I'm afraid you're just too loud.

As far as I can tell, there are three types of time traveling that really bear talking about. First, there’s the regular old time traveling, as in: I’m currently traveling into the future at a rate of one second per second. Not terribly exciting, but it’s time travel. It’s like if you’re flying to LA and you have a 2 hour layover in the Kansas City airport. Not the dry rub ribs and burnt ends, hookers under the viaduct, line dancing at the Beaumont, Royals and Chiefs extravaganza you’ve probably always dreamed of, but technically, yeah, you were in Kansas City. That’s the way this first time travel works. It’s the technicality of space time quantum excitement (to misuse several words and theories) or the through-the-pants-handjob…no. the wet dream. No. Okay, maybe this one time there is no appropriate semen analogy. I don’t know. Readers, I throw it to you. How is dull old “into the future at one second per second” time travel like jizz? You guys will come up with something. That’s what you do. Anyway, enough jib jab about jizz. I’ve got two more types of time travel to get to and I’ve got about ten minutes until I have to leave for work (stupid regular time travel).
Up next is the good old fashioned Doc Brown school of time travel, involving deloreans and specific dates and some sort of grid or matrix or futuristic abacus-type dealie that the time traveler uses to pinpoint the exact moment she’s headed to. (I know, women don’t time travel this way. Not sexist. FACT. I’m doing my part for gender politics [and undoubtedly weakening the scientific value of this essay, but whatever] by imposing the female pronoun here even though you expected the male pronoun. Take that hegemony!) This time travel usually involves going into the past and making some trivial change that has sweeping consequences. Then, you go back to your own time and HOLY SHIT!!!!! There’s a new reality! Lots of people also zip way into the future (like uh…was it the memento/Priscilla queen of the desert dude who went way into the future and had to fight the moorlocks? Probably. Sounds like something he’d do), and I understand the temptation. See what goes on after you die. That’s pretty exciting shit, man. Also, you can’t fuck up the present or the future future, because presumably, this time trip is already built into the future’s continuum, it being the future and all. You still following me McFly? Good. This shit moves pretty quick. Pseudo science is no laughing matter. Anyway, I think the future trip is dumb for one big reason. Confidence. In the past, you’d have so much confidence you could pretty much bang your way through whatever era you chose. I mean, go to Woodstock and look at some group of filthy mondo bushed hippy chicks and say “Ritchie havens is gonna be on first. He’s gonna do a ten minute jam about a motherless child” and see what happens. Clam city. I don’t even need a time machine to predict THAT future of the past, or whatever you want to call it. Go to 1776 and scoop paul revere. You’re a hero. Anywhen you go, you’ve got the edge, man. There’s nothing that says confidence like being from the future. That’s why Marty’s mom couldn’t keep her hands off him, despite how gross we all thought it was. Okay, you get the idea. Problem is, you don’t know what you’re gonna bang into existence back there. Could end up turning your happy little apartment into a smoldering crater in the middle of a future/present shit swamp, you know? No. That’s right. With time travel, you never know. That segues nicely into time travel method number three:
Massive drunkenness. This is a truly out there form of time travel. One minute you’re saying “I bet you any amount of money I can chug this Singapore sling in fifteen seconds!” to some forty five year old woman at a Rockville Center motel bar and the next second you’re on some living room floor a day later with no pants on and a family you’ve never seen before is above you trying to eat breakfast and get the kids out the door. You’re covered in bruises. You’ve got a car key that you’ve never seen before and one dollar. Your wallet is gone but a note on your hand, scrawled in your handwriting in Sharpie says “Don’t forgit the fukkin CHICKEN!” That’s time travel, for you. Discombobulating and disturbing. Thrust into a future you don’t understand left with no tools with which to deal with anything. All you can do is go find those regular people who just lived their lives traveling the first, boring form of time travel and get them to tell you what you skipped over. You can’t go into the past with this method, though it’s reported that during time travel, most time travelers spend a lot of time talking about the past like it was “way fucking awesome.” This is probably the second most dangerous form of time travel, but every single one of these will eventually kill you. No shit.
Okay, it’s late and I have to go. My kid had Halloween at school and he’s dressed as satan. It’s real cute. His best buddy was gonna be Yoda, but he didn’t like the hat or the jacket, so he opted out of the festivities. Regardless, nothing cuter than toddlers in costumes. Huh. Pretty lame end to a science fiction post, man. Even for me.
Okay, I think the dude that filmed my band’s show has a little preview set up that he’s gonna post on line today. It’s still unmixed sound, and we all look disgusting, so don’t worry about telling us, we know all about it. Anyway, I’ll post the link when I get it, should be today or tomorrow at the latest. Or just google the shit. Dude’s name is travis.
Okay, into the future I go.
Later, queefs.

Edit- here's the link: http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=540215910908

mornin'

I’m sitting here buck naked. I’m at the window. If my neighbor exits his house, as history has time and time again proven he will, he’s gonna have no choice but to look in here and see me typing at the kitchen table, completely naked. I need to get a tuxedo fitting this morning before work, but that’s not why I’m naked. That’s why I’m typing this an hour early and why I’ve blown off my shower and THAT’S why I’m naked. I don’t have time for this bullshit today, clothes…neighbors. I’m gonna have to be naked, bosses, customers. Fucking eh, man. (that’s the Canadian way to say Fucking A, just by the weigh).
So yeah, I was thinking I’d figure something great and profane out this morning, like what is really going through the mind of a porn actress when she’s sitting there begging for the big greasy dude that’s just fucked her in the ass to come all over her face. I bet it's not "oh finally!" I'm guessing it's something more like “jesus, I’m almost done with this horrible job. Just blow your gross load so I can get a rag and head over to the cocaine table.”
Well, honestly, I don’t know. I sense a little genuine enthusiasm there on occasion, which, let’s be honest, is both odd and awesome.
I was watching man vs food last night and my wife was wondering if he hates his job. I would hate that job, but I think if you’re the right type of guy it would be amazing. Just gorging every night and being a general pig. Kind of similar to being a male pornstar, really. People think what you do is gross and immoral, but when it’s all said and done, it’s pretty fun. Sure you have to ignore some basic truths and all that, but hey, if you’re into living in the now and not really having to answer to your parents, well, Man Versus Food or Buttfuck Sluts Prime Cuts number 22 could be the job for you, I guess.
Look. I can’t really write this today. The baby’s diaper pail is full, my ribs are killing me, I’m naked, I’ve got to get my measurements taken for a tux (I tried writing in 9” dong, but they said they needed more precise measurements. I said how fucking precise do you want me to get? Centimeters? Cuz that’s un-American.)
I think my point here is proven. Namely, this morning is a dreaded hellscape. My kid’s about to spill French toast on some Chihuahuas….sigh.

goddamnit, people like me!

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precious mammaries

What a fucking weekend, eh? I gotta tell you fuckers, that was one of the best times of my life. No shit. The whole show went off without a hitch. Thanks to everyone who came out, particularly those of you who traveled insane distances to be there. I saw kids from Texas, California, Virginia (and it’s cousin banging sidekick, West Virginia), London, Norway, Australia, New Zeland, and fucking Michigan, man. That’s just insane. There are no words to express my gratitude to all you fucking weirdos.
Here are some of my highlights from the weekend:

Everything coming together without a hitch for the filming of the show. We got a full board mix and I think seven cameras. It was pretty great to watch something so potentially clusterfuckable run completely smoothly.

