Month: May 2014

Before a wedding, the most important part of planning is, well, whatever the lady says is most important that day, which changes often.  I have had some input on things, none on others, but one task I got into recently was the registry.  Stop one was this past week as we went to Bed, Bath and Beyond.  Then the storm clouds rolled in.

I am not saying the employee wasn’t helpful.  He was too helpful.  We went to the pots and pans.  If you told me two years ago that there was variation among pots other than some are metal and some aren’t, I would have said, “I’ll be dipped in shit!” or “Who gives a shit?”  I learned, though, that apparently there are about 7200 differences.  That was the first section.

It was going OK, despite that, until we got into kitchen stuff.  He went through almost every single one, one at a time, as our eyes began to roll back into our heads.  I thought about sneaking away to buy a water or candy bar before I passed out, but I feared at that moment I was being monitored by cameras and tower guards.  I was suffering until my lady turned to me and said, “I can’t take this much longer.”  He broke a bride to be – that is powerful voodoo indeed.

The breaking point was when we got to the shower curtains.  He stopped, “This is a shower curtain liner.  They go inside the shower to keep the water from splashing out.”  OK, asshole.  I didn’t walk in with a bearskin wrapped around me, dragging my fiancee by the hair.  “What is shower?  GRRRR!!!  Chris no like fire light in sky!!!  Fire scare Chris!!!  RAWR!!!”  I got the shower liner, pal.  I don’t know what a carafe versus a colander is, but shower curtain, I got it.  (I honestly had to look up how to spell carafe and colander.  Maybe he was right.)

After the comedy show, I got to relax and enjoy the coolness of having backstage access at a rock concert.  Yes, if you’re wondering, I am milking this topic, it was cool.  I got to see the stage from right behind it and hang out in the artist tent.  I had to tinkle, so someone told me to go around the corner to the trailer.  I nearly opened the door when I looked down.

I nearly opened up Wolfmother’s trailer to wee.  Oops.  I found the restroom and came out to see Kid Rock getting a police escort in.  I wandered back to the common area and was stopped by the staff.  “Sir, I’m going to need you to go in the tent.”  “It’s OK, I have an artist pass!”  “Go in the tent, sir.”  It became obvious that even though I had a pass, it was no match for the headlining musician.  Oh well, back to the booze tent!

Kid Rock got a police escort.  I got a ride from my lady to Lowe’s, then walked over.  Pretty much the same.  I ended up meeting the guys from Gojira.  They don’t speak English well, so we talked about the weather in Ohio.  I can bore people no matter where they are from.  I finally called it a night, but I think I should never expect this green room ever again, unless I find some talent lying around somewhere.

I walked to the comedy tent and was pleasantly surprised to see the tent was jam packed with a couple hundred metal fans.  There were so many, they were sitting on the ground.  I realized one of the following had happened: Free beer (not so, it was a concert.  Beers were $8/a human hand), people heard I was there (and thought I was someone else, perhaps Chris Cornell), or they did a good job marketing.  Probably the last one.

I got to meet Jim Florentine, a really great comic and host of That Metal Show on VH1.  We shot the shit about metal for a while.  In other words, he was nice enough to put up with me talking about Iron Maiden until he went up to start the show.  The show went very well, although people were yelling out randoms at me.  I couldn’t understand the mass yelling, probably thanks to years of metal damaging my ear drums…or years of training myself to ignore drunk people screaming.

Afterwards, I got to meet Jim Breuer, who was headlining the show.  He said I had a good set, which was cool, but I am realistic enough to realize he probably would have said that if I smacked my own ass for fifteen minutes.  That may be better than my normal act some days.  I had to get a picture, but I feel like a tool asking, so I missed Florentine.  Luckily, I was able to ask Breuer and he didn’t have security attack me.  I am a tool.

Most of my shows are at bars, some in theaters, a few in clubs and others in unique settings.  Sunday, I got to do the comedy tent at Rock on the Range, a three day hard rock/heavy metal concert in Columbus.  I was apprehensive because it’s hard to get people geared to go to a concert, yell, drink, mosh and generally be animals, then sit quietly while I talk my bullshit.  I know because I went to Ozzfest for four years straight.  I got into the mosh pit for Pantera in 1997 and promptly got elbowed in the mouth and chipped a tooth.  I sure wasn’t going to casually take in nuanced jokes after that.

