Darth Vato - The Grampus Gets a Bath
On the way home from our show in Houston, we gave the Grampus a bath. Eric got one, too. Music by The Ziggens.
Showing posts with label larf. Show all posts
Showing posts with label larf. Show all posts
Monday, February 05, 2007
Friday, December 29, 2006
German guy needs to pay better attention. (Joke about a German stereotype included)
I like to poke fun at Germans. I got really excited when I heard the hidden track on NOFX's most recent album, called "Insulted by Germans Again," The chorus goes, "Germans love to insult me/the whole country condescends/we call it arrogance/they call it making friends." Condescending Germans are hilarious. Anyway, Kerry sent me this Reuters story about a German guy who inadvertantly flew to Sydney, Montana while attempting to visit his girlfriend in Australia. The article is mildy amusing, especially given the German reputation for being efficient and meticulous (the kid does find it odd that he would travel to Australia via the US), but I was interested by what the author left out.
As everyone knows, everything in Australia is the reverse of what it is in the rest of the world. Its fish breathe air, its men have boobs and its summer lasts from December to February. The author subtly illustrates these differences by detailing the kid's traveling attire:
"Dressed for the Australian summer in t-shirt and shorts, Tobi Gutt left Germany on Saturday for a four-week holiday."
It's obvious to me where the editor's redlines fell, because that passage should have read:
"Dressed for the Australian summer in t-shirt, shorts, socks and sandals..."
--The Robo-Pirate
As everyone knows, everything in Australia is the reverse of what it is in the rest of the world. Its fish breathe air, its men have boobs and its summer lasts from December to February. The author subtly illustrates these differences by detailing the kid's traveling attire:
"Dressed for the Australian summer in t-shirt and shorts, Tobi Gutt left Germany on Saturday for a four-week holiday."
It's obvious to me where the editor's redlines fell, because that passage should have read:
"Dressed for the Australian summer in t-shirt, shorts, socks and sandals..."
--The Robo-Pirate
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
NorCal, the westernmost province of Redneckistan.
The short of it: went to a bar in my hometown with another hometown expat who lives in San Francisco. Came to the conclusion, in conjunction with evidence observed yesterday, that Northern California is at times just about as country as North Texas is. Thus, for the time being, I will be referring to the place in which I grew up as South Carolodi. Or maybe Lodisiana? I dunno. Pick your favorite. Slowdi is easier to say, but it doesn't convey the same sense of jerkoffs roaring past you in jacked-up F-250s. I mean seriously, it's the same NASCAR hats, same Calvin-pissing-on-whatever stickers, same same tacky goatees. If not for the weather and the scenery, I'd swear I never left cowtown.
--The Robo-Pirate
p.s.
Oh, and also, Lodi is pronounced low-dye. Or load eye, if you prefer.
--The Robo-Pirate
p.s.
Oh, and also, Lodi is pronounced low-dye. Or load eye, if you prefer.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
The end of my Wooderson phase. Funny pictures and title tags included!
I've been growing beards on and off for the past few years. Once they start to approach gnarly status, I try to trim them, fuck them up and then shave them off. I grow beards partly because I continue to get fatter; beards are good for several things, but they are really good at distracting people from added poundage. In fact, it's possible that Vikings and wizards grew gnarly beards because they were self-conscious about double-chins. Another reason why I grow beards is that they are totally awesome.
Anyway, I got rid of the beard and the accompanying longish non-haircut (seen here in this file photo) in an effort to look a little more professional for work. I had recently been pegged as a doppelganger for the Burger King, and while I did receive all the accolades you would expect, I was a little embarrassed when I had to lead a meeting looking like a roadie for Molly Hatchet. Trust me, it wasn't nearly as cool as it sounds. So I cleaned up, or rather I at least cleaned up the hair and the beard. I still kept the mustache.
Now mustaches can be cool, and I think mine falls within the parameters of coolness. Plus, I drive a shitty van, which practically demands that I have one. This isn't my first mustache, but it's the longest time I've kept one, post-beard. I thought I could hack it until the new year, but I bailed, and it went down the sink this morning.
Here's why:
Since Wednesday, I have been in Lodi visiting my family for Christmas. My stay has been punctuated by two developments. The first was a giant, underground, pulsating zit on my cheek right next to my nose. It is so large and red that if I were to stand on a traffic island, I'm confident that cars would stop and wait for the zit to turn green. When one's face has such a captivating topographic feature, it doesn't really need anything else to draw attention to it. So I started thinking, hey, you're going to be seeing relatives later--maybe you should lose the molestache.
The other development that sealed the deal was a trip I made to the scale. Now I know I've put on some weight. I tried on some old suit pants recently; the button and hook were about as likely to hook up as Jerry Falwell and Harvey Fierstein. Last time I checked, I was in the low 180s, but this time, the scale showed 197. And that was after I had been to the toilet. So I started jogging. I figured I'm here for a week; I might as well be productive, especially since I'll be eating (figurative language alert) copious amounts of crap for the next few days.