The Menzingers playing an amazing set and Sean Nader turning to me and saying “these guys are gonna be huge!” in utter amazement. There’s something so great about turning people you respect onto cool things. It’s like giving a gift you don’t have to buy. They were great. Amazing set for sure.

The crazy, crazy singalongs in Brick wall views and Ramblin Boys of Pleasure.

Dan Andriano’s version of First Eviction Notice.

Mike Park just making up lies on stage and laughing about it backstage.

Going into the Gingerman before the show and seeing it packed with stoked people from all over the world. (this was the number one best memory of the weekend).

That fucking amazing pumpkin that had the wizard on it. Holy shit. The dude that did that is a waiter. He should be running the country or something.

Joe Menzinger playing 106 south with us.

La Plebe just melting everyone’s faces off and then coming off stage and being absolutely the nicest most courteous and humble people I’ve ever met.

Sean Nader being stoked on how good his designs and poster design turned out.

Morning cocktails on Sunday and not working Sunday night.

Mike Park’s amazing version of Happy Birthday to the Lawrence Arms

I dunno…the whole thing was great. I couldn’t have had a better time. You people are awesome. Let’s do it again soon, eh? How about on the west coast? How about in 2 weeks! We’re going out to Arizona and California to bring this rock shit to the promised land. We were gonna go up to the northwest, but my brother decided to get married right then, and it became cost prohibitive to fly back and all that shit, so sorry. Man…
I’m a little depressed today. That was a lot to look forward to and prepare for and now that the high of having everything work out great has worn off, I feel a little hole inside where all this planning and excitement and worry had been. Eh. Whatever. Shit happens, right? Right.
Our record comes out today and while I know that most of you pirate fuckers have already gotten your greedy mitts on it, I’m stoked to have everyone see the whole thing. I don't know what's up with fat selling the colored vinyl. That wasn't supposed to happen. I think maybe it's different vinyl. Obviously a miscommunication or something, but sorry if you feel cheated. I swear, I was being honest and forthright when I announced that shit. Anyway...What else? Oh! Did you guys know that I play guitar and Chris plays Bass on the last song? It’s true. First time that shit’s happened since our very first practice where we thought that maybe I’d be the guitar player. That was before we wised up and recognized that Chris is a much, much better player than me, and that would be stupid. That’s also me singing that song. Yes. The whole song. Yes. Yes it is. Stop emailing me. I don’t know why it’s so impossible to believe. I sing like that for at least a little bit on EVERY SINGLE ALBUM SINCE THE SHADY VIEW TERRACE SPLIT. YES. YES I DO. Oh well, whatever. And for the record, yes. I’m aware that when I sing like that I sound nasal, warbly and out of tune. That’s the charm you dildos. Right? Eh…I don’t know any more.
Okay, gotta go. I got an interview to do then I have to go get my dogs’ ass glands expressed.
I’m a busy man.

Finally.

Okay, so usually I like Bad Sandwich to be a bit of a respite from punk rock…a place to come read about dick jokes and pussy farts and just kind of escape the mindless claptrap surrounding Taking Back Sunday, Dan Yemin and Justin Sane and Davy Havok and Tom Delonge and all that. Right? Sure. It’s never been about the music here, folks. It’s always been about the felching. That’s our motto, at least.
SO, today is where I break form completely. I’m in a band. Some of you probably know all about this. We’re called the Lawrence Arms, and while we’re not as popular as, say, Eric Clapton, we’re a lot more popular than, say, your band (unless you’re in the Alkaline Trio or Against Me! [and even then you’re still mondo gay]), AND we’re coming out with a record called Buttsweat and Tears on Fat Wreck Chords next week. In the spirit of promoting said release, SPIN.com is putting a free download of one of the songs on the internet. The song is called Demons and I think it’s pretty cool.
We made this the focus track because it’s the bonus song that’s not on the vinyl version and only available on itunes and we figured that we shouldn’t penalize the people who were cool enough to buy the 7” by giving them one less song. Everyone should be able to have the five songs if they want em, right? Right. So yeah.  We decided to pass out the bonus track for free because we’re cooler than all other bands. That’s right, other bands, we’re talking about you. Nice haricuts. Sweet matching outfits. Nice sustainable careers. Bleh…
Stupid bands.
Anyway, this song is only available on the online version of Buttsweat and Tears and will not appear on the physical release, AND despite what some people have inferred due to some comments I made before playing this song at a bootlegged acoustic show with Tom Gabel earlier this year, this song is NOT about my experience at his wedding. Not at all. I actually wrote this song while thinking about my friend Sean Nader and the time he showed up at his buddy’s (afternoon) wedding reception drunk, shirtless and ready to fight. Now, he wasn’t alone. I’m pretty sure his buddy Jimmy was also there, shirtless and yelling “who wants some of this?” at anyone who was unlucky enough to be close by, so…well, there’s that, but yeah. I mentioned Tom’s wedding at that show because he was there and it was the most recent wedding I’d been to at the time, despite the fact that my behavior, while probably not exemplary, was hardly memorable. Just a wedding reference, folks. Now, this song, “Demons” is about more than an isolated incident of drunken shenanigans and humiliation. Do you want to know what I think it’s about? Nah. Stupid. My intentionality is totally unimportant and will only color your viewing of the song and negatively affect it all and undermine your own interpretation. I’ve said it before: Artist intentionality is 100% irrelevant. Never mind.
Bye.
Later…
Uh..
Oh. Still here? Okay. Well, to me, the song is about the desperation that people succumb to in order to cling to their youth and the general despair and malaise that informs their  desperation when faced with the irrevocable truth of fading glory. Whether it’s an aging skank sucking wangs to keep her name out there or some old washed up dinosaur rocker becoming impotently enraged at his sudden irrelevance and picking fights with people he doesn’t know for no reason in hopes of staying in the public eye, or whether it’s me, trying to behave like I did when I was twenty one, even though I’m thirty three with a kid and all sorts of bruises and aches and I can no longer hang like I used to, or nader, shirtless and picking fights at a wedding. That’s the demon, right?. The specter of youth and the inevitability of coming face to face with its disappearance and your perceived subsequent irrelevance no matter how hard you try to ignore it. It’s a tough thing to look in the mirror and see. That’s what that song is about to me. The demons of youth and the trappings of adolescent personalities and how those things don’t necessarily make for adult personalities and also, and perhaps most importantly, this song is about how even when that shit fades, there’s still time and room and a place to look over at someone across the room and just absolutely fall in love, for the first time or all over again. How there are still nights of amazing whiskey shots and laughter and kisses and fights and sure, shit’s not the same, but it shouldn’t be. Change is important and you gotta change. Without it, you’re no better than that pathetic cokehead buddy of yours that still lives in his parents house.  You gotta look ahead, no matter how hard it is to never look back.
I saw this slideshow on the internet a while ago, of a guy who took a picture of his face every day for five years. It really highlighted the brutality and unflinchingness of the passage of time. The completely reckless disregard that time has on the bodies and spirits that it inevitably ravages. That movie was a huge inspiration for this song.
Of course, it’s all up to personal interpretation, so I’ll leave it to you guys to make your own opinions, but here’s the lyrics. Listen and enjoy!
 
