B is for Boston

CHILLLLLLLLLLL. I wrote this on April 2, 2013.

Every day in April I will be participating in the A to Z Blog Challenge.  Each day I will write a post dealing with an issue that is near and dear to me that starts with the letter of the Alphabet the corresponds with the day of the month.  Neat right?  Today is April 2nd so the letter of the day is B.

 

B is for Boston

 

Man I hate Boston.  I grew up 25 miles away but always wished I was 225 miles away in New York City.  My mom likes to remind me that as early as 5 years old I told her I was going to move to New York City.  Where I came from that was a ridiculous notion.  Nobody moved away.  They might escape for 2 or 4 years at a college as far away as maybe Western Massachusetts or even Rhode Island but everybody came home.  I never thought of Massachusetts as home.  Just a place where I was doing time til I could get the fuck out.  Sorta like a poison prison for ideas and adventure.  As soon as I could escape the watchful eyes of my parents I started exploring the seedier sides of Lowell, and then on to Boston.  The first time I made it to NYC  I was 15 years old and took an Amtrak with my buddy after I got out of summer school.  My first real NYC experience after dropping my bags off was getting mugged in Times Square.  My last authentic NYC experience of that trip was spending 10 days in the trauma unit at New York Hospital.  But that’s a story for another day.

I ended up moving to NYC permanently just after my 21st birthday.  I’ve never lived anywhere else.  I somehow knew this was home before I even really knew what home was.  Guess I was just born that way.  Once I got here, I didn’t really have any desire to go home.  Most of my extended family in Lowell took every opportunity they could to tell me that I wouldn’t last in NYC and that I’d be back soon – so after a few holidays I just stopped going back there.  The only reason I ever went home was to see my best friend Mike Magee aka DJ Muthafuckin Stitch!  When he moved to NYC in 1997 then I knew there was no reason for me to ever go back.  My parents liked to come visit the city, and my sisters were living in Cali and Florida so I was finally able to say FUCK THAT PLACE.  Then my dad got sick so I made over a hundred trips back up there over a 3 year period to spend as much time as I could with him.  Once he died I vowed to go back as infrequently as possible.  Less than a year later I ended up starting my band Tragedy and, as luck would have it, Boston become our 2nd biggest city to play in the USA.  I couldn’t fucking escape that city. But I did  my best.  Pretty much every time Tragedy would play up there me and Phil aka Barry Glibb would drive through the night back to NYC right after the gig.  I might have to perform in Boston, but I sure as shit didn’t have to wake up there.

Wonder why I hated it so much?  I like to call it “Kentucky on the Charles”  For all the smarty pants universities they got there it’s home to more ignorance and overt racism than anywhere else I’ve ever been north of the Mason Dixon.  And everyone up there has small dick syndrome.  How else can you explain them rallying behind the Red Sux and hating the Yankees so much.  They know they are living in a city that by any reasonable measurement is NYC-on-training-wheels.  It’s funny – I never really hated it until I left.  I mean I knew I didn’t wanna grow old there, but once I left for the first time I knew there was no way I was gonna stick around any longer than I had to.  When I was 11 or 12 I asked my mom one day why the people on TV didn’t sound like we did.  That’s when I learned about accents.  I started a years long commitment to pronounce my Rs and not make one syllable words into two syllables.  Still, every now and then if I’m really fuckin’ drunk or really fuckin’ tired I’ll lapse back into Masshole mode and talk like Mahky Fahkin Makh in the Depahted!

So why do I hate it?  Maybe it’s because for a good stretch every time I went back there I would end up in some sort of fight or physical altercation.  Like the time I was fag-bashed in a pool hall for having long hair and wearing red pants. “Only fahkin faggots from Noo Yawk think they can wear red pants in Bahstin!” was the last thing I remember hearing that night.  Thank God Stitch was there to save my ass.  Best best friend ever!  There were way too many nights like that.

The last straw though was when I went back for my grandfather’s funeral.  Afterwards I needed to get drunk so me and Stitch met up in Cambridge and then finally ended up on Landsdowne Street – pretty much the last place you should go drinking – nothing but clubs and bars and drunken douche canoes.  Me and Stitch tied one on and were having a great time until last call when a bouncer ended up yanking a beer from my hand as I was trying to finish it. That’s how they do it up there.  We spilled out on to the street with the rest of the Yah-Doods and made our way towards the train.  Just after we crossed the the bridge over the Mass Pike and were about to hit Kenmore Square a car pulled up behind us and someone opened their door into Stitch’s back violently knocking him to the ground.  As I turned around to try and figure out what the fuck had just happened I got punched in the face and then knocked to the ground by two guys.  I managed to get up and punch one of the dudes in the face before I was overwhelmed and was getting the shit kicked out of me.  Stitch never had a chance either and he was getting worked over by two more dudes.  Almost as quickly as it started though, it was over.  The police had rolled in and come to our rescue.  Imagine that.  At first I thought we were all gonna end up in the pokey for fighting so I started yelling to the cops “WE DIDN”T DO SHIT – THESE FUCKING GUYS JUST ATTACKED US FOR NO REASON!!! WE DIDN’T DO SHIT!!!!”  The cop calmed me down and said “We know, buddy, we saw the whole thing.  These guys are going to jail.  You’re gonna be fine.”  After we collected ourselves the cop asked me if I could make a quick ID of one of the the guys who attacked me. I said sure so he brought me over to a patrol car and shined a flashlight into the window and illuminated a guy with is FACE SMASHED and covered in blood.  I said “Yup that’s the asshole.  Did I do that to him???”  The cop laughed and said “Nah.  When I pulled him off you he turned around and took a swing at me so I let him have it.  That’s assault on a police officer.  A big no no.”  The cops asked us if we wanted to press charges and we said “Absofuckinglutely”  I’m certainly no stranger to getting my ass kicked and I would never involve the cops for losing a fight I entered into willingly.  But being jumped from behind, and attacked with a fucking car no less, by these four dip-shits was certainly grounds to see a little courtroom justice.

