Adumbros
09-13-2008, 11:48 AM
Hungry. Feels like there's a Hole in my stomach. Think I'll microwave some Meatloaf and Korn.Ugh! Gotta throw those out (Limp Bizkits).
That was good. Trim my Nine Inch Nails, then grab a beer and get Lit.Sunday. Football day. Turn on Fox.
Wow! Couple of my favorite players are on the trading block. Watch out, 'cause soon, They Might Be Giants!
I love football. Such a Smashmouth sport. Some of the calls, though, I gotta tell ya. They're Ludacris.
Where's the snack bowl? Ah, shit. My last Eminem.
Kids outside. Jumping around in a Puddle of Mudd. Brats make me wanna tie a Slipknot to the back of the truck and drag 'em all through Chicago. Or Boston. Even Alabama. Hell, maybe Europe.
Ooh! Jake Delhomme just got nailed in the ear! Now he's a Def Leppard!
*cackles madly*
Wife keeps nagging me about her plants. Dammit woman, grow your own Soundgarden (or Savage Garden, if you prefer)!
Need more booze. Do I have the stuff for a Stone Sour? I think so. That stuff can be Poison, though.
Daughter wants to watch a movie. I picked Cinderella.
Ha! The Goodyear blimp over Giants Stadium. Looks like a Led Zepplin.
Breaking news report! Along with his brothers, Senator Ted Kennedy has now passed away!
Who gives a shit about the Dead Kennedys?
My brother called, bitchin' about the California waves and their capriciousness. Nada Surf, he says. At least he ain't one of them sun-dried Butthole Surfers.
Oh, great. Now the kids outside are Smashing Pumpkins. Can't they grow up? Now that would be A New Found Glory.
Hey! The wife brought in more candy! "Good, Charlotte!" I say.
Damn! Are those kids outside the All-American Rejects, or what? Standing in the middle of the road, staring at a Jet. They should be oglin' my strawberry-hued '77 Cadillac, Pink Floyd. That's right. My car's Pink. Or my autographed Jerry Rice glove, Goldfinger.
Fred calls, howling about a blown call in the Steelers-Browns blowout. "Shoulda been a touchdown," he complains. I flip to NBC to catch the replay. Sure enough, I think to myself. What I utter into the mouthpiece is, "Right Said, Fred." I hate the Steelers. The Ramones, I call them (bunch of punks). Browns 24, Steelers 0, two-twelve to go in the first quarter.
I hang up and call Pizza Hut. What would I like, the young lady asks. I tell her Wings.
TV timeout. Giants 10, Panther 3. I glance across the street at the Wu-Tang Clan's house. They're on vacation. But there're Men In Hats around the Bush in the front yard. Maybe that Ol' Dirty Bastard has a Warrant on him again. Too bad. His wife, Blondie, has a good Heart.
Timeout's over. Close-up of the White Stripes on the field. Cris Collinsworth and Terry Bradshaw takin' barbs at one another. Those two are most definitely not N'Sync.
Jenny's watching All Dogs Go To Heaven and wants to know if it's true. "No, honey," I call up to her. "Only Angels and Airwaves." Airwaves? Where the hell did I get that? Maybe worshipping some Primitive Radio Gods.
Harvey Danger calls. Wants to know can we do lunch tomorrow. I've already got plans with Sarah McLachlan. I'm not cheating on my wife. Sarah's one of the old Motley Crue. Harvey starts bitchin' about me never having time anymore, like we're married. "Tenacious, D," the use of his old childhood nickname warning him off. Sarah comes first, especially 'cause she's trying to sell The Ataris. Haven't had one since I was a Daft Punk in 1979. Maybe she'll trade for some classic Guns, 'n' Roses. Her husband would love some Sex Pistols.
Kids outside are dirty as hell, like they've been rolling around in a Cradle of Filth.
Journey to the kitchen for another beer. Pop the top, and it spills all over my wife-beater. Great. Now my shirt's Stain'd. Least the beer ain't Rancid.
Got all this music stuck in my brain for some reason, like I'm a Radiohead. Meanwhile, those damn kids outside sound like 10,000 Maniacs.
Plop in my recliner and something pokes me in the ass. I reach down and pull out some British currency. Sixpence, None the Richer.
Eli Manning lobs a bomb...he's got it...he's got it... Ah! TV on the fritz! I set down my beer and Rage Against the Machine.
It's back on now. The rookie on Carolina intercepted it and ran seventy-nine yards for a touchdown. Panthers 24, Giants 13 @ the half. Wish I had some Dope. Eli's got his head down, and he threw his Helmet. Shit, I grumble to myself. That's not The Cure.
