I'm pretty sure he's the Man On The Silver Mountain (you know that one is autobiographical, right?), and he's definitely got a fucking song called "Overlove."

Say it like you fucking mean it, already: Ronnie Jamesah!

Now show me your cigarette lighters. Oh, wait... wrong dude. Woops.

RJD is the love-gun pumping, goat-throwing, horn-tossing, garden-gnome-battling King Of Heavy Metal and if anybody says any different, I will fight you. Not in a steel cage--or to the death, or whatever--but I'll definitely slap you around a little and maybe give you a good talking to. Just so you know who's boss. And I'm not talking about me, either. I'm not the boss, dude. RJD is the fucking boss. So Bruce Springsteen can feel free to suck it.

Question: Who is the only person in the entire universe to play in bands with members of Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, Foreigner, Whitesnake, Sweet Savage and Def Leppard?
Answer: Dio.

Sensing a pattern here?

Any pop psychology assessment of RJD will inevitably include the words "Napoleon" and "complex," but you gotta figure the dude has a sense of humor about his size: The first band he was in was called Elf. Besides, when there's lightning, you know it always brings him down.

Question: How many times does Dio say the words "We rock!" in the song "We Rock" from 1984's The Last In Line?
Answer: 28

Question: Is there any doubt in your mind about whether, in fact, they "rock"?
Answer: Dio.

I feel like maybe you're getting the hang of this.

Like a rainbow in the dark, or whatever, Ronnie James has been left out on his own. Shunned by Sabbath, Ritchie Blackmore, and most of the 40-year old mullet squadron who abandoned him for inappreciable pursuits like gainful employment, a wife & kids, and/or Nickelback concerts, RJD has been forced to resort to Lord Of The Rings-style fantasy-concept albums like and Magica and Killing The Dragon just to maintain some sort of aesthetic cohesion and fill his garden with those conniving gnomes that insist on falling over unexpectedly to sever the tip of his thumb, like that one particularly insidious gnome did back in 2003. If I ever see that lawn statue, I will smash it with my cast-iron Mjölnir replica. And then I will blow a hot, smelly asparagus piss all over the pulverized remains.

As if it weren't totally obvious, I have listened to "Holy Diver" and "Rainbow In The Dark" approximately 25 times on nonstop psychotic repeat mode (they're back to back on The Very Beast Of Dio) in the last three hours. And that's on top of the approximately 9000 times I've heard those jams since I first saw the videos on Headbangers Ball back in the '80s. And they never get old. Ever. In fact, I'm gonna stop typing now so I can do some push-ups as the power of The Diver courses through my veins like nitro.

I think you know what I'm trying to say here: Ronnie Jamesah!

Now that's a truth as hard as steel. Like a never-ending wheel.*

Look out!


Rest in peace, Ronnie. You were a true gem.

This bullshit originally ran in the May 2006 issue of Decibel magazine.

*Ronnie actually said, "Life's a never-ending wheel." But I know our man is cool with artistic license.

TV Party

The following is dedicated to my attorney, Juan Perez.

Saugus, MA, 6:14pm:

What’s up, buddy? Good to see ya, you old cock. It’s about fackin’ time, too. Ya hit the packy on the way over? Nice! What’s that? Oh, don’t mind ol’ Francis ovah theah. He just heard Soundgahden got back togethah. Yeah, yeah, he’s fackin’ psyched. Plus, he just ate like three king-size Buttahfingahs. I heah ya, though. Yeah, I have no idea what happened to Chris Cawnell. That Jimmy Bond song is gayuh than a P-town Ahts Festival at midnight, but that doesn’t explain Audioslave, does it? Or that thing with Kanye West or whatevah. Oh, Timbaland. Right.

But look, I know that’s not why ya heah. Business to attend to and all that. Heah’s the thing, though: Ma’s at bingo tonight. Yeah, yeah, three Wednesdees in a row now. It must be that second cuppa coffee she’s been havin’ in the aftahnoons or whatevah. I didn’t mention that ovah the phone? That she wasn’t gonna be heah, I mean? Shit, I’m sorry, dood. I coulda swoan I told ya that. But look, if you wanna hang out and watch Hahd N’ Heavy videos with us, it’s totally cool. Francis! Fack, Francis, man—move over, for fack’s sake. Randy’s gonna hang out.

You see that Dave Ellefson’s back in Megadeth? I know, right? Prolly won’t mattah much, but Dave without Dave is like Simon without… what’s that other dood’s name? The old guy with the weeahd lookin’ squash? Here’s to you, Missus Robinson, or whatevah? Yeah, yeah, Dustin Hoffman. That’s the dood. Oh, wow. Look at this shit right heah. Diamond Dave, “A Little Ain’t Enough.” Fackin’ classic song right theah, guy. Not as neahly as killah as “Drop Dead Legs” but it kicks the shit out of Sammy Hagah amiright?

Aw, dooood … look at this now. Why they always gotta roon these things with Damn Yankees? Just watchin’ Ted Nugent talk makes my tits hurt. Oh, shit! He just called those othah doods fags, though. Turn it up? Why? Do you think it’ll help? Oh, now this… this is what I’m talkin’ about. Suicidal fackin’ Tendencies. You. Can’t. Bring. Me. Down. You can’t bring me down! This shit makes me wanna cry and punch things at the same time. While weahring my khaki shohts and white tube socks jacked up to my fackin’ knees, a’ couahse.