I went back to Boston a few months later for their trial.    I ended up recognising one of our assailants at the coffee cart outside the courthouse so I approached him and let him know who I was and told him that the one thing I wanted to know was why.  Why had they picked us out to attack?  The dude closed his mouth faster than all his past dates closed their thighs when he made his move.  His lawyer then told me I shouldn’t be talking to him.  I guess pussies hire pussy lawyers.  I wonder if there is a category for that in the Boston yellow pages.

Inside the courtroom Team Surprise Attack all pled guilty and then the judge asked if either me or Stitch wanted to say anything before he sentenced them.  I raised my hand so fast I almost punched a hole in the ceiling! I got up there and let the judge know how I felt.  I was pressing so strongly for him to give them jail time that he had to tell me to clam down and finally threatened me with contempt of court for telling him how I thought they needed to be sentenced.  On my way back to our seats I had to pass by the dudes, so I got real close and slowed my roll when I was by the dude from the coffee cart and I leaned towards him and whispered “You’re my bitch.”  I was really hoping he would lose it and punch me right then and there.  But cowards never attack when confronted, do they?  Only when they have the advantage.  What a fahkin’ kweeyuh that guy wuz!

Tragedy ended up playing up in Boston well over dozen times between 2008 and 2012 and I never felt totally comfortable being in that city.  After the shows we would hang out at the merch table and  sign and sell shit and talk to our fans.  We always got a lot of request to pose for pics.  The irony was never once lost on me that most of the dudes who were asking to get their picture taken with the crazy guy in spandex and glitter would have been more than happy to call me a faggot and kick my ass had I not just finished flaunting my junk onstage under the guise of rock n roll.

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I still really need to do something with THIS website.

A is For Assholes – Fuck Em…

Every day in April I will be participating in the A to Z Blog Challenge.  Each day I will write a post dealing with an issue that is near and dear to me that starts with the letter of the Alphabet the corresponds with the day of the month.  Neat right?  Today is April 1st so the letter of the day is A.

A is for Assholes.  Those people who used to make my life miserable.  Who I swore I would never let infect my life and my psyche once I was able to gnaw through the shackles of employment.  I finally bit through the last shank of steel in 2001 and vowed I would never look back.  When it came time to quit the last job I had, as the talent buyer for the Knitting Factory, I was so depressed about working there that I bailed on showing up to quit on January 2nd and made up an excuse of having been arrested on New Year’s Eve to explain why I simply hadn’t shown up, or returned a call or email all that day.  But I think that’s a story for a different letter.

I got started in this whole band booking thing when I got my arm twisted into taking over booking at Wetlands in 1999.  Because I was working for someone else, I had a directive to keep the club open 7 nights a week no matter what.  Closing for a night simply wasn’t an option.  So I had to deal with a lot of characters who I would have otherwise told to Go Fuck Themselves.  Not to point a big, stained, brown, blunt-rolling finger at anyone but a big percentage of those “assholes” were from the hip hop community.  And the rest was made up of fast talking, slow promoting douche canoes who represented bands with more tenacity than talent.  And pretty much anybody who referred to me as “buddy.”  If you ever pick up the phone and the guy on the other end refers to you as “buddy” I can guarantee you that he will be guaranteed to be pitching a money losing and / or time sucking proposition.

So once I started Rocks Off and was beholden only to myself, my rent-stabilized apartment in Harlem, and my growing tabs at the bar and the tattoo parlor, I made myself a promise.  “NO ASSHOLES”  If you were an asshole I was just going to refuse to do business with you.  And it’s worked.  The air just smells sweeter since I made, and kept, that promise to myself.

my trip to the gathering of the juggalos

After a 10 year absence from New York City things sure have been coming up Juggalo over the last 6 months.  In April those Clown You Love to Hate aka the Insane Clown Posse made their first appearance in NYC since 2001 when they headlined the Hammerstein Ballroom.  They were booked for the Bamboozle fest in Jersey and decided to add a headline show at the Gramercy Theater the night before.  A week before that show we got a call from someone at Live Nation saying that the band wanted to have an after-party with their fans and were asking for ideas.  Against my better judgement I offered to rent them one of our boats – the Jewel.  On two conditions – that they overnight us a cashiers check for the rental fee and a sizeable security deposit.  And that there be No Faygo.  The next day we had the check, they announced the afterparty with one tweet and it sold out instantly.  At that point I didn’t know much about ICP – I had bought the Great Milenko back in 1997 because it had an Alice Cooper cameo never gave it much play.

