Now my ads are gone. I don’t know what happened. It’s like I offended the gods of revenue or something. My magic search engine is still here, but where are all the fucking TJ maxx ads? That’s what I want to know. My revenue stream is trickling to a halt and there’s no one to talk to over at google. It’s all robots and Indian guys. I’m fucked, people. Totally fucked. Oh well, whatever, right? It’s not like this is the most streamlined swiss watch of a website anyhow. Maybe they’re just trying to figure out some more appropriate ads for this here page. OR (and this would be way better) perhaps I used the term “felch” or ‘Buttfucking’ one too many times and set off some sort of alarm. One can only dream, I suppose.
But you know what? Dreams ARE coming true over here at BSC world HQ. I got a little mention in the juggalog, which is um, if you’ll pardon the pun, too dope (ha!). That puts me in dangerous proximity with the juggalo zeitgeist, which I’m pretty okay with.
Let’s talk juggalos for just a second, can we? I know it’s a pretty well tread topic here, but man, these are dangerous days. Juggalos are everywhere and they seem to be constantly expanding. Soon enough, the smaller, wiry juggalos will be orbiting the really, really massive ones like tiny, greasepainted interplanetary systems. I read in that juggalog that ICP sells 6XL shirts. SIX EX EL!!!!!!!! That’s fucking revolting. I could quite literally live in a 6xl shirt. With my wife, my kid and a separate half bath. What the fuck do you have to be eating in order to plump yourself up to six times an extra large? Cheesecake pizzas? Every fucking day? I mean, good heavens. I’ve seen some fat motherfuckers walking around. I’ve got some fat friends. I’ve even got some fat friends who drink and smoke and never exercise and just eat whatever the fuck they want and they don’t care at all. They’re fat. They’re down with being fat and they like donuts and soda and potato chips and ranch dressing on their pizzas and all that kind of shit and they are, just to put a fine point on it here, as fat as they could possibly get. They can’t be any fatter. AND YET they’re not six XL fat. I can’t even wrap my head around what the fuck is going on over in Shangri-La that these clowns are able to make themselves so humongous. I can’t. Anyway, this isn’t about fat juggalos, or why they’re so fat (although, if you think about it, any sort of cultural phenomenon that centers around people spraying copious amounts of soda on one another definitely appeals to the chunkier side of things). I want to tell you a little story about my friend Sean Nader and his awesome experience the one time he was, for just a fleeting moment, a member of the Dark Carnival.
Okay, full disclosure: I don’t remember the details of this story too well, so I’m gonna do my best to get it right. Nader, I know you’re out there reading this and I’m sorry about the fudged details, but like I said, after the new found alliance that’s been formed between BSC and the Juggalog, I feel compelled to rap juggalos with everyone, so whatever. Deal with it.
Firstly, Nader is from Detroit. Nader is NOT an ICP fan, and Nader is a bit of a local crew carnie type, in that he bartends special events, he sets up and tears down tents and shit for festivals and he’s generally a hired gun for when people doing events or other big shit around Detroit need some spare hands. (And when he’s not doing that he’s a spectacular bartender and a totally kick ass painter. In fact, I’m gonna start linking to his art on here as soon as he gets off his lazy dick and makes a website, and then you all can see firsthand how rad his stuff is, but whatever…I’m digressing like a woman. Forgive me.) Okay, so here’s the scene. St. Andrews hall in Detroit (above the shelter where eminem famously battlerapped his way into the hearts of genuine black people [as made famous in the closing moments of 8 mile]) is hosting ICP and Nader is stationed at the back door of the hall to guard something. I don’t remember what it was. Some boxes of shit, or maybe even just the door itself, but you get the idea. He’s there as a guard. Stationed in his position, a fill in dude just working there for the day as sort of ‘juggalo control’, or what have you. Suddenly a truck screeches up. It’s full of Faygo. Faygo is the off brand soda that juggalos spray on each other for some reason that I don’t think could possibly ever be explained to me in a way that doesn’t result in my saying or thinking “wow, that’s fucking retarded.” This stressed out dude gets out of the truck and looks at Nader and barks “come on, we gotta get this faygo to the stage right away!”
I’d like to pause for a moment to let that sink in. Some guy, a grown man, mind you, is so harried and desperate to get the FAYGO to the STAGE that he’s just barking orders at strangers. What kind of a fucking universe is this, man? Anyway, nader says something to the effect of “nah. Not touching the faygo. I’m here to guard this door/stack of boxes/bag of dildos/whatever the fuck it was.” And kind of just turns around and keeps smoking, at which point the guy gets in nader’s face a bit and says “dude, you don’t understand! This is ICP!” as though that is somehow significant in any way.
I mean, yeah, there’s no other reason that a truck of Faygo would be at the back of St Andrews hall, that’s for sure. But at what moment did this guy think that the bargaining chip would be that “Hey bro! There’s a bunch of fat clowns upstairs and if you don’t help me get this here faygo up there, they’re not gonna have anything to spray on each other, nobody’s gonna go home sticky and well, you’ll have ruined everything”? Could he possibly have imagined that this guy by the back door, smoking, not painted up at all (at least the way Nader tells it) could possibly give a shit about this? Or is this guy so dick deep in his faygo delivery job that he can’t see the forest for the big fat sticky trees? I mean, what a life. I get worried about picking my kid up on time from school, miscounting the money in my cash drawer, neglecting my blog or my songwriting and letting my brain atrophy, taking my wife or best friends for granted, growing old, disease, unstable economy, unstable crazy people, figuring out the future, making peace with the past, the health of everyone I love and the inevitable day that all the great luck I’ve had in this world runs out, but man, fuck me, no KILL me if a concern of mine is EVER getting the fucking faygo to the fucking stage. Good lord.
So, long story short, nader just stood there, told the dude to fuck himself and the dude, furious, told nader that he was gonna get him fired due to insubordination, BUT, can’t fire the temp carnie, man. Can’t be done. Plus, guess who’s not gonna take your side about the lack of Faygo in the venue? The people who run the venue and have to clean up the pink syrupy drool that you and your dumb carnival leave sticking and pooling all over everything.
On the same subject, but at another time, once in Cincinatti, I read some graffiti that the big guy from ICP wrote backstage. It was a bit of an essay about how these sized rooms (it was the Agora, which is about sixteen hundred capacity, I think) are perfect, and if you never let your ambition make you try to go bigger, you’ll have some longevity in this biz. Well, he’s right. I’ve never tried to headline a room bigger than the agora, and here I am, still going strong, my ninjas. Still going strong. Peace, love, faygo, hatchets and murder or whatever dumb shit they say. I gotta go.
Oh, and once I read an interview where the same fat one (shaggy?) that wrote the graffiti essay about success in music bragged about how he just boned some chick and she took the rubber off him and ate the jizz out of it. It’s the hands down grossest thing I’ve ever heard. And now you’ve heard it too. Ick. Take it to your graves.