The I hear The Cars outside, and The Police pulling up. They hit one of my Yardbirds, so I storm outside to rail at them. One tells me to be quiet or I can go downtown. Jenny's staring at me. Don't want The Offspring to see this, so I back off.
Hungry again. Think I'll have some Cake and Cranberries. Maybe some Ice-T and an Ice Cube to go with it. Hope Jenny never develops my habits, or she'll suffer some serious Arrested Development.
Grab my snack, head back to the living room. Outside, they have Alice In Chains. Wonder what she did? Oh, wait. She shot those Black Crowes last week, after poisoning them with some Red Hot Chili Peppers. "How many?" she screams. "How many damn birds did I get?" She'll have lots of time for Counting Crows upstate, where they have coffee, but no Cream. Cops look itchy. Must be fighting The Temptations. Or The Clarks, her bigshot attorneys. Fuckin' lawyers. Who would want Alice for a client? She's just a disagreeable Foreigner. Maybe that's it. Cheap representation. A-Ha.
Pulling my attention away, I realize halftime's almost over. Better take out the Garbage before I forget. Don't want my Queen pissed at me. Could Hinder my chances of getting Play.
Park my ass back in my Silverchair and watch the second-half kickoff. First play, Manning to Jeremy Shockey, ninety-three yard touchdown! Just like that, 24-20.
Charlotte hollers for me. Dammit! Why do I always have to be at her Beck every time I hear The Calling? Maybe 'cause we're a Collective Soul.
She wants to know what to call the shade of paint she's using in the garage. Deep Blue Something, I mutter. Why can't she take the kid to Linkin Park so I can watch the game in peace? I swear, it gives me Suicidal Tendencies. Those Mizfits outside don't help. At least Alice didn't kill any of The Eagles. Wouldn't mind something to kill The Beatles in the garden, though. That's our Oasis, and they're no Minor Threat. Nor are those damn kids, causing such Social Distortion. Should be locked in a Soul Asylum, with some Spin Doctors. The girl, especially. Someone has to cope with Jane's Addiction. Better than Ezra, though. She lives 3 Doors Down, and her mom is just plain bonkers. I don't think even Dr. Dre can help that kid.
So, the game. 27-20, Carolina ball, seven-sixteen in the third. Fred's on the line, now, bitchin' again, 'cause the Steelers trail 41-3. Screaming about the Gorillaz, which is what he calls the refs. Why, I have no clue. I tell him football's all Evanescence anyway, but I tune to NBC long enough to relish that sight:
STEELERS 3
BROWNS 41
Whoa, Nelly!
There's a noise in the background. I ask Fred whose slamming The Doors. His daughter, he says. Number one Public Enemy. He got that right. Got arrested last week for standing on an overpass and throwing 12 Stones at the traffic below. The cop who got her was a Seether.
No wonder she's such an Outkast.
So I hang up and go back to Fox. It's 3:11, according to the time on the wall; the game is Live in the fourth quarter, it's Cold in the stadium, but oh, the feeling I've got is Sublime, because we're up 30-27 with possession. Pearl Jam is blaring "Alive" in my mental jukebox, and now it's a first down in enemy territory! Jeremy Shockey caught it out-of-bounds at the thirteen! The crowd is NUTS! It looks like an Electric Light Orchestra on the field as cameras flash!
"Honey," my wife calls, then peeks mischievously around the door. "I love you."
"U2," I reply.
"I'm gonna take the kid to Marcy Playground."
"Okay. Have fun. Take her Lagwagon. And stay away from the Drowning Pool."
Two attempts, no gain. Eli runs a QB sneak to the one! Now that's the System of a Down!
Aaah! TV's gone again. Big Static-X in the middle of the screen. I'm getting Disturbed.
OK, it's back. Bliss! Giants lead, 37-27, with just over five minutes to go!
Just for meanness' sake, I sneak a peek at NBC. Not bad. Nowhere near good enough, but just under four minutes and the 'Burgh's closed to within 45-28. Probably 'cause the Browns are playing the scrubs.
Peek at Showtime to get a glimpse of women's boxing! Damn, are those some Violent Femmes! The losing girl's head resembles a Blind Melon!
Hearing a light meow, I lean over and pet the Kittie. Then I switch back to the game. Fifty-eight seconds to the two-minute warning, and the G-men lead, 37-30. Panthers' ball, though.
I ruminate on the furball beneath my outstretched hand for a moment. I remember grabbing her along with the rest of the Stray Cats we found that day.
I look again, and it's 37-33, two-oh-six remaining. Eli takes a knee to get to the two-minute warning. Hope Coach Coughlin has a plan. I want to see us atop the playoff Bracket, not waiting for Summercamp. Lookin' good now, I mean we're 5-0 now, but so are the Panthers, and seasons have gone down the tubes for less.