I walked in the wrong gate, right past two strippers, turned near the free snuff tent, bought a 16 oz. PBR and then rounded the black skull t-shirts.  Take that, One Direction concert vendors!  I got there early and no one knew where I was to go.  I found my way to the media tent, which was full of miserable looking media.  They looked tired, unhealthy and angry, like most beat writers.  I was a little disappointed, but my pal Darrell walked out and pointed to the back.  I walked back and saw the coolest green room ever.

 

There was a full bar, white leather couches, pinball, pool, and even Matt Pinfield was there, interviewing bands.  I stood out like the proverbial turd in the punch bowl.  I was the only one without a camera, long metal hair, tattoo sleeves and lobe stretchers.  There were a few groupies and hangers on that found their way in – the looks of disappointment nearly burned through me as it was clear to everyone I wasn’t in a band.  I cared not, as I had drink tokens!  I’m someone!  I’m an artist!  (I got Bud Light.  I like to think I stayed true to my roots when I hit the big time.)  I suddenly remembered that I had to go onstage.  I’ll see you later, people in bands that won’t make eye contact with me.

 

I can eat a lot, but the older I get, the less I eat.  One, it takes five times longer to lose weight than it did 15 years ago.  Two, it’s not worth the extra food to feel like dog shit for seven hours after a bender.  That said, on occasion, testosterone kicks in.

I went to a restaurant and saw the Mucho Macho Burrito Challenge.  If you ate the burrito in 20 mins, it was free.  I had a light lunch and was ready to go.  As they set the grotesque portion of food in front of me, I noticed it was rather plain.  No fixins?  No sour cream, lettuce, guac, or tomato?  Oh well, I guess the orange stuff works.

I took a huge bite and suddenly realized there was more to the meal than just the normal Mexican fare.  My eyes began to water and the interior lining of my stomach melted like I just slammed sulfuric acid.  My beer was no match for the burning, so I downed half a water and began eating raw sour cream from my lady’s plate.  It turns out, the catch to this challenge was that the baby leg sized burrito was 70% pure habanero peppers.

I tapped out faster than the French army.  I had to order another meal, not because I was hungry, but because I needed to dilute the raging burn destroying my already fragile digestive system.  I resolved never ever to again engage in such gluttonous behavior…with food.  Beer is not food, at least for the purposes of my resolution.  The hangover that gets me to scale back beer is the one that kills me dead.

When I was younger, Nintendo revolutionized entertainment.  The video game industry went from “I think that glob of pixels is something” to “That glob of pixels looks like a human…sort of.”  My biggest thrill was renting video games.  I’m sure it was my parents’ also, since I could be bought off for a weekend for $2.99.  Believe me, if I had a chance to get people off my nuts for $3, I’d be chucking money around like a politician.

I remember also the near suicide-inducing difficulty of games like Ninja Gaiden, Castlevania and Teenage Ninja Mutant Turtles.  To combat the sadistic torture of the games, Nintendo came up with the help line.  This is how it worked.  Children like me would fool our parents into letting us call the long distance line, only to be stonewalled trying to speak in grade school English to an angry Japanese person.  “Hi.  I’m stuck on Golgo 13.”  “What level are you on?”  “I don’t know, but there was a trap door on the left.”  “Hold please, I don’t know.”  Then five minutes pass and the kid would get scared and hang up, then when the phone bill came the beatings began.  Thanks, Nintendo!

The most important rule of Nintendo in the 80’s was that one kid you knew had all the games.  This kid was usually the biggest douche in your circle, but you kissed his or her ass because they just got Mega Man 3 and you were on the lunch discount program.  This was important in training kids how to be nice to your beer or drug connection that always dropped conspiracy theories on you.  “Oh wow, that’s a cool story!  (Just shut up and give me the fake ID so I can get beer, you asshole)  Aliens?  Yeah, I could see that!  That’s crazy!  (Holy shit, you are the worst, but I really need to get buzzed and my buddy’s cousin just got thrown in jail for his fourth DUI.  I must have beer.)  I see the big picture.