 
Demons
 
I got too drunk at your wedding and my voice got loud and I said some creepy things and I staggered around and even though your best man had to kick me out it was a pretty good time either way.
It seems a fight broke out and an old man was yelling, cuz no one was buying all the bullshit he was selling and he threw all his keepsakes on the ground and walked away, cursing hard to bring back yesterday
 
And the dying aint gonna stop just because you walk away
And you can cry for everything that you’ve lost but you ain’t never gonna bring back these days.
 
I hate the Mondays and the Fridays cuz they always define the endless march of pushing ruthlessly to the light. Well, if I’m gonna be dying then I’m gonna get high and scream until I’m not feeling the pain.
Let’s burn a bridge for the fuck of it and kill this night with some beers down at the pits, with whiskey lips and we’ll try to love for the moment and forget for the night that life doesn’t usually feel great.
 
Where we gonna go now that everything’s shut down? I can’t go home, so where do you wanna go now? Let’s bring it back around to where everybody’s singin that
the dying aint gonna stop just because you walk away
And you can cry for everything that you’ve lost but you ain’t never gonna bring back these days.  You ain’t never gonna bring back these days.
 

hey!

See you dipshits tonight.

Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh! Treat my dick like a steeple!

Well, I’m not gonna lie. Pretty, pretty stoked for this show tomorrow. I’ve seen a couple of kids from England who are in town for the show, and yesterday a dude who flew in from Virginia was in my bar. It’s starting to feel like a real event, man. That’s righteous. We had our final practice last night. I think we’re ready. This is one of the first times we’ve ever premade a setlist, and well, we know all the songs on there pretty well, even the obscure ones and the shitty ones and the approximately 6 that we’ve played live less than three times ever. It’s clocking in at about an hour and a half if we bust our asses, which leaves me in a bit of a strange spot. I mean, this is a ten year show, it’s supposed to be retrospective and since it’s sold out in advance, the theory is that everyone there will want to see as much rock as we can bring, BUT I’m also a firm believer that a rock show that’s more than an hour is too much. I can’t sit through more than twenty minutes of live music, much less ninety. That’s fucking crazy. Yeah, I know that I’m a jaded old bastard and all that, but I’m having trouble reconciling playing a show that I wouldn’t want to have to sit through. Regardless, we’re the best band of all time, and even if my witty banter stretches the whole thing into a three hour extravaganza, you turds will still be drooling for more. I know this.
We’re doing hand screened limited edition posters (hand numbered, only 200 made), we’re filming the whole thing, we’re doing radical new shirts and hoodies (and we’re reprising the very first suicide king shirt we ever did and haven’t done since [the white on black]), we’re playing a gigantic set, we’re gonna have Sean Nader and his sodomite master, PT in the house. We’re playing with some radical bands, we’re all practiced up, and last night I shaved my face for the first time in six months. It’s so bizarre. I didn’t want to, but I was driving home from practice, and I caught a glimpse of myself in the rear view. It looked like my mustache was way thicker than the rest of my stubble, so when I got home, I attempted to trim it, but I got carried away and wound up looking like a hung over amish guy or something, so I had to go all the way. Ladies, prepare your clams. Wear rubber knickers, because I’m more gorgeous than ever. So’s Neil. So’s Chris. It’s funny, with all the hot man dong in my band, it’s really a surprise we never got famous. Don’tcha think? Maybe it’s all the shit talking and snot rockets. Huh. Whatever. I don’t know, and I don’t care. I’m pretty fucking excited for tomorrow. It FEELS like there’s something big on the horizon. There’s people in from out of town and all sorts of bells and whistles and shit going off. There’s potential for people to camp out tonight to try to get that special colored vinyl and the tix to the special afterparty that I’m Djing (first 150 people inside only!) This is the sort of party I was hoping for. Now, if we can keep neil from getting too wasted to play, we’ll be set.
Okay dickheads and hoes, see you at the metro. I’m going to work.
BK

There is no god...surprise.

Hey y'all. Here's the link I been promising y'all: www.fecaljapan.com
have fun! Enjoy!

Nah. Kidding. Looks like that shit that I've been promising y'all isn't happening til Monday. I know, I know. Look, don't bitch at me, man. I'm on your team and I got a big weekend coming up. Uh...yeah. Sorry? I don't know anymore. I think I'm losing faith in the Internet...

like a king without a crown....

Hey wow! Did you guys know that Run DMC is working on a broadway musical? Or that Metallica is joining the search for their missing fan? How about matisyahu? He’s got a new record coming out! Yay! That’s great right? Sure it is…sigh. These, my sweet little dogs of war, are clues to my insane frustration. I have to go to work, and I’m trying to set this shit up so if IF this exciting news posts today I can keep you all informed by updating my blog using my phone. Don’t really know if that’s gonna work though. I’m sorry. I was led astray. I got everyone excited early (including myself) only to drag our collective dicks/dangling lips through the dirt for two days. Fuck.
Well, if it’s any consolation, practice was great last night. We played through the setlist for our ten year anniversary show on Saturday, and it’s cool. It’s about thirty songs, which is a ton. Hope you’re ready for it, Dogs.
God, I hate Matisyahu. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, liking matisyahu is proof positive that you’re racist. He’s terrible. His flow is weak, his rhymes are lAAAAAAAAme, his singing, barely in tune. If he was a black guy, Jamaican or otherwise, he’d be recognized as the untalented dildo box that he is, but since he’s “quirky” (read: dipshit Phish fan turned fake Hasid) he’s suddenly recognized as bringing something legit to the table? Huh. That’s odd. I don’t recall Phish fans or Hasids being galvanizing hip-cultural phenomena ever before…or since. So, well, can’t be that. What else does he have that no other dancehall reggaeton types have? Oh yes. Whiteness. Stop staring at me, Matisyahu. You’re a dipshit and I know, I KNOW that you at one point in your life wore sandals and smoked ‘dank buds’ through a hand blown chillum while listening to ‘run like an antelope.’ Now, you’re pushing the jew-black racial tensions even more than anyone ever thought possible by pissing off everyone. Look out, Professor Griff. Your Neo has arrived.
I can’t even talk about this anymore. I’m frustrated.
Again, sorry for the lack of info. Believe me, this bums me out as much as, or more than it does you.
Xoxoxox

they're fucking me, people! FUCKING ME!

I can't believe this shit. I am SET to unload all over you people like Peter North on a girl who hates her dad, but shit is dragging. Now there's that stupid thing on Amazon where you can listen to a random thirty seconds of each song, and shit's getting premiered by our buddy at the BBC, Mike Davies, but none of this is what I wanted to tell you about. Gets more exciting and more unlikely that it'll live up to the hype every moment, don't it? Sure do. Okay, well, just know that I'm ready, the second this shit gets put in place, I'm telling you all about it. At this point, though, there's nothing to tell. I could link you to a website that doesn't have anything on it yet if you want, but well, you're already on one of those right now, aren't you? Heh. Okay. I'm gonna go put these songs you all voted for in order. Penultimate practice tonight, everyone! This is a dress rehearsal, so I'll be doing the bass solo from Quincentuple your money with my ballsack, just like I plan on doing at the metro.
stay tuned

ah! Ah! Ah...ah. ah...