Another quick peek at NBC. Browns 45, Steelers 38, looking to recover (according to the commentator) their second consecutive onside kick, with only thirty-four seconds to go. No dice.
And guess what? The phone rings!
"Hey," Fred grouses, "wanna go Phish after the game?"
Why not? I'd like to nab a few Reel Big Fish.
So...back to Fox, and disaster has struck. Panthers 39, Giants 37, PAT blown, kick forthcoming, forty-two seconds remaining. My gut tightens as I feel Fred's pain. This would drop us to the third seed, for now.
Well...it happened. After the game(s), me and Fred, we're the Kottonmouth Kings. The current playoff positions flash.
AFC
N.Y. Jets 6-0
Denver 5-1
Cleveland 5-1
Indianapolis 4-2
Houston 4-2
Kansas City 3-3
-----------
New England 3-3
San Diego 3-3
Baltimore 2-4
and
NFC
Carolina 6-0
Seattle 6-0
N.Y. Giants 5-1
Minnesota 4-2
Detroit 3-3
Arizona 3-3
-----------
Dallas 3-3
Philadelphia 3-3
San Francisco 2-4
The Steelers, alas, pretty much lost hope, falling to 0-6. And to think, just a few years ago, that was Crazytown.
"Big Empty" pops into the mental junkebox, by Stone Temple Pilots. Although my boys played like a bunch of Goo-Goo Dolls in the fourth. Practically gave me Gin Blossoms.
Ah, well. At least I have my Prodigy, down at the playground with her mom. Certainly beats My Life With The Thrill-Kill Kult back in college. Should've joined the Blue Oyster Cult instead. Or the Culture Club.
Eh, the Giants play again Thursday. I'm gonna get the car and go meet Fred.
So much heat outside it dries my Saliva. Check the Fuel and Filter and I'm down the road. Red light! Cop behind me; better not be a Dopehead.
Thinking about Jenny's school project. The Presidents of the United States of America. Charlotte can help her with that. Only things I'm an expert on are football and the Black Dahlia Murder. Bet when I get to heaven, the Godhead's gonna give me a Godsmack. If Sister Hazel knew... *sheepish smile* Alas, I have Faith No More. I contemplate Methods of Mayhem, as though I were one of the Lords of Acid again. One of those Killers. I fear an Incubus has possessed me.
Remembering the summer spent growin' from Boyz II Men. Every Unwritten Law. Me and Charlotte, my Iron Maiden. I had a Shaggy beard. Listening to Megadeth, Metallica, and Portishead. Barely able to scrape up 50 Cent for a Sunday At The Drive-In. Had to avoid the Usher. Ah, Generation X. Siouxsie and the Banshees. The Pixies. Concrete Blonde. My brother's music, sure, but mine as well. He's AC/DC, know what I mean? Naw, just kiddin'. I look at the music now, and think to myself, the Who?!
It was a Rush all summer long, chillin' on Cypress Hill, trippin' an Acid Bath. We were Naughty By Nature then. Me, Charlotte, Tom Petty and his gang (Heartbreakers, that bunch), Michael Jackson, Joe Walsh, Bryan Adams, Tony, Toni, Tone. We were Beach Boys, Refugee All-Stars. The Chemical Borthers. Lauryn Hill was Our Lady Peace, but a flirt. Look at her, and she'd blow you a Kiss. Some days we'd have an Orgy, blissed out by the sheer Joy Division. If we were real adventurous, we'd get Tantric.
Once, we tried to make Jars of Clay. They kept breaking when they dried. That day ended with Charlotte on my Tool. She loved spankin' The Monkees, and we made one hell of a Tag Team. She'd do anything for an Oleander.
What a time we had, all those years ago. Partying with friends, neighbors, and Barenaked Ladies. For a glorious Nine Days, we were a Blessid Union of Souls, a rare conglomeration of Rolling Stones and Talking Heads.
That summer was Fabolous.
'Ehp, there's Fred! Hope he brought goos bait.
Gnawin' on a Cracker while I get the gear out of the trunk. Uh-oh, forgot to take The Platters in. Those're brand-new. Charlotte'll kill me if I break them.
Freddie was one of The Commodores. "Navy dickweed!" I call him jovially. "Fuckin' Jarhead! Know what MARINE stands for?" he goads back. "Muscles Are Required, Intelligence Not essential!" We share a hearty laugh, then he gets the boat out on the water, which is a Deep Purple.
I close my eyes, fluttering as though in R.E.M. sleep, and give a final nod to my Sonic Youth, when we used to roll in the Mud, honey. So covered we practically had Mudvaynes. Uncle Kracker always yelled at us about it, but we were a regular Bloodhound Gang.
Fred decided to use Black-Eyed Peas for bait today. Fine choice.
