Tuesday, August 29, 2006
If you all of the sudden decide that your "crew" NEEDS to be heard by a major record label, and you make the utterly lame move of calling the label's main number, here are a few rules you should follow.
1. Take the dick out of your mouth before calling.
ENUNCIATE. Especially if you are a rapper. RAPPERS SPECIALIZE IN WORDS. NOBODY WANTS TO LISTEN TO SOME MEALY MOUTH FUCK MUMBLE ALL OVER HIS SHIT.
2. Don't talk about how hot your shit is in Ratburg, PA.
The fact that three people at your local open mic "felt your shit" means nothing to me, I'm just a receptionist, don't try and sell me. The only way I am going to help you is if you already ARE one of my favorite artists, making you either dead, the Talking Heads, or a Norwegian Satanist covered in corpse paint and bullet belts. Which you are not.
3. After I tell you NO, don't ask me how to get started.
What will happen is I will humor you and stay on the phone much longer than you deserve (my Midwest "niceness") and ramble at you about shit I know very very little about. This will just make you stupider. Just like reading my blog.
4. Use real names.
No more calls for people like "Greezy Crakk D", or "Delicious". These people have real fucking names, figure them out. "Crakk D" is not a last name listed in my directory. You are calling a major record label, not a chop shop or your bookie. In the words of Cedric the Entertainer, "I'm a grown ass man dogg, I'm not going to call another dude 'Delicious'".
5. If your 13 and you can sing, cute...But fuck you, get a lawyer.
I will be adding to this list, because I guarantee this shit will not end. My weekend was great. I spent it with an amazing girl, probably the coolest one anyone knows. We will call her "Awesome". She drinks like a damn champ, plays golf, smokes cigs like crazy, she is BEAUTIFUL, keeps her body in impeccable shape, and is a master at hanging out. She came out, partied with me, and fucked my bones crooked all weekend. I would fall in love with this girl, seriously, but then I would lose a great friend to the utter pointlessness of relationships.
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Friday, August 18, 2006
A few examples:
Me: Yeah, I want to get a two bedroom place for around 1400 that's close to the city and my job.
Friend: This is New York bro. That's not going to happen.
--What the fuck?? I know where the fuck I am and it doesn't mean I need to be miserable in the ass end of Brooklyn with a 3 hour commute to work. I'm from the Midwest but it doesn't mean I'm a bumpkin who cant work "the interweb" to find a cheap place close to the city, which I already did.
Me: That guy looks like Andrew WK!
Stupid bitch girl: Andrew WK is like so five years ago. This is New York, we don't talk about Andrew WK. I don't know how you do it in Minnesota.
--What a cunt, location doesn't change the fact that this fuck looked like Andrew WK's dipshit cousin. I was ready to hit her in her hipster face.
Friend: Go hit on that girl, this is New York bro, you gotta be
--You have to be aggressive fucking everywhere. What am I supposed to do different because this is New York?? Stab her and take her wallet?
Me: Yeah when I was young I got really into Wrecx N Effect (haha yeah, I know)
Job Interviewer: Oh, you got that music all the way out there in Minnesota?? Wow.
--No, I only got to hear polka band renditions of "rumpshaker" while I fucked my cousins.
WOW I am angry. Haha, that's the hangover talking. I feel better now that I vented. Gnarls Barkley was awesome. My big party is tonight, see you there.
In more "typical" Name Drop Acid (i.e., minor brushes with celebrity) fashion, I just found out I have to work the door at the MTV VMA afterparty in two weeks. I will keep you posted on this madness.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
This isn't really that great but I didn't have anything else to post.
I wrote a long version of this post but decided it was lame and deleted all of it. Short version:
Went out to bars last night to pass out flyers
I was sick, so I decide to take it easy. Stupid fucking plan.
3rd bar, 3 beers in, meet hot 26 yr. old graphic designer by accident.
we hang out.
I no longer decide to take it easy.
Kamikaze girl shot (girl's idea)
I get mistaken for a gay guy again. Damn I need to assert my hetero status.
She convinces me to skip my last bar and go to her part of Brooklyn with her, which is far as fuck away from my part.
I'm convinced that by doing this, I will get to see her naked.
She tells me she needs to go home and "write emails".
I tell her I will come with her.
She says its ok, I can cart my ass home.
I guarantee her at least one orgasm.
I demand that she make out with me, we do.
I'm still going home alone.
I tell her I have a huge Wang (I don't).
She doesn't buy it, but she is still laughing like hell at me.
I walk her to her door.
Ask for her number (I already have it)
Her: "You already have it. Give me a call sometime"
Me: "What? I'm not calling you."
I walk away, forget my PIN number at the ATM, wake up utterly confused by the time it says on the clock. I convince myself that daylight savings came and went.