As that week went on I was filled with a mixture of excitement and fear.  ”What the fuck have I gotten myself into?” I thought.  I had visions of Tila Tequila styled riots on our boat.  My fears were raised after seeing the show at the Gramercy that night.  I LOVED the show – the Faygo was flying everywhere along with the Juggalos freak flags.  But on the walk to the boat after the show, among the packs of Juggalos stampeding down 23rd Street I was feeling like having my head examined for letting this vertiable army of Clowns onto the boat.

Funny then that this turned into one of the most well behaved crowds we’d ever hosted.  We had set up a private area on the bow of the Jewel for ICP and their crew to use.  But they didn’t spend more than 10 minutes up there and spent the rest of the cruise just mingling with their fans.  And for a fan base so rabid, the Juggalos were giving Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope their space.  Barely any of them asked for a photo or an autograph.  They were just happy to be around and talk to their superhero idols.  I was wearing a Rocks Off shirt and all night I got a steady stream of Juggalos coming up to me and thanking me for letting them come on the boat.  Almost every one of them had the same thing to say.  Basically: “Thank you SO MUCH for doing this.  So many people don’t want Juggalos in their establishments.  They think we are a bunch of troublemakers, but the truth is we’re a FAMILY.  And we are starved for events like this where we can all gather and show people that we really aren’t trouble.”  And they were right.  The vibe on the boat was overwhelmingly positive.  These people really do consider themselves FAMILY.

My friend Sean Dunne, a documentary filmmaker (who you might know form his Johnny Corndawg Film “Stary Dawg (http://vimeo.com/22875944) , was thinking of making a doc about juggalos and he came on the boat.  He was converted as quickly as I was and just knew he had to go to the Gathering.  I connect him with the ICP management and before you could sayNinja he was told he’s be hooked up press passes.   His work resulted in American Juggalo – a film the band has yet to publicly acknowlege, yet within a week of it’s release, without any promo campaign, took off like wildfire and is closing in on one million views.  Pretty spectacular consider the low % of Juggalos who fuck with the internet.

I woke up the next morning and said “If that’s what 300 of these people are like – I gotta get to the gathering of the Juggalos and see what 15,000 of them are like.  So I did.  But not before I went and got myself a Hatchetman Tattoo.  Not only did we go – but team Rocks Off chartered a bus and christened it the Juggalo Express.  That decision ranks up there as one of the best things I ever did.  The Gathering is a completely surreal and lawless place; there couldn’t be, and probably shouldn’t be any other place like it on earth.  I came home and described it to somebody as “Burning Man for people with no ambition.”  It was Shangri La for people who just don’t give a FUCK.  And it was so refreshing.  There’s no social structure or heirarchy with Juggalos.  Nobody gives a shit if you’re skinny for fat or rich or poor or smart or dumb.  All that matters is that you’re “down with the clown.  Then you’re family.

So of course I was looking forward to re-uniting with this crazy crew at the Hammerstein Ballroom.  The American Psycho Tour rolled into the Hammerstein with more pomp than Barnum and Bailey.  ICP brought along their Psychopathic Records brethren Blaze Ya Dead Homie and Twiztid.  While they turned in decent sets, it was Insane Clown Posse who stole the show.  From the minute the lights went down and we were treated to JFK quotes and Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope hit the stage on their pimped out low rider bicycles til the set closing Bang Pow Boom there was an, ahem, INSANE amount of energy in the crowd.  Faygo was flying the entire time.  Security guards were wearing ponchos.  It didn’t matter – everyone was soaked.  The night closed with “Faygo Armageddon.”  During the finale “Bang Pow Boom” the stage was overrun with psycho clowns and a group of fans who were let loose on the giant racks of Soda and it was literally raining Faygo inside the Hammerstein Ballroom.  I showered when I gopt home last night and showered again this AM.  And I still smell like root beer.  And I couldn’t be happier.  Im a juggalo.  And I don’t give a fuck who knows it.

making tragedy happen in the uk v 1.10

Ah, the day of our London show has arrived.  I could barely sleep leading into it.  I got to the venue on the early side, just to soak it all in.  It was family day at the venue as well.  Not only were Jane and Lil T there, but Ginger’s mom came with his other 2 monkeys… Jake and Jasmine.  I really don’t how this guy has managed to have 3 cute, well behaved kids.  And Gav too.  Fuck.  Maybe if I was English I wouldnt be so afraid of the little monsters.  But I’m not.  So I am.  The ones we produce at home are like mini- Al Qauedas.  Nose-picking, pierce-wailing, landspeed-record-breaking, shit-rocket terrorists.

Meeting little Jake was quite a treat.  I mean this is the kid, who at 5, wrote what is obviously the best unrecorded song in the history or rock n roll.  THUNDER BIKE!  And its pretty cool that I get to tell people the J-A-K-E tattoo on Gingers knuckles was inspired by me.  So I gotta make sure this kid’s visibility stays low or my cover is blown!  At one point Jake reached up and grabbed the little gun-metal-plated .45 I wear around my neck and pretended to shoot me in the throat with it.  And we had a great conversation about pro wrestling.  He’s definitely Ginger’s boy!  Jasmine was cool too.  Even though she wouldnt give me any candy.  A heart breaker in training.
Since today was the last day of tour with the Wildhearts, I knew I had to break out the glitter big time.  I had been saving up a nice big jar of lavendar glitter that I had bought in Manchester, and also brought a big juicy bottle of Silver, and small bottle of dusty pink.  Yup, I was armed, locked, and loaded.  When I walked in the Wildhearts dressing room and busted out the glitter, Scott and Ritch’s faces showed the fear.  They knew they were in for a big night.  I popped the bottles own on the table and let the sweating start.