Well, no great catch. Now we're in Fred's garage, reminiscing. regaling each other with memories of sophomore year, when we fancied ourselves The Rembrandts. In truth, our artwork sucked, and we knew it then as much as now. Hence the tears of laughter rolling off our cheeks. We often wonder what asinine shenanigans the New Order at City High pull. I was a Boxcar Racer, myself. Fred was one of those Gym Class Heroes, played Nickelback.
Told Fred "G'night," then left for home. Sun's almost down. I'm relishing the Shinedown. Ready for another Blue October. I look like a White Zombie from all the late-summer sun. "INXS, NOFX," my ass. I grab one of the Styx and watch it sail across the yard Thrice.
The house is dark. Guess everyone's in bed. I start Stabbing Westward through the dark to mine and Charlotte's room. Lay next to her and stare at the ceiling. As I Lay Dying, or so it feels like.
It's a Nonpoint. I can't sleep. Feel like a rabid Crossbreed suffocating in a Coal Chamber. My lungs Sting, like a shot from a Velvet Revolver. My heart beats like the flutter of a Zwan.
Funny how these thoughts leave me feeling like an Audioslave.
Can't sleep. Go watch SportsCenter. And guess who else blew it? Damn Yankees. No playoffs this year. Thanks, Rammstein (my pet name for George Steinbrenner, who runs that flaccid franchise like a certain Nazi dictator. I knew, everyone knew: No Torre, no title). Biggest bullshitter in pro sports. Hope he's never put Underoath. Then he'd be guilty of perjury and Overkill. Gives me The Moody Blues, Traveller.
NBA report: Due to special circumstances, the Eastern Conference Champions will forfeit their Christmas Day game. Whoopee. It's September. And when I can't sleep, like now, I think about Charlotte, Sometimes.
What about the Knicks? Huh? Bet they bite the big one this year, too. Too much salary for too little talent.
Commercial break. Wonder what's in the fridge.
Hmm...Styrofoam take-out. And only one Jo-Jo in it. Lame.
You know what the Knicks feel like these days? Something you really don't need, such as Finger Eleven.
Suddenly, I see a couple Shadows Fall by the front window. I grab my old Louisville Slugger and head for the door. Sneaking around the garden perimeter, ZZ Top pops into view. I relax. It's only H.I.M.(one of the cats). I had No Doubt it was a Ratt, or maybe some Scorpions.
Back in the living room, something splats under my foot. I pick up my right foot, and it seems I squashed Papa Roach. the I trip over my dirty pants. Special story behind those.
The year I met the Cherry-Poppin' Daddies (which was the year before I became one), there was this guy, Rog, at work, down at the Fear Factory (I work at the TRUST Company now, soon to be renamed the House of Pain; I always felt Trapt in that old gloomy factory). He was Breaking Benjamin's balls about getting his Rod Stewart caught in his zipper. Well, needless to say, Rog did it later that very same day. Then, one by one, the rest of us; all except Marky Mark, one of the New Kids On The Block. Came to be known as "Green" Day, 'cause we all got very jealous of Marky.
Anyways, our boss took out a contingency fund, and we hired this designer to make us each a pair of workpants with special zippers. The designer, some stoner art kid, creates this zipper-grip with a tiny squirrel and a GINORMOUS acorn. We about died laughing; even Marky bought one. Nothing on This Mortal Coil will ever make me laugh harder. We called them the Squirrel Nut Zippers.
The announcer says the Knicks will have a good run this year. Sure they will. 'Good Knicks' is about as oxymoronic as 'Vertical Horizon.' The mere thought of the Knicks makes me wanna swallow a .38 Special. And this guy is a dipshit. And a Motormouth.
Me, I'm a Motorhead. Love cars. Just won't do 'em professionally. People don't know shit about 'em roll in with three hundred problems, thinkin' it's only one, and say shit like "I wanna pick it up at three o'clock sharp tomorrow!" OK, asshole. Fine by me. Then I can watch your wheel cavities go Switchfoot like a bunch of fuckin' Crash-Test Dummies.
And you ever notice, they come back with fifty friggin' relatives? Must be one Crowded House. I tend to think of 'em as The Pretenders. Wish they'd get hit by a Train. Or swallow some lethal Tonic. Anything to see 'em Six Feet Under. Even Slaughter by Murderdolls, like in that horror flick. I'd be their Slayer myself, if I could get away with it.
Makes me wanna down a bottle of Everclear.
*yawn*
I'm winding down now. Thinks it's just about time to hit the sack. Gonna need plenty of NRG. Tomorrow's gonna be Extreme, and lack of sleep could lead to My Ruin.
September's almost gone. From Autumn to Ashes.
My head hits the pillow and I dissolve into a Blur of sleep, dreaming of an Insane Clown Posse coming to get me in the Rock Bottom Remainders.