Wow, so that was a real uh…dry hump, or handjob that never paid off that I gave you guys yesterday, huh? Well, look. I’m not in charge of all the proper channels of social discourse on the internet and let’s just say that the whole snafu yesterday was out of my control. What I WILL tell you is that I’ve been told by the powers that be (illuminati in conjunction with the masons/knights Templar/skull n bones) that TODAY is in fact the day in which I will be able to shower you with important and exciting information. So, be patient. Please know that I’m not intentionally trying to string you along, my precious little dogs of war. I’m doing the best I can with what god gave me. Is that so wrong? Is it? Exactly.
Hey! I will say that that haircut magazine, AP posted a review of my band’s new record, and wouldn’t you know it? It’s a good review. Just goes to show, we’re, not unlike the papacy, infallible.
Okay, so stay tuned. This is the day that I’ll be posting something exciting (and I’ve already written the long and drawn out blog entry to go along with it, which is why I’m not really bothering to write much right now). Sorry about yesterday, y’all. Keep watching the skies. There’s something out there.
xo

Actually!

We ARE going to give you turds something today! I've been getting pulled back and forth by the powers that be like some sort of handsome and intelligent penis, and it seems like in just a few short moments I'm gonna have something wicked awesome for you all (wicked awesome means 'good' for those of you who aren't Massholes).
Okay, stand by for transmission.

oh! Snap!

Looks like this link isn't getting posted today after all. What a dick punch! Sorry for the excitement. Look for a regular update in a couple of hours.
Thanks,
Your leader

stand by for transmission....

Today's bad sandwich chronicles entry will contain an important link. That link is not yet active, so please rest assured that big shit is afoot here at BSC world HQ and we'll be with you as soon as we can.
Thanks for your patience, dildos.

important information for the nerds in your life

I’m heading to Milwaukee to cruise around some abandoned buildings today. It’s gonna be great. I plan on eating cheese and sausage and drinking beers and maybe fucking a sassy poodle skirted brewery chick or fighting one of her Lilliputian greaser friends.
I’m leaving in five minutes so this will have to be brief, but I wanted to tell you all about the amazing giveaway that we’re doing at the show (oct 24 at metro, the Lawrence Arms ten year extravaganza/record release jamtastic). The first 100 people in get a copy of the new Buttsweat and Tears 7” FOR FREE. That’s pretty great of us, huh? Well, there’s more. That vinyl, those first one hundred, will be colored vinyl. WOW! Doesn’t get any better than that, right? Wrong! The regular, black vinyl will be for sale at the show, but the colored vinyl will never, ever, ever be available anywhere else. That’s it. The only chance to get is to be the first one hundred people at the show and get it free. Or ebay. You’ll probably be able to get the shit on ebay by oh…the 25th. BUT, this is just a little thank you from us to the dedicated dorks out there that have been so instrumental in allowing us to do this band for a decade. I didn’t mention anything about this until now because I didn’t want some opportunist asshole to buy a bunch of tickets and stuff the front of the line with his cronies, but now that the show’s all sold out, well, collectors, completists and other assorted geeklings, I leave you to battle amongst yourselves.
Those of you who don’t care about nerd shit like colored vinyl can get the regular copy of the record at the show, from fat and (with bonus track) on the vast highways of the internet.
Oh shit! Me ride is here. Gotta run.
Bye.

We only miss them all the time

Well, this morning I piloted a matte black el camino out to an abandoned suburb and stood in a freezing rivulet of water next to a drainage culvert for an hour while it rained on me. The temperature was just above freezing. I wore gym shorts and a tshirt. By nine thirty, my kid had already bitten enough other children that he had violated the terms of his probation and needed to be picked up. By eleven, it was raining so badly that all the audio equipment was threatening to break and so, a drenched pair of black socks and red converse later, here I am. Back home with my kid. The el camino is back with its family and my wife is back at work. My child is sleeping off his crime spree and I just ate some salmon out of a can. My houseguest of the last three months left this morning and I find myself, for the first time in a quarter of a year, alone at home. Pretty wild.
I’m tired. I practiced all night last night for our show at the metro. Shit’s exhausting. Compiling this setlist isn’t easy. You wouldn’t believe the crap you people want to hear. Honestly, it’s shameful. There. I said it.
Then, there’s the matter of the guest list. It never fails. No one we know buys tickets. Even when the tickets go on sale six fucking months in advance and I warn them “you know, the show is going to sell out.” They say, “oh, I know. It’s cool. I’m gonna get tickets soon.” But, what happens then? Nothing. Now it’s too late. There are no more tickets to be sold and everyone’s suddenly concerned. “Oh, are there still tickets? No? Oh…bummer. Man! I really wanted to go. Fuuuuuck….Could you, uh…maybe uh…?” Same fucking grift every time, man. Unreal.
As a rule, I keep my guestlist very small. Just the tightest friends and family. So does Chris. So does everyone we’ve ever had as crew. Neil, however is a monster. I’ve seen him literally go through his phone and call people he hasn’t talked to in ages and mention to their answering machines that if they happen to show up, he’ll have em on the list. At the end of all this, we’re overstuffed with guests, and hard choices need to be made. Who can’t come? Neil’s dentist’s daughter or Chris’s mom? It’s like the rising of the sun. It’s inevitable. It’ll happen this time too.
I finished up the t shirt designs yesterday. My good buddy (and frequent collaborator in living through crazy events) Sean Nader provided a key design and I think they’re awesome. I also think I’m gonna get this dude I know to hand screen a very limited number of posters featuring Sean’s design and sell those bastards too. Shit’s gonna be tight, yall.
Sigh.
Jesus. The problem with having a job, a baby who is trying desperately to get expelled from his daycare, a big show to prepare for, a movie to shoot, a Norwegian houseguest for three months, a wife and a dumb blog and three roving gangs of parents just stopping by willy nilly is that there’s no time to read anything. My brain has become dough. I’m retarded. I read the headlines on yahoo and an email here and there and then I look at whatever’s in the bathroom when I’m taking a dump. That’s the cerebral equivalent of consuming nothing but a few bites of candy bars and potato chip dust here and there for three months. You can’t produce anything worthwhile with that kind of fuel. I’m rereading Fear and Loathing right now, and it’s taken me two months or something. I read that for the first time in one sitting. Now THAT’S a little microcosm of my life for you. Everything that used to be easy and leisurely is now difficult, time consuming and only highlights how far I’ve fallen. But hey, that’s life, right? When you’re born, they hand you a bag to shit in. For a while, it’s great. Sure, you’ve got this bag of shit, but it’s cool. Everyone’s got it and it’s small and you can forget about it most of the time. Then one day you wake up and that bag of shit is enormous. It’s heavy. It’s exhausting you and the idea of carrying it around is so stinky and depressing that you think maybe you’d just rather stay in bed, but you can’t because if you do, that bag of shit is going to start leaking. And THEN my friend, you’re fucked. So what’s the option? I dunno. The bag of shit is ubiquitous. Everyone’s got it. Everyone’s got a bad back and stink arms from hauling their bag of shit around. Some people perfume it. Some people pretend it’s not there. Some people hide it, but man, make no mistake, if they’re breathing, that bag of shit is not far away. Now, I’m not saying that life is nothing more than being crushed under a mountain of shit. There’s more to it than that. But don’t kid yourself. That part’s in there too.
I want some goldfish.