Upstairs in the sober room, I met Sasha, CJs girlfriend.  Super hot and smart too.  She was a speechwriter for the Premiere of Scotland for a few years, but now she does some sort of hippie dippie commie  shit about kids and green spaces and blah blah blah.  Aside from that, she’s pretty cool.  Except for he fact tat she’s deathly afraid of glitter.  So of course she was target  numero uno.  I got her good as soon as I saw her, but had to stay away from CJ for the time being, as he was wearing some one of a kind pussy jacket that cost him 600 pounds.  Im assuming Sasha paid for it, since other than being in the Wildhearts, CJ is a shiftless hippie who pretends to practice guitar all day, but more likely spends his afternoons jerking off to the “models” on the Wii Fitness game.  Sasha got glitter bomb #1 with the standard silver and spent the next 10 minutes trying to pick it all out of her clothes in the bathroom mirror.  Remarkably, she did a decent job of it.  Since I wasnt able to Glitter CJ while he was wearing his nifty fancy-lad jacket, I scored some coffee grounds and dumped those down the backside of his trousers.  Fuck the glitter bombs, CJ got a ca-ca-ca-ca-caffeine bomb! (for those keeping score at home, that was a great fucking Wildhearts song title reference)
I needed to re-load with bigger ammo and get Sasha with a higher intensity Glitter Bomb so I ran down to the booze room to get the big bottle of Silver… but couldn’t find it.  Shit, I needed it.  Fuck.  So I dug into my bag and got the pink dust glitter.  That would do.  Back upstairs she got covered in a nice layer of that, and it was a little tougher for her to get out, which made me smile.  I also managed to get a decent bomb in on Jake and Jasmine, with their permission of course.  Once CJ’s jacket was off, he didnt either bother trying to get away from it.  Same went for Scott and Ritch.  By this point it was just another part of getting ready for stage.  But I know they know how good it looks onstage, and Ill be stunned if they’re not glittering each other up for their next tour.  Even Ginger was happy to be a full fledged member of  the glitterati for this show.

Soon it was time for Tragedy to hit. Hello LONDON.  I pounded 2 red bulls just before we went on.  I wanted to make sure I was amped and actionable….. full tilt baby.  This was by far the biggest stage we played on the tour, so there was gonna be a lot of ground to cover.  This was gonna be fun.  The moment Phil said “London City”, and I hit the stage, I felt electric.  We’ve played some great shows, but looking out at a huge theater well over 100 years old, with thousands of people looking back at you is a feeling that is hard to describe but I can only imagine would be very easy to get used to.  Even if they aren’t too impressed, you’re there to make sure that doesn’t last long.

By the time the first song was over, the first few rows were feeling the Tragedy.  Up in the front row center of the balcony I could see King Ginger holding court with his subjects Jane and Jake and Jasmine.  This guy has a serious addiction to the Js.  Even Lil T’s mil’ name is James.  Jake was pounding the devil horns non stop and every time I pointed up his way I could see his excitement level rise like Jack the Ripper’s kill count.

With each song the depth or our virus was spreading.  Our driver Paul told us from the first night, the he could see the effect we were having on the crowds. He called it the Tragedy virus.  He said that during the first song or two he could see the virus starting to spread, and people’s defenses up, trying to resist infection.  And that through the set every night he could see the infection spread and spread throughout the crowd until everyone had been infected.  With the way the Forum in London was multi-tiered, for the first time I could see what he was talking about.  Stares turned to smiles, and smiles turned to pumping fists and fits of applause after songs were over.  London had been converted; decimated even.  I was warned about British audiences before this tour started.  I learned that if they didnt like you, you’d here the boos and the heckling. And that if they really didnt like you, you’d quickly have to learn how to duck flying bottle and phlegm bombs.  I learned that if they just stood there and looked at you, then they kinda liked you.  And that if they clapped then they really liked you.  Well almost every night the UK loved us.

As if we weren’t already sure that they were loving us in London, we had a special plan for the end of the show.  At the end of the Tragedy set Ginger and CJ were gonna hit the stage and play dueling solos.  We knew that would fire the crowd up!  In discussing it with CJ beforehand, he asked how it was gonna work.  I said “You’ll just walk out and Phil will hand you his guitar, and you put it on and start shredding.”

He got a look of worry on his face and said “Oh, no no.  I can’t play your guitars.”  Huh?
“You wear them way too high.  Ill look like a fucking fag.”

“Seriously?” I said.

Even Sasha chimed in “Yeah, you guys do wear them a bit high.”

Fuck.  How was I gonna break this news to Phil.  The Wildhearts – or at least CJ – said we looked like a bunch of pussies – surely he’d be crushed.  So I just went right at it. I went to the dressing room and let him know.  But he wasnt crushed.  He said since he had been tuning Ginger’s guitar for him on this tour (Phil seemingly has a supernatural guitar tuning ability – he’s so good that Ginger actually hired him to tech after the first night of tour) and wearing Ginger’s guitar that he felt like maybe he needed to let the strap loose a little bit on his own guitar.