Ah, Nirvana.
~Jason Michael Beede
September 14, 2008
That was good. Trim my Nine Inch Nails, then grab a beer and get Lit.Sunday. Football day. Turn on Fox.
Wow! Couple of my favorite players are on the trading block. Watch out, 'cause soon, They Might Be Giants!
I love football. Such a Smashmouth sport. Some of the calls, though, I gotta tell ya. They're Ludacris.
Where's the snack bowl? Ah, shit. My last Eminem.
Kids outside. Jumping around in a Puddle of Mudd. Brats make me wanna tie a Slipknot to the back of the truck and drag 'em all through Chicago. Or Boston. Even Alabama. Hell, maybe Europe.
Ooh! Jake Delhomme just got nailed in the ear! Now he's a Def Leppard!
*cackles madly*
Wife keeps nagging me about her plants. Dammit woman, grow your own Soundgarden (or Savage Garden, if you prefer)!
Need more booze. Do I have the stuff for a Stone Sour? I think so. That stuff can be Poison, though.
Daughter wants to watch a movie. I picked Cinderella.
Ha! The Goodyear blimp over Giants Stadium. Looks like a Led Zepplin.
Breaking news report! Along with his brothers, Senator Ted Kennedy has now passed away!
Who gives a shit about the Dead Kennedys?
My brother called, bitchin' about the California waves and their capriciousness. Nada Surf, he says. At least he ain't one of them sun-dried Butthole Surfers.
Oh, great. Now the kids outside are Smashing Pumpkins. Can't they grow up? Now that would be A New Found Glory.
Hey! The wife brought in more candy! "Good, Charlotte!" I say.
Damn! Are those kids outside the All-American Rejects, or what? Standing in the middle of the road, staring at a Jet. They should be oglin' my strawberry-hued '77 Cadillac, Pink Floyd. That's right. My car's Pink. Or my autographed Jerry Rice glove, Goldfinger.
Fred calls, howling about a blown call in the Steelers-Browns blowout. "Shoulda been a touchdown," he complains. I flip to NBC to catch the replay. Sure enough, I think to myself. What I utter into the mouthpiece is, "Right Said, Fred." I hate the Steelers. The Ramones, I call them (bunch of punks). Browns 24, Steelers 0, two-twelve to go in the first quarter.
I hang up and call Pizza Hut. What would I like, the young lady asks. I tell her Wings.
TV timeout. Giants 10, Panther 3. I glance across the street at the Wu-Tang Clan's house. They're on vacation. But there're Men In Hats around the Bush in the front yard. Maybe that Ol' Dirty Bastard has a Warrant on him again. Too bad. His wife, Blondie, has a good Heart.
Timeout's over. Close-up of the White Stripes on the field. Cris Collinsworth and Terry Bradshaw takin' barbs at one another. Those two are most definitely not N'Sync.
Jenny's watching All Dogs Go To Heaven and wants to know if it's true. "No, honey," I call up to her. "Only Angels and Airwaves." Airwaves? Where the hell did I get that? Maybe worshipping some Primitive Radio Gods.
Harvey Danger calls. Wants to know can we do lunch tomorrow. I've already got plans with Sarah McLachlan. I'm not cheating on my wife. Sarah's one of the old Motley Crue. Harvey starts bitchin' about me never having time anymore, like we're married. "Tenacious, D," the use of his old childhood nickname warning him off. Sarah comes first, especially 'cause she's trying to sell The Ataris. Haven't had one since I was a Daft Punk in 1979. Maybe she'll trade for some classic Guns, 'n' Roses. Her husband would love some Sex Pistols.
Kids outside are dirty as hell, like they've been rolling around in a Cradle of Filth.
Journey to the kitchen for another beer. Pop the top, and it spills all over my wife-beater. Great. Now my shirt's Stain'd. Least the beer ain't Rancid.
Got all this music stuck in my brain for some reason, like I'm a Radiohead. Meanwhile, those damn kids outside sound like 10,000 Maniacs.
Plop in my recliner and something pokes me in the ass. I reach down and pull out some British currency. Sixpence, None the Richer.
Eli Manning lobs a bomb...he's got it...he's got it... Ah! TV on the fritz! I set down my beer and Rage Against the Machine.
It's back on now. The rookie on Carolina intercepted it and ran seventy-nine yards for a touchdown. Panthers 24, Giants 13 @ the half. Wish I had some Dope. Eli's got his head down, and he threw his Helmet. Shit, I grumble to myself. That's not The Cure.
The I hear The Cars outside, and The Police pulling up. They hit one of my Yardbirds, so I storm outside to rail at them. One tells me to be quiet or I can go downtown. Jenny's staring at me. Don't want The Offspring to see this, so I back off.