I show up late for work.
Anyway, that's that. I giggled like hell all day today about it. Again, go to that party if you are in NYC (see post below). My friends are in town and we're going to see Gnarls Barkley in the park in a half hour. WHOOO.
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
This party will be great. The people putting it on are all cool as fuck. Im not too into promoting online, but I love what these guys are doing, and they've been a HUGE help to me out here.
Movies, music videos, multiple rooms, live hip hop, DJs.
Show up for the open bar, get hammered, and hopefully walk out with a gift bag and a pretty Asian girl with nice sneakers.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Some quick updates:
-Goo Goo Dolls lead singer came in, that cleft in the chin is SERIOUS. Epic cleft, nice guy.
-That party at the CEO's beach pad was nuts. A lot of awkward, half-buzzed conversations. I spoke to the drummer of one of our bands, who looked exactly like my friend Dave K from Wisconsin. I complemented him on his disco beats. I also met one of our new signings, "Three Intimidatingly Hot Girls With Intimidatingly Awesome Butts and Intimidatingly Large Fashion Sun Glasses"...I think that's what they are calling themselves. We call them T.I.H.G.W.I.A.B.I.L.F.S.G. around the office for short, and they're going to kick the shit out of 3LW. The label A-Team was there, all the big execs. They seemed nice, one of them showed up in a damned chopper. On the way home, we made the driver stop at the liquor store. I bought whiskey and Mike's Hard Lemonade, they all just bought Mike's...I probably made myself out to look like the drunk that I am, which is not good in a co-worker situation.
One final word. This job is friggin crazy, but it is still very much a business and everyone is pretty nice and professional. I'll be honest, there was a small part of me expecting to walk in my first day to find people slugging Jack and doing coke lines out of Cyndi Lauper's buttcrack, while a naked David Crosby did the truffle shuffle atop a pile of equally-naked-and-horrified hot female interns. You know, that old school music business debauchery. Where the fuck is that??!!
Ha, oh fuck, be careful what you wish for eh?
That's all I got for now. Get fucked.
*POSTSCRIPT (five minutes later): Im going to ask out the hot foreign intern soon.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Histrionic girls who work in mall clothes stores.
Guys at metal shows with short girlfriends.
Little kids in the back of buses flashing you the peace sign.
Guys on crotch rockets sporting Oakleys, a goatee, or both.
Bouncers who call you "boss".
Thats all I have to write...jesus. Pretty uneventful lately. Im nursing a mild hangover because of this job im doing...I am assigned to different bars, at these bars I am told to pass out flyers. I am also encouraged to "hang out" at these places. Fuckin genius thing to tell a drunk like me.
Tomorrow I have the day off to go party at label CEO's pad on the beach. Should be freakin awesome. If all goes well, I will get inappropriately buzzed and play some intra-office grab-ass.
I will keep you posted.
Friday, August 04, 2006
What a weird ass document. You can click it to make it bigger.
Oh yeah, FUCK the SciFi network. They had me all juiced up for a full hour of Darkplace. It even said so on the guide. Instead it was fucking GHOST HUNTERS or some shit. Lame. They almost redeemed themselves by playing "Tremors" right after that, but I'm still pissed.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Lame as it may be, it has its moments...
Some time in 2002, David Letterman straight up GAVE his whole show to singer Warren Zevon. There were no other guests on the show, it was all Zevon. Why? Zevon had lung cancer and he was going to die. My hungover roommate and I watched in awe on a Tuesday night.
He referred to his cancer coolly as "the flu", and told Dave that his experience has taught him to "enjoy every sandwich".
Now, most people don't even know or care who Warren Zevon is. I didn't (at the time). Letterman didn't care though that no one knew or cared, he cared and he knew, and wanted to let us and Warren know that he cared and knew, so that we would know and care...oh fuck. So he devoted his whole show to this dying genius. It was Zevon's last performance ever.
This is why I like Letterman. Fuck Leno, he wouldn't have the taste to pull this off. He would probably give his show to Kenny Loggins if the the bastard's foot was terminally asleep.
Anyway, here is part of it. Zevon doing "mutineer". The strain you hear in his voice when he sings the word "witness" is because he has fucking LUNG CANCER.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
“Yeah, this is Steve Steves of the Rolling Stones, the hurdy gurdy man, the purple lace man, the wandering spirit, calling for Jimmy Page. I’m the real Robert Plant.”
The next 21 messages are from this guy.
With each message, being left from around 11pm to 2:30 am, he takes a new step in unfolding a massive plot/conspiracy involving the murder of John Bonham (Led Zeppelin's drummer), the crucifixion of cats, the occult, Eddie Van Halen, April Wine, cannibalism (?), and Canada. Not to mention numerous cabals, separatist governments, illuminati, identity swaps, and other shadowy things of that nature.