CJ and Phil and I walked down to the stage and Phil tried on CJs guitar and then tried on his own.  CJ even helpfully pointed out that the way his was slung made it look, much more naturally, like an extension of his penis.  Yup, big difference.  So Phil and I both let the straps out on our guitars.  Sold.

Back to stage. Before we could wow the crowd by letting them know Ginger and CJ not only LIKED us, but enjoyed playing with us, we had to knock them over the head with the most rock em sock em version of Stayin Alive ever played.    As with most nights when Phil let the crowd know that we were gonna take “The next few hours to play some little known deep cuts” there was some nervous laughter.  Then we he said “Like this one.  It is entitled “Stayin Alive”   A “look of relief” virus spread quickly through the hall, and headbanging and fist pumping ensued!!

We were rocking the fuck out of “Stayin Alive” and I was looking out at the majestic Forum, full of people, fully infected, when it hit me.  Like a ton of bricks.  Shiny, silver bricks.  I had been glitter bombed from behind.  But this was no ordinary glitter bomb.  This was the atomic glitter bomb.  That huge bottle of glitter I misplaced had been STOLEN by Scott Sorry and he and Ritch had ambushed me onstage midsong.  It must have been quite the sight to behold.  There was a huge mess of glitter at my feet and every move I made resulted in a silver glitter burst.  I must have looked like the kid form the Peanuts cartoon.  It was actually getting dangerous with all the glitter on the floor, slippery as fuck!  Looking down my arms and hands were covered, there was glitter all over my guitar. After a week of being the perp, I was the victim.  And it was sweet.  Rock n Roll.  Sweet Sweet Rock N Roll.
One song left on this Wildhearts tour.  How fitting its Tragedy.  And how fitting that CJ AND Ginger both came out to rip dueling solos at the end.  CJ looked so good with a low slung V.  I wouldn’t be surprised if he used one on the next Wildhearts tour.

When I got offstage and got to a mirror I was SHOCKED.  The sweat made the glitter stick to me like plaster.  The whole left side of my head and face was CAKED!  I looked like a human disco ball; the Tim Man from a gay disco remake of the Wizard of Oz.  It was ALL OVER.  They say no good deed goes unpunished.  And I wasnt about to let Ritch and CJ get away with that.  As soon as the Wildhearts crew had all their gear set and ready to go, I snuck out behind Ritch’s kit and layed the glitter on it.  And by on it, I mean ALL OVER it.  Every cymbal, the hi hat, the snare, and both toms.  The only thing I left untouched was his throne, but in retrospect I should have given him a glitterbum!  When he came out to start the show I was standing in the shadows just off to the side of his kit, as soon as he started playing and the lights kicked in, there was a huge pink glitter cloud hovering over the kit for a couple minutes. and Ritch had a huge smile on his face.  Americans 5 – Brits 2
I went up in the Balcony and watched the first half of the show with Lil Jake, John and Mike from Electric Six, and momma.  The Wildhearts were giving one hell of a show to London City.  Big, Huge, MASSIVE!!!!   But at the halfway point, I had to go backstage and tend to some urgent business.  Scott Sorry needed to learn what happens when you fuck with the glitter Jesus.   Earlier in the night he was telling a friend of his that I had been glittering him up so good the whole tour that now all the clothes in his suitcase had glitter on them.  That gave me a great idea, even before he bombed me onstage.  I figured I’d spread glitter all through his suitcase and give him a real surprise!  Then I though better of it.  Too much!!  But after he Pearl Harbored me onstage, I just had to do it. And do it I did.  While the Wildhearts were rockin I opened up his suitcase and went to town.  Between every layer of clothes, inside the shoes, underwear.  No garment was left untouched!  But I wasn’t done.  Oh no.  I had a huge bottle of purple glitter in reserve just for a time like this.  Towards the end of the Wildhearts set, I made my way to the wings of the stage, and waited for the perfect opportunity.  And then I pounced.  Onstage with the Wildhearts Scott is like a human pinball crossed with a mexican jumping bean, but I waited til he took his metal stance and I knew he wouldnt be moving for at least three seconds and unleashed the purple fury. Oh man, it was better than I could have imagined.  The plaster effect worked on him as well, and he was leaving a trail of glitter all around him as he resumed his running around the stage.  At the end of the song, while Ginger was having a deep philosophical conversation with the crowd, Scott was scooping up excess glitter from the stage and tossing it out onto the crowd, who was super psyched to be dosed by their hero.  win win win.  Americans 6- Brits 2.

making tragedy happen in the uk v 1.9

There was an aftershow party in at the bar in the venue in Wolverhampton.  A lot of us stayed out late.  Some later than others (wink wink Victoria – you go girl!)  But we were all there at bus call at 10:30 am for the trek to Stonehenge.  What rock n roll trip to the UK would be complete without a visit to stonehenge.  Certainly not Tragedy’s.  It was about a 3 1/2 hour drive from our hotel to Stonehenge.  And when we finally pulled up over the hill and saw Stonehenge in the distance, there was a collective “huh?”  Surely that couldnt be it.  The road runs RIGHT NEXT TO IT.  Surely you have to take a mule down a steep trail lined with druids who keep the path lit with torches, no?  The answer was a resounding NO!  We arrived and pulled into the carpark, which was on the opposite side of the road as Stonehenge.  Know what that means?  Yup, you got it, yuo’ve got to walk from the carpark, across the major road, to get to the Stonehenge site.  Why they built the road RIGHT NEXT to this million year old monument is beyond me.  There was nothing but shy sheep waiting to get fucked by Scotsmen for as far as the eye could see, yet some civil engineer decided that the road needed to abut the monument.  It was probably the same guy who thought it might be a good idea to paint big bull-eyes on the tops of all the major English Landmarks and power stations in the late 1930s.  And we’re surprised that they serve their beer warm.  I think its one of the least of their worries, still to this day.