Hungry again. Think I'll have some Cake and Cranberries. Maybe some Ice-T and an Ice Cube to go with it. Hope Jenny never develops my habits, or she'll suffer some serious Arrested Development.
Grab my snack, head back to the living room. Outside, they have Alice In Chains. Wonder what she did? Oh, wait. She shot those Black Crowes last week, after poisoning them with some Red Hot Chili Peppers. "How many?" she screams. "How many damn birds did I get?" She'll have lots of time for Counting Crows upstate, where they have coffee, but no Cream. Cops look itchy. Must be fighting The Temptations. Or The Clarks, her bigshot attorneys. Fuckin' lawyers. Who would want Alice for a client? She's just a disagreeable Foreigner. Maybe that's it. Cheap representation. A-Ha.
Pulling my attention away, I realize halftime's almost over. Better take out the Garbage before I forget. Don't want my Queen pissed at me. Could Hinder my chances of getting Play.
Park my ass back in my Silverchair and watch the second-half kickoff. First play, Manning to Jeremy Shockey, ninety-three yard touchdown! Just like that, 24-20.
Charlotte hollers for me. Dammit! Why do I always have to be at her Beck every time I hear The Calling? Maybe 'cause we're a Collective Soul.
She wants to know what to call the shade of paint she's using in the garage. Deep Blue Something, I mutter. Why can't she take the kid to Linkin Park so I can watch the game in peace? I swear, it gives me Suicidal Tendencies. Those Mizfits outside don't help. At least Alice didn't kill any of The Eagles. Wouldn't mind something to kill The Beatles in the garden, though. That's our Oasis, and they're no Minor Threat. Nor are those damn kids, causing such Social Distortion. Should be locked in a Soul Asylum, with some Spin Doctors. The girl, especially. Someone has to cope with Jane's Addiction. Better than Ezra, though. She lives 3 Doors Down, and her mom is just plain bonkers. I don't think even Dr. Dre can help that kid.
So, the game. 27-20, Carolina ball, seven-sixteen in the third. Fred's on the line, now, bitchin' again, 'cause the Steelers trail 41-3. Screaming about the Gorillaz, which is what he calls the refs. Why, I have no clue. I tell him football's all Evanescence anyway, but I tune to NBC long enough to relish that sight:
STEELERS 3
BROWNS 41
Whoa, Nelly!
There's a noise in the background. I ask Fred whose slamming The Doors. His daughter, he says. Number one Public Enemy. He got that right. Got arrested last week for standing on an overpass and throwing 12 Stones at the traffic below. The cop who got her was a Seether.
No wonder she's such an Outkast.
So I hang up and go back to Fox. It's 3:11, according to the time on the wall; the game is Live in the fourth quarter, it's Cold in the stadium, but oh, the feeling I've got is Sublime, because we're up 30-27 with possession. Pearl Jam is blaring "Alive" in my mental jukebox, and now it's a first down in enemy territory! Jeremy Shockey caught it out-of-bounds at the thirteen! The crowd is NUTS! It looks like an Electric Light Orchestra on the field as cameras flash!
"Honey," my wife calls, then peeks mischievously around the door. "I love you."
"U2," I reply.
"I'm gonna take the kid to Marcy Playground."
"Okay. Have fun. Take her Lagwagon. And stay away from the Drowning Pool."
Two attempts, no gain. Eli runs a QB sneak to the one! Now that's the System of a Down!
Aaah! TV's gone again. Big Static-X in the middle of the screen. I'm getting Disturbed.
OK, it's back. Bliss! Giants lead, 37-27, with just over five minutes to go!
Just for meanness' sake, I sneak a peek at NBC. Not bad. Nowhere near good enough, but just under four minutes and the 'Burgh's closed to within 45-28. Probably 'cause the Browns are playing the scrubs.
Peek at Showtime to get a glimpse of women's boxing! Damn, are those some Violent Femmes! The losing girl's head resembles a Blind Melon!
Hearing a light meow, I lean over and pet the Kittie. Then I switch back to the game. Fifty-eight seconds to the two-minute warning, and the G-men lead, 37-30. Panthers' ball, though.
I ruminate on the furball beneath my outstretched hand for a moment. I remember grabbing her along with the rest of the Stray Cats we found that day.
I look again, and it's 37-33, two-oh-six remaining. Eli takes a knee to get to the two-minute warning. Hope Coach Coughlin has a plan. I want to see us atop the playoff Bracket, not waiting for Summercamp. Lookin' good now, I mean we're 5-0 now, but so are the Panthers, and seasons have gone down the tubes for less.
Another quick peek at NBC. Browns 45, Steelers 38, looking to recover (according to the commentator) their second consecutive onside kick, with only thirty-four seconds to go. No dice.