And yup, you guessed it; I’m going to document this story right here from the quick notes I scribbled down during each message. Don’t bother to fact-check this big bastard, its impossible and pointless. Just trust me…and Mr. Steves.
*DISCLAIMER* I am writing this story as it was told to me, most likely by a complete fucking lunatic. I am not claiming that any of this is true…although it would rule if it were.
*DISCLAIMER #2* If you don’t know who led zeppelin is, give up now, its fruitless to bother here. Go play in the sand.
Apparently, John Bonham did not die from drinking 40+ shots of vodka and choking on his own vomit, he was murdered. “They planned the whole thing,” says Mr. Steves, “They’re trying to frame you Pagey boy”.
Someone needed to be responsible for the “murder”, and what better person to pin it on than ol’ Jimmy Page, a rock and roll icon, and bandmate of the deceased. The resulting frame-up is “Why Jimmy Page takes tranquilizers”, Mr. Steves says. Steves says Page didn’t do it though.
Another suspect in the murder is Myles Goodwin from April Wine. This should be obvious.
The Mobsy twins worked together in a sperm bank. It was here that the twins practiced theft, swiping semen as often as possible, according to Steve. Eventually, driven by as yet unknown forces, they turned their semen-sticky fingers to Steve’s key to The Stairway to Heaven Mansion (which may or may not exist), and his heart. In doing so, these twins lured Steves away from the band long enough for a replacement Robert Plant to infiltrate the band and gain their trust, Bubba Ho-Tep style.
At this point in Steve’s messages, someone is heard in the background saying, “Who are you talking to??” Steve quickly hangs up, only to call back about five minutes later…
The Mobsy twins, although diabolical, were merely soldiers for a massive “separatist government” “dictator” with, “ties to the occult”, Steve said. This man’s name was Brandon Tanney, and he set the whole thing up. I guess this murdering bastard had at one point murdered three of Steve’s cats. There was Mickey, who they tried to sacrifice but got away, so they shot him with a high-powered pellet gun. Mickey’s gunshot wound became infected and he eventually died. “You should have seen how sad Mickey’s green eyes were when he died.” “Mickey was poisoned on the coldest night of the year.”
Tanney crucified another of Steve’s cats, a stray whose name was unknown, in an occult ritual. Third cat, Frisky’s death is unknown at this point, but I’m going to go with “Immolation”…just for shits.
So, dictating, cat-crucifying maniac Brandon Tanney had used the Mobsy twins to lure Steves (the real Robert Plant) away from the band. After Steve left to Hudson, Quebec, with his half of the sperm-guzzling Mobsy twins, the replacement Robert Plant murdered John Bonham and attempted to frame Pagey boy and the April Wine guy.
This is on some Lost Highway shit. F’real.
Also, it should be added that Jennifer Warnes is a “Nazi through and through.” Steve wanted you to know...
At this point, the message consists of Steve singing, quite badly, a led zeppelin song, I don’t know or care which one it is, It is clear though, that this man is NOT Robert Plant…he is a shitty impersonator, like the guy from Wolfmother…or shit, Audiovent.
So yeah, after the murder, the fake Robert Plant “planted” (ha) Bonham’s dead body in Jimmy Page’s summer house. Bonham was actually murdered at one of the April Wine party houses in Canada. This must have been quite a baggage operation hauling a dead drummer from Canada to the UK. After the murder though, bizarro Robert Plant’s bloodlust was not satisfied, so, according to Steve, he killed (and ate?) the kids from the cover of Led Zeppelin’s, “Houses of the Holy” album…damn. Those poor little naked fucks.
Dramatization of fake Robert Plant burping.
Steve (The real Robert Plant) was still out of the band. To further cement the switch and to rub more salt in his wounds, Tanney and his crew had all of the original vocal tracks re-recorded, EXCEPT for the last verse on “Stairway to Heaven”. They missed that one I guess. There, you can hear Steve’s voice.
Steve went into hiding in Canada for many years. Only to emerge to call me and tell his whole story to my answer machine. I guess he tried to tell Eddie Van Halen all about it, but Eddie’s label wont let Steve speak to him. He also tries calling the label offices in Canada and California, only to find that the diabolical Mobsy twins (who, it turns out, are actually clones made by Tanney) have infiltrated the label offices and usurped the receptionist jobs to keep his story from being heard. Well I’m telling it, come and get me you fucking harpies.
I’m tired of writing this damn thing. The last few messages consisted of Steve pitching us a benefit show, live via satellite featuring John Bonham (??), John Paul Jones, himself, Eddie Van Halen, and a guy named Doug who would entertain the world with his “several disorders”.
“Are you in Mr. Page?”