As soon as the bus pulled into the carpark, we executed operation “Change Em Up” Which consisted of 3 grown men getting into decidedly conspicuous costumes in full view of the throngs of tourists who were flocking to this prehistoric, mysterious site.  Judging by the looks of the people at Stonehenge, I think those who had seen Spinal Tap were in the slim minority.  As soon as we were all changed, we marched straight to the gate and purchased 10 tickets.  Paul even got us a group rate!!  We had to be quick cuz it was freezing cold.  And not freezing as in, oh my god Im cold, but freezing as in, the water that had settled onto the ground had turned to ICE.  Yeah, FREEZING.  Below centigrade.  Thats not good for a bunch of dudes in Shiny, Sequined, Polyester, Fucktard Outfits.  We basically did a get-in-and-get-out mission.  We got in there and clicked away. Stills, videos, us singing, us walking, us rocking, we got as much as we could in as short a time as possible, and hightailed it back to the car, like our feet was a freezing and our pee was turning to slush.
Another nice and nifty 4 hour ride into London made us wonder if the trip to stonehenge was really worth it.  And of course the answer is fuck yes!  What else were we gonna do with that day off?  And once we see the footage in our wonderful video, we’ll know for sure that it was worth the time we spent.
When we finally arrived in London, we went ot the Euston Station Travelodge.  As far as Travelodges go, this one was nice and new.  Unfortunately, by the time I was sure my momma was coming, it was sold out, so momma and I got a taxi to our hotel in Bayswater.  We were at the Shaftesbury Royal Hyde Park.  Just 6 days old when we checked in, it had both that new hotel smell as well as the luxury of being staffed by “new hotel staff” who acted like they had just moved to London.  Softball type questions such as “How far is it from here to Paddington Station (one of the main train stations in London)?” totally twisted their faces into rubber-band balls of perplexion.  Well at least the rooms were clean, there was both food and amenities within a very short walk, and momma was happy.
After sitting around the hotel for an hour, I decided I wanted to go out. But where?  How should I know?  I hadnt been to London in 9 years, and even then it was only for a night.  Hmmmm.  I wandered outside and hopped into a cab and told him “I wanna go where the people go.  Take me somewhere there will be girls walking around and some signs of life.”  He told me Camden Town was where I wanted to go, and who was I to argue.  I said sure, and he took me on a little tour of Camden and pointed out different pubs and restaurants and music venues.  He finally let me out in front of the Barfly, convinced that what I wanted to do was go see live music, since I was in a band and all.  I didnt tell him that the last place I wanted to be was a small club with 5 local bands playing.  Thats like going to fucking work.  But I thanked him and got out of the cab.  I even gave him a tip since he gave me a guided tour of the neighborhood.  As soon as he drove away I saw the Roundhouse across the street.  Yeah the Roundhouse.  Where Jimi Hendrix played in the 60s.  And where my friends Mindless Self Indulgence played recently.  There were a few people milling about in the lobby, so I walked across the street to see what was going on,  figuring that unless is was a steaming pile of horseshit (no not Haggis, the meal favored by Scots) like Bon Iver, that I’d pay the cover and go inside just to see the venue.
I walked up to the dude at the ticket desk and said “What have you got going on tonight?”
“Lucha Libre,” he said.  HOLYFUCKINCHEETMANGDIDHEJUSTELLEMTHEREWASMEXICANWRESTLINGGOINGONINLONDONONATUESDAYFUCKINGNIGHT????
“You gotta be kidding me!!!  Are you serious????” I almost screamed.
“Yeah, mate.”
“Okay, Ill take one ticket please,” I said as is atrted rifling through my pockets, not able to get my money out fast enough.
“You’re too late.”
“Whattaymean Im too late.  Is it over??”
“No, but the box office is closed.”
“Well then it sounds like Im just in time, can I go inside.”
“Sorry Mate, you can’t go inside without a ticket.”
“Okay then, sell me a ticket”
“I cant do that.  The box office is closed.  The people who were selling tickets are gone.”
“Then Ill just slide you a ten pound note and you can let me walk in.”
“Cant do that either.”
“Um well, then can you just let me in???  I mean, I’m willing to buy a ticket, the event is going on, but you wont sell me one!”  I started doing an actual scan of my body.  Do I have anything mexican wrestling related on me?  A mask in my pocket?  On a keychain?  Suddenly Zahn’s tattoo of a Luchador seemed like a really fucking good idea.  I just started bouncing up and down like a kid who had to take a pee.  ”Dude, you gotta be ale to do soooommmmmeeeething.  Im only here for a few nights, I wandered over here aimlessly to find out theres Mexican wrestling and now you wont even let me pay to get in??  Thats like dangling dope infront a shaking junkie and telling him he cant have a spoon, a lighter, tin foil, a straw or a needle.  Its nooooooot faaaaaaiiiiiiiirrrrrrrrrrrr”
“Sorry mate, you’re too late,”  He’s fuckin stonewalling me.