And guess what? The phone rings!
"Hey," Fred grouses, "wanna go Phish after the game?"
Why not? I'd like to nab a few Reel Big Fish.
So...back to Fox, and disaster has struck. Panthers 39, Giants 37, PAT blown, kick forthcoming, forty-two seconds remaining. My gut tightens as I feel Fred's pain. This would drop us to the third seed, for now.
Well...it happened. After the game(s), me and Fred, we're the Kottonmouth Kings. The current playoff positions flash.
AFC
N.Y. Jets 6-0
Denver 5-1
Cleveland 5-1
Indianapolis 4-2
Houston 4-2
Kansas City 3-3
-----------
New England 3-3
San Diego 3-3
Baltimore 2-4
and
NFC
Carolina 6-0
Seattle 6-0
N.Y. Giants 5-1
Minnesota 4-2
Detroit 3-3
Arizona 3-3
-----------
Dallas 3-3
Philadelphia 3-3
San Francisco 2-4
The Steelers, alas, pretty much lost hope, falling to 0-6. And to think, just a few years ago, that was Crazytown.
"Big Empty" pops into the mental junkebox, by Stone Temple Pilots. Although my boys played like a bunch of Goo-Goo Dolls in the fourth. Practically gave me Gin Blossoms.
Ah, well. At least I have my Prodigy, down at the playground with her mom. Certainly beats My Life With The Thrill-Kill Kult back in college. Should've joined the Blue Oyster Cult instead. Or the Culture Club.
Eh, the Giants play again Thursday. I'm gonna get the car and go meet Fred.
So much heat outside it dries my Saliva. Check the Fuel and Filter and I'm down the road. Red light! Cop behind me; better not be a Dopehead.
Thinking about Jenny's school project. The Presidents of the United States of America. Charlotte can help her with that. Only things I'm an expert on are football and the Black Dahlia Murder. Bet when I get to heaven, the Godhead's gonna give me a Godsmack. If Sister Hazel knew... *sheepish smile* Alas, I have Faith No More. I contemplate Methods of Mayhem, as though I were one of the Lords of Acid again. One of those Killers. I fear an Incubus has possessed me.
Remembering the summer spent growin' from Boyz II Men. Every Unwritten Law. Me and Charlotte, my Iron Maiden. I had a Shaggy beard. Listening to Megadeth, Metallica, and Portishead. Barely able to scrape up 50 Cent for a Sunday At The Drive-In. Had to avoid the Usher. Ah, Generation X. Siouxsie and the Banshees. The Pixies. Concrete Blonde. My brother's music, sure, but mine as well. He's AC/DC, know what I mean? Naw, just kiddin'. I look at the music now, and think to myself, the Who?!
It was a Rush all summer long, chillin' on Cypress Hill, trippin' an Acid Bath. We were Naughty By Nature then. Me, Charlotte, Tom Petty and his gang (Heartbreakers, that bunch), Michael Jackson, Joe Walsh, Bryan Adams, Tony, Toni, Tone. We were Beach Boys, Refugee All-Stars. The Chemical Borthers. Lauryn Hill was Our Lady Peace, but a flirt. Look at her, and she'd blow you a Kiss. Some days we'd have an Orgy, blissed out by the sheer Joy Division. If we were real adventurous, we'd get Tantric.
Once, we tried to make Jars of Clay. They kept breaking when they dried. That day ended with Charlotte on my Tool. She loved spankin' The Monkees, and we made one hell of a Tag Team. She'd do anything for an Oleander.
What a time we had, all those years ago. Partying with friends, neighbors, and Barenaked Ladies. For a glorious Nine Days, we were a Blessid Union of Souls, a rare conglomeration of Rolling Stones and Talking Heads.
That summer was Fabolous.
'Ehp, there's Fred! Hope he brought goos bait.
Gnawin' on a Cracker while I get the gear out of the trunk. Uh-oh, forgot to take The Platters in. Those're brand-new. Charlotte'll kill me if I break them.
Freddie was one of The Commodores. "Navy dickweed!" I call him jovially. "Fuckin' Jarhead! Know what MARINE stands for?" he goads back. "Muscles Are Required, Intelligence Not essential!" We share a hearty laugh, then he gets the boat out on the water, which is a Deep Purple.
I close my eyes, fluttering as though in R.E.M. sleep, and give a final nod to my Sonic Youth, when we used to roll in the Mud, honey. So covered we practically had Mudvaynes. Uncle Kracker always yelled at us about it, but we were a regular Bloodhound Gang.
Fred decided to use Black-Eyed Peas for bait today. Fine choice.