Tweetily deetily deet!

Okay, this new baby nap schedule is a beast. No more idle hours of 9 to 11 or noon just blogging and imagining a world in which I never, ever had to do anything else again and could just coast on my past success, a la Bobby Brown or Mike Tyson for the rest of my life. That would be sweet. Those guys seem like they’re handling it well, at least, right?
Well, anyway, point is, I think I’m gonna either have to start writing this at night and posting it in the morning or writing it at this time (2ish) if I’m gonna keep up the level of excellence you dildo’s seem to think you deserve (because I’ve been foolishly providing nothing but spit shined excellence to you ungrateful hordes for free for the past year and a half). OR, I could just make this blog trivial and brief. Like a twitter. A daily tweet. No more long, epic treatises about beating off and taking dumps…from now on it’s just gonna be trivial, unimportant stuff. Like this:
Today I was at the gym and I was struggling to figure out what to do, since this broken rib (yeah…I think the fucker’s broken. Sigh.) makes every exercise kind of hurt. So I was on the elliptical machine reading US weekly like any other self respecting heterosexual male on the earth would be, when I got to the ‘who wore it best’ section, which is, in essence, a one on one battle of highly insecure and anorexic celebrity women who are pictured side by side because they were foolish, nay, idiotic enough to be photographed in the same outfits. There’s some bullshit percentage at the bottom that’s from some fictional poll that determines who the hotter celebrity is. It’s really cultural discourse on a very, very high level.
Well, as great as this usually is, the one I saw today was even better. Today it was Olive Baron-Cohen versus Violet Affleck. That’s right, assholes! We’re pitting little toddler girls against each other now. Well, Olive was clearly the pig of the two and she lost by a wide margin. She looked like shit in that Dora the Explorer longsleeve (Target Kids) while Violet absolutely glowed. Honestly. What was Borat thinking dressing his hog-daughter like that, in the very SAME top that the cherubic Affleck child was born to wear? Maybe it was another one of his undercover comedy bits. Probably was. That borat has ice water in his veins. He’ll even let his own disgusting, craven pig of a child get photographed and cruelly and capriciously compared to a much more beautiful child in a vapid and horrible magazine while mongaloid pseudo journalists make comments about her as long as his movie gets a laugh. Great Success!!! I can’t wait to see the next Borat movie. It’s gonna be awesome if this is any indication of his level of dedication. You know what borat character I hate though? that smug Englishman who’s always winning awards and walking around with the fuck puppet from Bridefuckers or whatever that movie was called. That guy hardly says anything funny at all. Hey borat! Stick to the fags and the foreigners from funny countries, please! Thanks.
Okay, where was I? Oh yeah. I’m deliriously tired and I’m gonna take a nap, which is dangerous, because I’ve GOT TO get our Tshirt designs out today or there’s gonna be no new shirts at our show (and I still need to design them! Yipes!!!) but first I’m gonna tell you about the first concert I ever saw…It was the Dead Milkmen at the metro when I was twelve. That was a while ago. The last (most recent) concert I ever saw was…that’s right assholes, the Dead Milkmen at the Metro. Full circle! That’s it! I’m never watching live music again. My life should, nay MUST! Be lived in perfectly cylindrical poetry. Look out Julie Morelli! You’re gonna be the last person on earth I ever bang! Look out floor of Barnes hospital! You’re gonna be the last place I ever crap! Look out sweet embrace of dark, dreamless sleep! I’m on my way. You get the idea, right? Good.
For the love of god, I’m tired. Stupid band practice and baby combination.
Oh, and the Dead Milkmen played too much funk. After the show I tried to punish them but once I got past “great show” I had nothing to say, cuz let’s be honest, it was just all right. How do you comment on how great it was if there weren’t really any great moments, you know?
Joe was wearing snow pants or something. And they played “Right Wing Pigeons” second. Who wants to see that? No one likes that song, dudes. Where’s “Life is Shit?” Where’s “Bad Party?” Where’s fucking “Takin Retards to the Zoo?” I mean, come on.
Okay, that’s it. I’m out. If you have great tshirt designs for me, send a high res image to my inbox by the end of the day and I’ll make em. Otherwise, we’re all fucked. It’s on you, now Dogs of War. Don’t let yourselves down.
Off to bed.
Ta!

everything's falling apart!

What a bunch of bullshit. I worked until 3 in the morning and at 815 I just popped awake. Nothing I could do about it. Couldn’t sleep. I’m tired, but I can’t sleep at all. Also, we’re being forced to wean my kid off his morning nap in an attempt to get him more on the schedule of the daycare. The result is a very tired and frustrated little person screaming and taking up the time that’s usually reserved for me doing this dumb blog, answering emails, etc. It’s the last vestige of productivity that my day has. I need that time, but he seems to need it even more. Seeing him without this nap, I’m not surprised that he’s biting people at the daycare. He’s fucking exhausted. There’s no easy answer here folks. My wife took the day off and she and my mother in law are wrangling this poor child, but without them here it’d just be exhausted me vs. exhausted him in a battle of whines and stink-eyes.
Then, to top it off, I got this invite to go to a Chicago Film Festival screening of some movie. It’s a real movie with real movie money and people and backing and shit, and someone involved is a fan of my band or something. “Amazing!” I think. “I may be exhausted, and jesus may have jewed me out of my only chance to sleep for the week, and my kid may be a raving basket case and my parents and inlaws may be in town and I may have to stay out late practicing with my band every night until our show and wake up early with my lunatic baby every morning and I may be absolutely losing my mind about the change in the weather before our last days of shooting our movie and I may have to run around in shorts and a tshirt in 39 degree temperatures and rain pretending it’s summer all weekend next weekend, but man, I’m TRYING to be a filmmaker, and here’s some REAL LIVE filmmakers and production companies reaching out to ME! TALK ABOUT A BREAK! If nothing else, it’d be great to meet some people, see what a festival is really like and make some connections, right? Perfect. Everything’s coming together.
Well, not so fast, Billy Ray. For whatever reason, I got the emails today asking if I wanted to go to a screening tonight or tomorrow. When I responded, “hellz yeah!” I was told that the screening was actually over the weekend. That email was sent on Friday. I missed it.
Stupid Yahoo.
Stupid goddamn fucking mother fucking shit staining email server that fucking sent me my emails 3 days late and ruined the one fucking silver lining in my goddamned life today! MotherFUCKER!!!!!!!!!
What a bummer. Now I look like an ungrateful dick, AND there’s no networking to be done for me. And let me tell you kids something. It’s all about networking. Oh, yeah, confidence has a lot to do with stuff, but there’s NOTHING that’ll make you more confident than going up against 400 people in a job interview when the guy conducting the interview is the guy you double teamed a hooker with the night before. Networking is everything. Look at Bush. Look at LaToya Jackson. All networking. Nepotism and networking. That’s the secret. Plastics, my ass.
My fucking baby is screaming. We gave up and decided to put him down, but now he’s over tired and just losing his mind. I have very little respect for middle management as a rule, and that holds true whether it’s some dipshit lifer bar manager or some cunty daycare manager. Sticklers for the very “rules” that keep them stuck in the crappy jobs they’re in. Pathetic. You try to do the “right thing” that they insist you do and you just end up fucking up your own life in a weird reflection of theirs. Now, because of napgate my kid’s ruined forever. Goodbye Harvard and hedge fund management.