Oh, check out this intahview with the Scorpions doods. Hallo, vee ah Scorpions! I love these doods, guy. Klaus Meine’s head should have its own talk show. They’ah gonna show the “Rhythm Of Love” video next. So facking good. Yeah, this is the second time we’ve watched this one today. What? No, I heah ya, I heah ya. Big Daddy needs to get paid. I know. She should be home any minute now. Aw, Francis! How many times I gotta tell ya yuh gonna go blind if ya don’t stop doin’ that? Put it away, bro—we got company!

Wait, I think I heah Ma comin’ up the driveway. Sit tight for a second; I gotta help 'uh with the groceries. She’s prolly hadda coupla pops, too. You know how it is down the Knights a’ Columbus. Buncha sea hags bitchin’ about Social Security and the price a’ Pahliament Lights down Cumby’s. Oh, fack. It looks like she mighta hit sumthin’ on the way home. Ma! Ma, what happened to the Capri? Are you fackin’ serious? I’ll put my fackin’ foot up his fackin’ ass! Okay, fine. Tomorrah, then. Look, Ma, Randy’s heah. Yeah, I need eleven bucks, okay? C’mon, Ma. Don’t be like that. I sweah I’ll pay ya back. Thanks, Ma. Love ya. Yeah, yeah, I’ll send Francis out right now. What? No, no, I didn’t give him any candy a’ nuthin’ like that, Ma. You know I know bettah than that.

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

Out Of The Cellar

Stephen Pearcy followed me home from the bar the other night. Don’t ask me why. I never got a chance to find out. All I know is that I was loitering in the Rainbow Room parking lot, pounding tall boys with Reb Beach and C.J. Snare when Jizzy Pearl and Joe LeSté come running over and say that Pearcy’s on his way, and he’s on the rampage. Whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean. Next thing I know, Jizzy’s laid out on the asphalt and Pearcy’s standing over him all, “Fuck you, you fuckin’ cock knocker. That’s for 2000 to 2006.” His eyeliner’s all smudged and shit like he’s been crying. Then he swills the ass end off of C.J.’s tall boy and storms off in a huff.

Like I said, don’t ask me. Makes no sense. But if you did ask me, I’d say it had to be something personal. I mean, these guys don’t really hate each other ’cause they’ve all played in each other’s bands, right? Like, “I’m jealous ’cause Warren DeMartini did your dishes for six years instead of mine?” Can’t be. But no big deal, you know, ’cause C.J.’s totally a lawyer or a yoga instructor or whatever now and Reb is in Whitesnake so we’ve absolutely got it covered.

Long story short, I see Pearcy again about an hour later in the upstairs bar and he’s giving me the hairy eyeball like I just shot his dog or something. He’s got some fruity fuckin’ pink cocktail in one hand and half a mozzarella stick in the other, and he’s just sitting there with some skank who probably has like three grandkids at home. Just mad-doggin’ me hardcore, dude. I’m about to roll over there all, “Look, bro—I’m tryin’ really hard not to make a gay AIDS joke here, but when I get through with you, you’re gonna be thinkin’ your boy Robbin took the easy way out.” I mean, the nerve of this fuckin’ mope, am I right?

But then, and I swear to Christ this actually happened, he jams the half a mozzarella stick down the front of his pants, pulls his dick out, and pisses neon green all over the floor. Then he skulls his drink and cruises downstairs so fast that the security dudes don’t even know what to do with themselves.

Here’s the clincher, though: As I’m hoofing it back to the whip with whatsherface from Ass Invaders 9, I catch a glimpse of him peeking out from behind a Dumpster. So I immediately start yelling at him, right? “I see you, you motherfucker! I see you!” At this point he’s not budging, I mean like not even fuckin’ flinching, so I move on him, just howling my fuckin’ face off. By now I’m making a total fuckin’ scene, and whatsherface just hubcabs without a word. I’m within like six feet of the Dumpster now, and then poof—gone. Pearcy is nowhere to be found.

So now I’m totally freaked out, right? I get in the whip and my head is just spinning. I peel off down the Strip, hit the 101 and all I can think about is this motherfucker, just looking at me like … and here’s where I kinda realize why I’m so fuckin’ upset, but it was like he was looking into my soul. And that’s a weird feeling, dude. Trust me.

Anyway, I get back to the pad, and you’re not gonna fuckin’ believe this shit, but Pearcy is there. Sitting on my front steps in Canoga fuckin’ Park. Don’t ask me how he got there—I don’t even have a fuckin’ fraction of a guess on that one. But I do know that the only other car on the street is Old Man MacAvoy’s crusty brown beater. By now, you know, I’m not even aggro about it anymore. I just wanna know what’s up, ’cause the shit is just too weird, right? And look, I’ll admit it, dude. I’m a little nervous. I mean, how the shit did he beat me home? So he stands up, he’s looking straight at me, and he goes, “What would you know about it anyway, asshole?” And then he was gone, dude. Thin air, just like that.

So, I guess what I’m asking you is: Should I be worried?

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