Well, no great catch. Now we're in Fred's garage, reminiscing. regaling each other with memories of sophomore year, when we fancied ourselves The Rembrandts. In truth, our artwork sucked, and we knew it then as much as now. Hence the tears of laughter rolling off our cheeks. We often wonder what asinine shenanigans the New Order at City High pull. I was a Boxcar Racer, myself. Fred was one of those Gym Class Heroes, played Nickelback.
Told Fred "G'night," then left for home. Sun's almost down. I'm relishing the Shinedown. Ready for another Blue October. I look like a White Zombie from all the late-summer sun. "INXS, NOFX," my ass. I grab one of the Styx and watch it sail across the yard Thrice.
The house is dark. Guess everyone's in bed. I start Stabbing Westward through the dark to mine and Charlotte's room. Lay next to her and stare at the ceiling. As I Lay Dying, or so it feels like.
It's a Nonpoint. I can't sleep. Feel like a rabid Crossbreed suffocating in a Coal Chamber. My lungs Sting, like a shot from a Velvet Revolver. My heart beats like the flutter of a Zwan.
Funny how these thoughts leave me feeling like an Audioslave.
Can't sleep. Go watch SportsCenter. And guess who else blew it? Damn Yankees. No playoffs this year. Thanks, Rammstein (my pet name for George Steinbrenner, who runs that flaccid franchise like a certain Nazi dictator. I knew, everyone knew: No Torre, no title). Biggest bullshitter in pro sports. Hope he's never put Underoath. Then he'd be guilty of perjury and Overkill. Gives me The Moody Blues, Traveller.
NBA report: Due to special circumstances, the Eastern Conference Champions will forfeit their Christmas Day game. Whoopee. It's September. And when I can't sleep, like now, I think about Charlotte, Sometimes.
What about the Knicks? Huh? Bet they bite the big one this year, too. Too much salary for too little talent.
Commercial break. Wonder what's in the fridge.
Hmm...Styrofoam take-out. And only one Jo-Jo in it. Lame.
You know what the Knicks feel like these days? Something you really don't need, such as Finger Eleven.
Suddenly, I see a couple Shadows Fall by the front window. I grab my old Louisville Slugger and head for the door. Sneaking around the garden perimeter, ZZ Top pops into view. I relax. It's only H.I.M.(one of the cats). I had No Doubt it was a Ratt, or maybe some Scorpions.
Back in the living room, something splats under my foot. I pick up my right foot, and it seems I squashed Papa Roach. the I trip over my dirty pants. Special story behind those.
The year I met the Cherry-Poppin' Daddies (which was the year before I became one), there was this guy, Rog, at work, down at the Fear Factory (I work at the TRUST Company now, soon to be renamed the House of Pain; I always felt Trapt in that old gloomy factory). He was Breaking Benjamin's balls about getting his Rod Stewart caught in his zipper. Well, needless to say, Rog did it later that very same day. Then, one by one, the rest of us; all except Marky Mark, one of the New Kids On The Block. Came to be known as "Green" Day, 'cause we all got very jealous of Marky.
Anyways, our boss took out a contingency fund, and we hired this designer to make us each a pair of workpants with special zippers. The designer, some stoner art kid, creates this zipper-grip with a tiny squirrel and a GINORMOUS acorn. We about died laughing; even Marky bought one. Nothing on This Mortal Coil will ever make me laugh harder. We called them the Squirrel Nut Zippers.
The announcer says the Knicks will have a good run this year. Sure they will. 'Good Knicks' is about as oxymoronic as 'Vertical Horizon.' The mere thought of the Knicks makes me wanna swallow a .38 Special. And this guy is a dipshit. And a Motormouth.
Me, I'm a Motorhead. Love cars. Just won't do 'em professionally. People don't know shit about 'em roll in with three hundred problems, thinkin' it's only one, and say shit like "I wanna pick it up at three o'clock sharp tomorrow!" OK, asshole. Fine by me. Then I can watch your wheel cavities go Switchfoot like a bunch of fuckin' Crash-Test Dummies.
And you ever notice, they come back with fifty friggin' relatives? Must be one Crowded House. I tend to think of 'em as The Pretenders. Wish they'd get hit by a Train. Or swallow some lethal Tonic. Anything to see 'em Six Feet Under. Even Slaughter by Murderdolls, like in that horror flick. I'd be their Slayer myself, if I could get away with it.
Makes me wanna down a bottle of Everclear.
*yawn*
I'm winding down now. Thinks it's just about time to hit the sack. Gonna need plenty of NRG. Tomorrow's gonna be Extreme, and lack of sleep could lead to My Ruin.
September's almost gone. From Autumn to Ashes.
My head hits the pillow and I dissolve into a Blur of sleep, dreaming of an Insane Clown Posse coming to get me in the Rock Bottom Remainders.
Ah, Nirvana.
~Jason Michael Beede
September 14, 2008