The problem is, we’re not rich. We can’t really afford a nanny, and our daycare is expensive enough without even having any personalized care.
We went to this thing over the weekend where a bunch of preschools brought out little science fair type boards and had representatives standing there explaining why you should send your child to their preschool. It was nutty.
There were chain preschools, internet preschools (socialize your child right there in your home!), religious preschools, hippy preschools, one with a stern headmaster who (no shit) talked about how he used the classics of Homer (the Iliad and Odyssey) to teach the fundamentals of counting and shit like that. Of course, our child would have to be standard-to-gifted cognitively, so there’s that. Also, it’s twenty grand a year. Huh. Gifted? I dunno. He shits his pants and drools all the time, but he can say ‘izzy.’ Does that make him gifted? Or is he retarded? How the fuck do you gauge a one year olds cognitive prowess? I mean, granted, I’m a genius, but so were John Lennon and Elvis and Ryan O’neil and look at their kids. Doesn’t always carry on, you know?
I think we’re gonna go the route of just putting honey all over him and having the dogs watch him while we’re out, or pay some hobos. That should be all the best of play based and scholastic based curriculum, (not to mention a little ‘cautionary example’ action) right? Right.
Okay, he’s melting down. Gotta run.

Hey, wanna hear a song?

Hey, woah! I almost forgot all about you guys today. I was just sitting here trying to figure out what to do on the internet in the brief time before my baby wakes up and the cleaning lady arrives and we have to leave, not even considering that it was already creeping on high noon and I hadn’t put my favorite mustard colored letters on my favorite turd flavored background yet. I’m getting old. Soft, weak and old.
Yesterday I interviewed a few potential interns, then last night, my band practiced. I didn’t get home until one in the morning. Today, I started out exhausted, but a bike ride and a healthy breakfast (grilled dog dicks on a 7 grain cibatta roll) seems to have gotten the lead out nicely. Today, I think we’re gonna hit the zoo. It’s chilly, but it may be our last chance to check those beasts out for a while. Right now, my kid calls every single animal “izzy” after his dog (the Business Monkey). By next spring, he’s gonna be saying ‘monkey’ and ‘cow’ and shit like that, and well…let’s be frank, the excitement of him figuring stuff out, while cool, may not match the awesome hilarity that is him calling a tiger ‘Izzy.’ I dunno. Maybe you have to be there. Trust me, though. It’s funny. Bobby Collins funny. That’s right. Google him if you don’t know. He’s the future of comedy, and by future I mean crappy past.
Tonight is a party at the L and L tavern. I’ve got my parents watching my kid and I’m gonna go down there and I may even play some acoustic songs, although I don’t know how well that’s gonna work out for a few reasons.
1. I haven’t had time to practice or prepare at all, so it’s gonna be one of those situations where I just kind of wing it and it’s either gonna be awesome or terrible.
2. I don’t think they’re getting a PA or anything, and if it’s just me with a guitar in the corner, it’s gonna be pretty hard not to wind up looking like that dildo at the party who pulls out the guitar and bums everyone out until some fat poet chick mercifully takes him off and blows him just to get him out of there.
I hate that guy. Guitar guy at the party, take note: You are the worst guy there. There is NO worse thing to do while people are hanging out than force them to listen to your music while you stare at them and awkwardly attempt to prove yourself. It sucks. Ass. Period. If your friends really want to hear you play guitar, believe me, they’ll ask you. If they don’t ask, they don’t want to hear it. Promise. I remember that my friend Pete (Pete! Pete!) did this amazing version of ‘the band played waltzing matilda’ by the Pogues and when we got drunk, we’d all go, “pete, will you please play that song? Please!?!?!?” and every once in a while he would. See. That’s the other thing. You can’t just drop everything and start playing every time. Make it an event, because, to go back to my earlier example with Pete, if he was ALWAYS playing that shit every time anyone cracked a few beers, we’d all eventually get sick of it, and he’d become that guy. BUT, he didn’t and as such, he’s one of the only people who I get excited to see pick up a guitar in a casual setting. You can only sit there and watch a drunk Matt Skiba slur his way through “Ball and Chain” so many times, you know?
Anyway.
That’s a good topic, innit? The worst people at the party. We’ve already got guitar dude. He sucks. Um, who else sucks?

Coke Party Bathroom Hoarders- Uh, hey, we all know what you guys are doing in there, but I’ve gotta piss and I’m pretty sure this chick is about to barf, so how bout we admit the emperor wears no clothes and you guys just get out of the bathroom and do your coke in the garage or something so I don’t have to pee in this plant, kay?

The Guy Who Pulls Out His Dick- I actually like this guy. That shit is funny almost all the time.

The Chick Who Gets Totally Bummed Out At ‘Guy Who Pulls Out His Dick’- Come on, lady. Lighten up. Haven’t you ever been to a party before? That guy’s always here. Ride the wind a little.

Passed Out Girl- There she is, on the couch. Bummer. Someone should call her boyfriend or her roommate. Stand there. Watch closely, because Passed Out Girl is like a truth serum, or the glasses in “They Live” or something, because she will expose who the pervs and creeps in your circle of friends are. I mean, when’s the last time Steve offered to give any of us a ride home? Now suddenly he’s all chivalrous? Pretty gross, Steve. Even for you.

Loud Politics Man/Loud Politics Woman- Hey! This is a fucking party. If I wanted to talk about the sexist hegemony and the myth of blackness I’d be somewhere boring hanging out with your bad smelling friends eating dumpstered hummus. You’re blocking my path to the keg. Thank you. Also, keep it down. So you disagree with something. You don’t sound like a confident master of forensics, you sound like a drunk loudmouth who doesn’t know when to stuff it up his/her ass.

Mischievous Guy- Yes, brah! Way to stick it to the man…wait, that’s not quite right. There’s no arbitrary and oppressive authority here, just someone who was nice enough to have a party in their house and dumb enough to invite you. You shit in the oven? What the fuck is wrong with you? Oh, it impresses your homies? Cool. Here’s a little piece of advice, if your friends think that kind of shit is funny, they’re complete mongaloids, and if you’re doing that kind of shit for their approval, well, you’re kowtowing to a bunch of monagloids, making you what? I don’t even know if there’s a word for that level of retardation.

Okay, well, my baby is awake and I think the cleaning lady’s getting close, so I’m gonna leave this at that. Have a good day. I probably won’t be writing the next couple of days due to some other big engagements, so try, try, try to keep on keeping on, man.
Thanks.
Oh, yeah. And as for the fighting in the sock drawer. I was wrong. It’s lame. Just make lots of comments. Stop the fussin and the feudin, cool? Cool. You guys are so bad at fighting it’s embarrassing everyone. Not your fault. You’re dorks. Actually, that Jbody guy had some good jabs. Still dorky, but hey, whatever. Okay, I’m out.
XO

Here I am! Unky Moe's! Thank you ma'am!