“Can I speak with your supervisor please?”  Yup, Im pulling the fuckin Walmart trick.
He pointed me over to a group of 3 dudes wearing headsets who looked entirely too pleased with themselves. Fuuuuuuuuuuuccccccccccckkkkkkkkkkk.  I walked up and started telling them the story, and broke into the pee pee dance again.  Bouncing up and down saying “Im just here for 3 days, my band is playing in town, I came here because a lot of my friends’ bands have played here I just wanted to see the venue and now I find out you have mexican wrestling which is the only thing I love more than girls and rock n roll and girls and this guy over here is telling me I cant even buuuuuuuuuy a ticket mister please wont you taker pity on me i just wanna see the lucahdores pllllleeeeeeeeaaaaaassssssssssssseeeeeeeeee!!!!”
That had to work. Right?  Right??  Of course it did.  I was barely done with my shameless pleas when head walkie talkie dude pulled a ticket out of his pocked and handed it to me.  And it had my favorite price on it – 0.00 pounds.  Passion, conviction, and persistence win again.
American 4 – Brits 2
I lept the staircase to the main level with one single bound and almost sprinted into the auditorium.  As soon as I got inside it was  as if I had stepped onto a movie set where they were about to film a Lucha Libre scene.  There were sparkly drapes hanging all around, three giant video screens and a ring right in the center of the floor.  And to top it off the Roundhouse was one of the most stunning first looks at a venue I’d ever seen.  It was round, duh, and the rafters seemed to stretch on for a mile into the sky where there was a wild pattern of wooded beams criss crossing each other and rising to a point way up in the sky that I imagined had just poked into the moon like a discarded toothpick finds the stray cube of cheese at the end of hors d’ouvre hour.
And then it hit me.  Shit.  I forgot to eat. My stomach was rumbling something fierce. I had planned on eating in Camden but as soon as I heard it was Mexican Wrestling night all my focus went toward getting inside, and now that I was, my tummy returned me to reality and was letting me know in no uncertain terms that I need to eat.  I took a little lap around the main floor and found a Taco stand.  Selling some pretty authentic tacos.  Three soft tacos for 5 pounds.   Like a Jorge Thoroughgood song.  One chicken, one pork n’ one beef.    Mmmmmmmm.  There was a party in my tummy, so yummy so yummy!
As I was in line for the Tacos, they called intermission, so after eating I wandered around the Roundhouse and admired the architecture from all angles, and then found a great photo display in the lobby detailing its painstaking restoration a few years back.  Man, NYC is sorely lacking in cool, vibe-y spots for bands to play.
I headed up tho the balcony for the start of the 2nd round of matches.  The first match was a one on one match for the WWA championship.  Between Blue Demon Jr and Douchey McDoucherson.  When the ring announcer was setting up the intros, he mentioned that the lineage of that particular belt can be traced back to Sting and Ric Flair.  As soon as he said Ric Flair, the auditorium erupted in a chorus of “Whooooooooooooooooos”  Wait a minute… Only real wrestling fans know that you have to let out a “whoo” at the slightest mention of the Nature Boy.  And these people did not look like real wrestling fans.  Most of the men had all their teeth for starters, which is rare enough in the UK, much less at a WRESTLING match in London.  Secondly, there were women there.  And not just women who had been dragged by their boyfriends, but packs of women.  Im talking bachelorette sized packs of women, but none of them were wearing Tiaras or sucking on penis shaped lollipops.  These were just women who decided to come see wrestling.
But maybe it was a fluke.  Maybe these people are only here because its Mexican Wrestling, and its in town and it’s a novelty, like the fat chicks with tattoos who pretend to put on Roller Derby events.  And maybe Ric Flair had some reality show in Britain that I didnt know about, but somehow these people all knew the Naitch, the Limosine Ridin, Jet Flyin, Kiss Stealing, Son Of a Gun.  And as soon as the match started it became perfectly clear that these poeple knew their wrestling too.  Everyone cheered at the right times, when the Luchadores pulled of a particularly difficult move, or a had a great exchange on the mat.  And when Blue Demon dove out over the top rope onto Douchey and an “ECW” chant broke out, my face was bathed in tears of joy.
The highlight, like in most wrestling matches was the main event, featuring Lucha Legend El Santo Del Hijo.  But not just because he was wrestling.  Though it was a thrill to see him in a 6 man tag match, it was nothing compared to the two flamboyantly gay Luchadores.  Yes, there were 2 flamobyanlty gay lucadores.  One was a carribean queen all dolled up with a wild feather headdress looking like a cross between a rockettes and one of Liberace’s backing dancers.  The other was dressed in a unitard that was made of half a union jack and half a Mexican fag.
After the matches were over it was straight back to the hotel. There was no way I was gonna top that!  London Loves me.

