Friday, May 20, 2011

God Damn It, Gene Hackman, You Scum Sucking Bastard

for part 1, click here
It wasn't the beer that did it, but it was the beer that kept it going.

I was coming back from the store with a few six packs of beer in my car and a happy smile on my face. Driving under the warm glow of a mid afternoon Santa Fe sun, thoughts of Monday's seminar bubbling in my head as Amorphis (Elegy!) rocked the stereo. I turned a corner off the main road and onto Camino Cruz Blanca as the school crested into view.

Suddenly a car swerved into view behind me, a big, gas sucking SUV, honking its horn and riding up on my ass like a hopeful high schooler at the Winter Formal. Instinctively I sped up, to no avail, as the car came around and cut me off, actually forcing me off the road onto the gravel alongside. I slammed on my breaks, heart racing, as the monstrous truck slowed to a stop in front of me and then backed up, languidly rolling towards my front bumper. When it got within 10 feet, the car stopped. In my head, all sorts of crazy scenarios went off- was it the West Side Locos? Some random serial killer? Those jerks from the art college? Those damn soccer kids that I was always yelling at?

The window rolled down and a hand reached out. It slowly extended a middle finger and held it up against the sky. I was confused, but only for a moment. Its owner leaned his head out of the car and glared at me with an expression I had seen many times before, but never in real life. After a few moments passed he extended the finger even higher and took off, tires squealing, leaving a trail of dust as he passed St. John's and sped off towards the mountains behind the college.

For a moment, everything was clear. There was only me and him. Everything else passed into the background, washed away by the sheer hatred and rage that suffused his features- those cold eyes burning into my mind where they would remain to this day, 14 years later.

I would never forget that finger.

Or that face.

Gene Hackman, you son of a bitch.



But it wasn't over . . .

To be continued

Thursday, May 19, 2011

Gene Hackman You Son of a Bitch

I will be the first to admit, I've done my fair share of stupid and/or ridiculous things over the years. Most of them will, of course, make great stories at either my funeral or coronation, depending on which way the destiny cookie crumbles. There is one tale, though, that needs to be told now- the story of an innocent, naive youth and a broken, bitter man. A blood feud that spanned six years, three time zones, and too many cases of cheap beers. This, then, is the story of Gene Hackman; what happened when he pushed too hard and an entire community pushed back. Of voices that refused to be silenced, of barbed wire that refused to be left in a closet, of bad film choices that refused to be ignored.

It all started, as most things do, with a beer run.

To be continued . . .

Sunday, May 1, 2011

When Censorship is Awesome, Part III

My Rock Calls Forth The Sun

Click here for Part I

Click here for Part II

"No! No! You are demon!"

The censor glared at me censoriously and yelled at the gathering crowd in Burmese. They did what comes naturally to crowds everywhere: managed, against all physical laws, to collectively hide behind each other. The gun toter leaned against the wall, toting away calmly.

The engineer came up the steps and a hurried conversation ensued. After a few minutes and many hand gestures he turned to me.

"He say he cannot go back in with you. He say you demon. Bad luck."

I was torn. On the one hand, I was happy that my awesome vokillz had literally scared the hell out of this man- a military goon in the employ of the ruling Junta- a government as ugly as the name sounded (True story- their acronym used to be SLORC. Way greasier than COBRA). On the other hand, I wasn't allowed to record without him there. My mountain of rock was in danger of becoming a rather sissified molehill of instrumental ditherings. The crowd was pointing at me. In a corner I saw a little boy wearing no pants and a shirt that said "Orgasm Donor" (why someone would give that to the Red Cross to donate I don't . . . okay, I do. Who am I kidding? That was brilliant.) Looked at me and headbanged wildly.

Awesome.

Long story short, the censor refused to go back and our recording was delayed for a day while a replacement oppressor could be found- one who was immune to my demonic influences. All went well until, after four songs were finished, the government changed their mind. Suddenly, while finishing up "You Look Hot In That E String", the studio was rushed by MPs, a gun was pointed to my head, and I was told the recordings were "Finish."

Indeed. I managed to sneak 4 songs (out of 8) out of the studio and make 50 copies. The rest were left in the studio, which was destroyed by flooding a few months later. And thus ended my attempt at Myanmar Death Metal.

On the plus side, that Orgasm Donor shirt was kick ass.