There’s this place in Chicago called the Tilted Kilt. It’s a chain, so there’s probably one in your town too. I was told that it’s like Hooters, but it’s Scottish themed, so all the chicks have pasty, fishbelly beer guts and jacked up teeth and they try to fight you if you’re in there after 3pm when everyone descends into shitfaced depravity. Nah, I’m kidding. It’s like hooters but the waitresses wear tartan miniskirts and bikini tops. That’s really the only difference. The girls are dressed slightly sluttier than they are at hooters. Which, if you’re into that kind of thing, is pretty okay, I guess.
Well, the whole thing sounded a little ridiculous to me. Not in a bad way, but more in a “really? I gotta see this for myself” kind of way. So yesterday I decided to take my bike downtown and have a beer at ‘the Kilt’ and see what all the rhubarb was about, so to speak. My personal assistant agreed to meet me there and we decided to have an “anthropological outing with secretly puerile subtext that we could explain away as bemused disbelief that no one would truly believe, but that no one would really care enough to challenge either.” Not bad. Seemed pretty airtight, I thought.
Well, this place is at least 8 or so miles from my house and I took the lakefront bike path, so I actually rode more like 13 miles, especially because I overshot it by a pretty fair margin because I was enjoying the lakefront and not really too worried about being early. Well, right as I’m at my farthest point from my house, and only about a quarter of a packed, trafficky urban mile from the Tilted Kilt, where my personal assistant was, in theory, waiting for me, I got a phone call. It was my wife. The baby, it seems, had been biting and I had to go pick him up. The daycare, mind you, is right by my house, many miles from where I found myself at that moment, so this meant I had to race back, get our car and get to the daycare by 130. If I didn’t, we’d start receiving fines at the not unoutrageous fare of ten bucks a minute.
This presented a quandary. I was RIGHT THERE at the meeting point, and my assistant was just going to be stuck waiting for me forever surrounded by strippers carrying baskets of hot wings with no indication that I wasn’t coming (because bringing the kid to that place is out of the question). I couldn’t call him because his phone is a…uh, what’s the technical term? Piece of shit? Are they still saying that? Okay, right. His phone is a piece of shit, so the chances of him receiving any phone calls were slim, even in the best of circumstances, and as a result, he almost never carries it with him. Downtown, in the Chicago loop, phone service is horrendous for everyone. My assistant’s phone, if he even had it on him (unlikely), didn’t stand a chance.
The time was 1208. I made the executive decision that I would hurry to the Tilted Kilt, find my personal assistant, let him know that I had to go get the kid, and relieve him of his afternoon duties and leave him free to hang out in the loop with all the other businessmen, ogling women and eating pubstyle nachos.
I made it to the Tilted Kilt at 1222. The place is huge and it’s got shit all over the walls and it’s got absolutely NO female patrons and the girls are indeed dressed in some of the skankiest outfits that the world has ever seen. The girls also shared the common feature of all having kind of pigfaces. I know the theme is ‘scottish’ but really, skinny girls with big (often fake) cans and mangled faces in plaid miniskirts and bikini tops calls to mind semi professional pornography more than Scotland, which let’s face the facts, is probably a good thing for a restaurant. I’d rather eat the craft services at a porn shoot than have a meal anywhere in the UK. Much more appetizing. Just sayin’.
Okay, my assistant hadn’t shown up yet, so I decided I’d wait for ten minutes. That would be 1232. I’d have 58 minutes left to ride my bike home and get the car and pick up the boy. Should be doable.
They had a pretty lame beer selection so I ordered a bottle of coors light and kind of watched everything just happen. But I wasn’t enjoying myself at all. I was thinking about how far I was from home, how crossing the river on a bike is a pain in the ass everywhere (except on Montrose just east of California, but that’s totally irrelevant) and how, were I to miss my deadline for picking up the kid, the truth would inevitably come out that I got the call that he needed to be picked up, and THEN I went to the not-quite-a-titty-bar for a beer before I went and picked him up. Never mind that it was all perfectly logical. It’s not the kind of thing you can just explain, you know? It’s like when Jake Jarmel got in the accident and Elaine stopped in for the Jujyfruits. But arguably worse. Panic started setting in.
I called my assistant, just out of desperation and guess what? Go on, guess. This story gets pretty boring after this, so guess something good.
Nah. He answered. I told him that I had to bail and then I rocketed home and got the kid with ten minutes to spare. We spent the rest of the day walking the dogs and playing with magnets and books. That kid, man. He’s a real dream killer. Today, we’re gonna go to the strip club just to up the ante, and if he fucks around today, tomorrow we’re going to a whorehouse, and if he fucks around tomorrow, we’re gonna get some chloroform and hang out in the bus station.
Nah. We’re going to meet my friends for lunch and then I’ve got some intern interviews to conduct and then band practice tonight. It’s not too late to send in your application for the internship here at BSC. Check yesterday’s post (“No, you’re a turd”) for details.
Cheers, everyone.

No, you're a turd!

Yesterday, a Norwegian dude stomped my head into the concrete of a dirty, abandoned parking lot, I chased down and tackled a barista in a backyard where a family was having a picnic and I ate six ice cream sandwiches. When I took down the barista I heard a cracking sound, followed almost immediately by a crippling pain in my side. For a second, I thought I had broken a rib. Well, I don’t still think that’s the case, but I’m pretty sore in the whole torso area, and the arm and leg area and the stomach area (thank you ice cream sandwiches) and the head area kind of hurts too. So here’s the thing, I NEED to go to the gym today (thank you ice cream sandwiches) but I’m way too sore to actually go. I mean, I can’t even put my leg up on a chair without grunting like a desiccated old pre-deather, there’s no way I’m gonna be able to fuck with weights or resistance machines. Maybe I should just go on a bike ride. Right. Glad that’s settled. Thanks, y’all.
Okay, so Dogs of War, wow…Quite a little sock drawer we’ve been having lately, huh? Lots of cursing, back and forthing, fights, secret alliances, unknowns coming out of the woodwork to lend support/bile to the cause(s). Craziness. It’s like survivor down there, and I’m not talking about the Beyonce song…or was that Destiny’s Child? Who cares, it’s always just been about Miss Knowles (Missus Carter) anyway, right? Right. Kelly Rowland? Please. I’m trying to eat over here. Anyway, what were we talking about? Oh yes. The violence in the Sock Drawer. Well, as your overlord, I’m sure you’ve all been waiting to hear my take, so here it goes:
1. You guys are dorks. That’s right. Fighting on the internet is so dorky it borders on needing a new word for the description of said dorkiness. My friend Toby engages in internet battles with tons and tons of people, and you know what the result is? He looks like jughead and his best friend makes fun of him for being a dorky internet fighter. Also, there are a bunch of other people out there who hate him. This isn’t a big deal, as they’re all dorky internet fighters too, but that’s the thing: When you start fighting on the internet, you’re dealing with losers: Other people who fight on the internet. It’s like porn. You can’t get into porn and expect to fuck naïve and enthusiastic young chicks/guys while remaining a normal dude/chick…You’re in porn. You’ll be fucking porn actresses or actors, some of whom will look at you with revulsion and do a line of cocaine just specifically so they don’t cry while you’re fucking them. And maybe you’re not doing that too. Fine. You’ve got no space to judge. You’re the same as her/him. Period. That’s the reality. You get involved in something like that, look around, that’s you. Same thing with fighting on the internet; the person you’re fighting with sounds stupid and doesn’t think through his/her (let’s be honest: his) arguments very well…huh, he’s thinking the exact same thing about you. And you’re both right. But here’s the thing, nobody cares even a little. And, presto! You have become what you hate, internet warrior. That said:
2. Please keep fighting!!!!! It’s mildly amusing and it fills the Sock Drawer to its exciting brim! I mean, shit man. When we started BSC over a year ago, we didn’t have these fancy offices, these state of the art computers, and all the interns (and the fold out couch upstairs [heyo!]). We just had a stolen internet connection, a computer made of popsicle sticks and a dream of talking about baby shit and the terrible smell that inevitably follows puff daddy around. Now, we’ve got eighty comments happening in the Sock Drawer (which, for those of you who are new to BSC, is the name of the comments section located at the bottom of each blog, so named for the large amount of semen [references] found therein). That’s the kind of shit that makes book deals and Hollywood movie deals happen folks! That’s more comments than they get over at isshefilthy.blogspot.com and that’s got pictures of clams and tits and dicks and junk on it. So, please, for the love of god, keep fighting, nerds! I know I’d like to see “Bad Sandwich Chronicles: The Movie.” Wouldn’t you? Of course. Who would play me, though? Will Smith? Not bad casting, really. Think about it.
3. Um, there is no three. I just hit return and the three popped up. I need to get one of my interns over here to fix this shit. Speaking of! Exciting internship opportunities here at BSC! Send me a picture of your tits/beaver/dong and a short paragraph about why you think you’d be a good fit over here along with your resume to the email address linked from this page. Deadlines are coming quick, so don’t dilly dally. Okay, that’s all for now. Snoochie boochies, turds.