making tragedy happen in the uk v 1.8

Wolverhampton City. The Midlands.  A Wildhearts stronghold.  After a nifty three hour drive through the rain and fog we arrived in Wolverhampton.  Everyone was sick by the time we got to Wolverhampton.  And cranky.  Ah, the 7 day itch.  We pulled up to the venue and unloaded our bags and headed straight to the chemist.  The big “drugstore” is called Boots.  Yeah, Boots.  Why not?  Makes as much sense as Duane Reade.  After loading up on cold medecine, flu medecine, vitamins, honey drops, throat lozenges, and a pack of smokes to balance it all out, it was back to the venue, where we heard they had laundry facilites.  Surely some clean clothes would lift everybody’s spirits.  Or it would have, had the laundry room not been in the bolier room off the venue’s loading dock and had it not resembled the toilet scene from Trainspotting where Ewan Mcgregor loses his dope.  Still I would have been tempted to load my clothes into the deathtrap of a washer were it not for the piles of rust colored soiled towels laying around, on and INSIDE the washing machine.  Americans 2- Brits 3.  They got us good on that one.

So it was down to the cold, dank, basement dressing rooms to kill some time before sound check.  When A started soundchecking at 4pm, I thought we might have a fighting chance of getting our first proper check of the tour.  And when A finished their check at 5pm I knew we had a more than a fighting chance.  And not only did we get a full check, but Andy, the Wildhearts drum tech, had taken pity on us and left plenty of room between Ritchie’s riser and the front of the stage, giving both A and Tragedy plenty of stage room to work with.  A’s singer Jason and I joked around that we’d be able to do pirouettes with all the room we had.  Only I wasnt joking.  And Im pretty sure he knew that.  To make sure he knew I wasnt fucking around, during the show I actually busted out some ballerina moves during You should Be Dancing when I saw him watching from the wings.
About two hours before showtime, we got the delightful treat of meeting Gav’s 10 year old daughter Liv.  I’ve gotten to know Gav pretty well over the past year and change, spent plenty of time together including a total of 2-3 weeks of him sleeping at my house in NYC.  So In October when we were in lovely New Jesery at the Crowne Plaza off Ext 8 for the Iron Sheik Celebrity Wrestler Roast, it was quite a shock when he calmly told me he needed to make a phone call to wish his daughter a happy 10th birthday. DAUGHTER??  10 YEARS OLD??  This guy was just in NYC in April celberating his 30th birthday.  And he doesn’t look a day over 20 as it is. That means 11 years ago, when he probably looked NINE, he found a chick to let him put it in her.  No wonder she got pregnant.  Who wuld think a 9 year old boy would be shooting swimmers.
Meeting Liv was quite a treat.  There’s something that lives in the water in Wildheartsville that makes them unable to produce the normal sort of snot shooting monster spawn that most children are.  The most notable thing about Liv when I saw her, was my she looks a lot like Gav, only CUTE.  How bizarre.  Within minutes of meeting her I asked if she liked Glitter and she chuckled and nodded.  SO I hit her up with a nice dusting of Silver.  Then I asked if she thought her dad would like Glitter.  Gav had been staunchly anti-glitter the whole tour and got pretty upset when I managed to get him with a little bit in Oxford, but once his daughter called for it, there was nothing he could do, and he got a right straight sparkle shower.  Ah the joy I took in that one.
Knowing it was the 2nd to last day of the tour, the glitter bombing continued at a furious pace.  Ritch, the Wildhearts drummer, was having something of a homecoming show, and most of his family and friends managed to get glittered, except for the guy who looked like the villain from Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels.  I wasnt going anywhere near that nutter.
Finally, it was time to take the stage, and I used up all the glitter I had left in my bag on myself.  This was a big room, and I wanted to make sure Id be sparkling even for the people in the back row!  We took the stage, decimated the fucking house, and then prepared for another massive thrashing from the Wildhearts.  They didnt disappoint, of course, and I used my fancy AA pass to get down into the pit and take some photos.  Damn Im like a genius n shit.
After the show we made our way to the merch booth to sign autographs for our adoring masses.  But in a weird twist of fate, we sold 90% of our stuff as soon as we were done playing, and once the Wildhearts show was over, we just stood behind the table and watched the crowd mostly filter past us, and a bunch stopped to get Wildhearts Merch.  Its a super ego boost when we’re in full costume and someone says “Ay, mate, lemme see that Wildhearts shirt in a large, yeah?”  These people must either be drunk or stupid to think that Ginger employs an 8 piece supremely-well-outfitted-disco-glam-metal-merchandise team.  Or…. um…. BOTH!  Yeah, Im going with both.
When the Wildhearts put out their covers album, Ginger was delighting in telling people, both in the liner notes and in interviews how “Battleship Chains” by the Georgia Satellites was such a genius song, because it only had 2 chords.  TWO!  ”Even the Ramones needed three” I heard him tell numerous people.  Well, lemme tell you, I am now a certified genius.  I wrote a song while I watched all the Wildhearts fans in Wolverhampton file out of the gig.  It only has TWO CHORDS.
D and C.  Strummed like this: DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD C DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD C DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD C DDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD C.
The D chords stand for Dude and the C chords for Chicks.  Thought I may not be the genius I thought I was.  I think I need to add an F chord.  Not to spice it up musically, but just to get a little more descriptive.  The F of course, stands for FAT.