part 3 as per your request, lady.

Well, I was tempted to dismiss the request in yesterday’s Sock Drawer to discuss Gaslight Anthem three days in a row as irony and/or a request for laziness, but then I realized a few things. Firstly, I’m American, so I don’t understand irony (according to British people, who, by the way, also say things like “Michael Moore is the only smart American,” which is hilarious when you consider that this is coming from a citizenry that decided to ship their criminals off to a tropical paradise so they could maintain their standard of living on their tiny, dismal, gloomy, rainy, rat infested, crowded cold little island. Well thought out, to be sure. You guys just like Michael Moore because he looks British.) Secondly, I’m incredibly lazy. And Thirdly, I have a few more things to say about our buddies in the Gaslight Anthem, and you know what? I’m gonna say ‘em.
Ahem.
My band has had the same booking agent forever. She’s great. She’s stood by us way longer than anyone should be expected to stand by anyone. She’s fought for us, she’s put us on tours with her other big bands and when we’ve come away from the tours saying (for example) that Yellowcard is uh…what was the word I used? I don’t remember now, but anyhow, when that whole thing went down, rather than drop us from her roster (a perfectly reasonable move considering that I was publicly shit talking one of her most promising acts) she put us on more tours with more bands that I talked more shit about and she continued to represent us after I angered people at the warped tour and, well, listen, I’ve spoken my mind a lot in this business, and it has, at times been detrimental to our trajectory as a band, and I’m sure it’s been infuriating to our agent, but she’s stuck by us. What does this have to do with anything? Well, she also represents the Gaslight Anthem.
Now, traditionally, if I was in a public forum, talking about any band on our agent’s roster, she’d probably be sweating and doing her best to ignore the whole thing, and this would seem like an opportune time to worry. After all, I’m a shit talker and Gaslight Anthem is not only god fearing, but they’re also everyone’s favorite band to talk shit about these days. BUT, I’m not gonna talk any shit. Not just to appease our long suffering agent, either, though god knows that she deserves a medal for dealing with me for the past nine or so years, but because I’ve got nothing bad to say about them, which is crazy, because man oh man, do people LOVE to talk shit about them. You know why? I’ll tell you:
Punk rock, long standing underground punk rock is a subculture of people who have been passed by. Every person in every long running band you can think of who never made it to the mainstream has a ton of famous friends and a day job and it kind of stings a little. I mean, let’s list the bands that have opened up for my band on tour: Yellowcard, Rise Against, Taking Back Sunday, the Starting Line, Thursday, My Chemical Romance. That’s just of the top of my head. Now, it’s easy for the lifers to dismiss these successful bands as crappy or pandering, because let’s face it, if you’ve got a group of jaded bastards holding ANY album up to any sort of scrutiny, you’re gonna find some flaws (even a masterpiece like any of our records) and jaded bastards LOVE to exploit flaws, even tiny ones.
Now, as these popular bands embrace the mainstream, they get away from that “punk rock” sound that’s so marginalizing, and people term that “selling out” or leaving roots behind or something, but that’s not what it is. It’s growing as an artist. Show me a band that consistently puts out the same records and I’ll show you arrested-development addled man-children jumping around in oversized shorts at age forty five (thank you Pennywise). Maturing as an artist can be ugly, or it can be great, but it’s ALWAYS an excuse for the left-behind to talk shit.
What’s left is this belief that down here, in the underground, we’re really making some great music and it’s just being ghettoized because mainstream dildo journalists are dismissive. If they ever took the time to ACTUALLY LISTEN to Oh! Calcutta! Or Little Brother or American Rubicon, or Career Suicide they’d see some real good music with insight and depth. Way better than Matt and Kim or MGMT, you know? But they’ll never listen. They write us all off as blink 182 clones because their palate isn’t sophisticated. That’s what we all tell each other.
Enter Gaslight Anthem. They’re doing what we’re all doing, and they’re getting write ups in the New York Times and they’re becoming insanely popular and Bruce Springsteen is out there singing some other song while they sing their song and they’re getting record of the year and they’re just some little band without this Against Me/Hold Steady hype machine behind em, they just kinda came out of nowhere and uh oh! Looks like everyone WAS paying attention. They just didn’t like much of what they saw down here. And man, is everyone bummed out.
I mean, who wouldn’t like a New York Times journalist to critically praise the work you’ve done? That’s the shit that breeds contempt. Not the record sales. The attention to detail. People like Chicken, or me or anyone, don’t want to be huge, or even BE in Gaslight Anthem, we want the recognition for what WE did in a similar way to the way Gaslight is currently receiving praise, but guess what? Not happening. So what’s the move? Talk shit. Hide the jealousy and sting of the proof of your mediocrity with some shit talking barbs. It was easy when it was Taking Back Sunday and Yellowcard. Those bands really are dumb. It’s easy to be dismissive when you KNOW that what you’re doing is cooler. With Coco and his buddies, not so easy to make that distinction, so all people can say is “stop aping bruce springsteen” or ‘the lyrics are cheezy’ but man. You ape Dillinger Four and your lyrics are juvenile and derivative. What’s worse? Huh? Huh?
Okay, that’s a little bit of honesty. That’s what all your favorite bands are thinking. Good luck out there kids. The world’s full of assholes and perverts. Don’t let em take you alive.