So there I was, running around my parents subdivision, calves clenching, sweat streaming, lungs giving me dirty looks. I had a motivational iPod mix that went from warm-up speed (Tijuana Brass Band) to Run to the Hills. I was pumped. I was driven. I was even visualizing. As I puffed past the neighborhood park, there were, several middle-schoolers pretending to play on the swingset. And in a fantastic example of karmic retribution, the lead-twerp said, "Nice mustache, douche."
"The kids these days!" I said to myself, quickly realizing that not only did I look like an old man, but I that I thought like one, too. And of course, because my life isn't a movie, I didn't stop to deliver any of the clever remarks I made in the imaginary scenarios that unfolded in my head as I ran away. But here they are, anyway, and writing them out makes me feel twice as lame, if that is even possible.
Scenario 1:
"Nice mustache, douche!"
"Thanks! Good thing for you that I have one."
"Why's that?"
"Because if I shave it off, I'm overcome with an uncontrollable urge to kill kids."
Scenario 2:
"Nice mustache, douche!"
"Thanks! It looks great on your mom's vagina!"
Scenario 3:
"Nice mustache, douche!"
"What must--oh..... I must have just grown it."
"What do you mean just grown it?"
"Well, my mustache is sort of a warning. It immediately appears in the presence of kids who are going to grow up to be ballsucking queers."
Scenario 4:
"Nice mustache, douche!"
"Thanks. Say, you know how certain frogs are brightly colored to warn predators not to bother them, you know because they're poisonous?"
"Yeah..."
"Well, see, mustaches are like that because they're supposed to let you know that I like to slap the shit out of smartass little kids."
Woulda, coulda shoulda... and the mustache, no longer mighty in the sum of its parts, swirled about the porcelain basin, drowning in rusty hole of shame.
Guess I'll get started on the next one.
--The Robo-Pirate
Anyway, I got rid of the beard and the accompanying longish non-haircut (seen here in this file photo) in an effort to look a little more professional for work. I had recently been pegged as a doppelganger for the Burger King, and while I did receive all the accolades you would expect, I was a little embarrassed when I had to lead a meeting looking like a roadie for Molly Hatchet. Trust me, it wasn't nearly as cool as it sounds. So I cleaned up, or rather I at least cleaned up the hair and the beard. I still kept the mustache.
Now mustaches can be cool, and I think mine falls within the parameters of coolness. Plus, I drive a shitty van, which practically demands that I have one. This isn't my first mustache, but it's the longest time I've kept one, post-beard. I thought I could hack it until the new year, but I bailed, and it went down the sink this morning.
Here's why:
Since Wednesday, I have been in Lodi visiting my family for Christmas. My stay has been punctuated by two developments. The first was a giant, underground, pulsating zit on my cheek right next to my nose. It is so large and red that if I were to stand on a traffic island, I'm confident that cars would stop and wait for the zit to turn green. When one's face has such a captivating topographic feature, it doesn't really need anything else to draw attention to it. So I started thinking, hey, you're going to be seeing relatives later--maybe you should lose the molestache.
The other development that sealed the deal was a trip I made to the scale. Now I know I've put on some weight. I tried on some old suit pants recently; the button and hook were about as likely to hook up as Jerry Falwell and Harvey Fierstein. Last time I checked, I was in the low 180s, but this time, the scale showed 197. And that was after I had been to the toilet. So I started jogging. I figured I'm here for a week; I might as well be productive, especially since I'll be eating (figurative language alert) copious amounts of crap for the next few days.
So there I was, running around my parents subdivision, calves clenching, sweat streaming, lungs giving me dirty looks. I had a motivational iPod mix that went from warm-up speed (Tijuana Brass Band) to Run to the Hills. I was pumped. I was driven. I was even visualizing. As I puffed past the neighborhood park, there were, several middle-schoolers pretending to play on the swingset. And in a fantastic example of karmic retribution, the lead-twerp said, "Nice mustache, douche."
"The kids these days!" I said to myself, quickly realizing that not only did I look like an old man, but I that I thought like one, too. And of course, because my life isn't a movie, I didn't stop to deliver any of the clever remarks I made in the imaginary scenarios that unfolded in my head as I ran away. But here they are, anyway, and writing them out makes me feel twice as lame, if that is even possible.
Scenario 1:
"Nice mustache, douche!"
"Thanks! Good thing for you that I have one."
"Why's that?"
"Because if I shave it off, I'm overcome with an uncontrollable urge to kill kids."
Scenario 2:
"Nice mustache, douche!"
"Thanks! It looks great on your mom's vagina!"
Scenario 3:
"Nice mustache, douche!"
"What must--oh..... I must have just grown it."
"What do you mean just grown it?"
"Well, my mustache is sort of a warning. It immediately appears in the presence of kids who are going to grow up to be ballsucking queers."
Scenario 4:
"Nice mustache, douche!"
"Thanks. Say, you know how certain frogs are brightly colored to warn predators not to bother them, you know because they're poisonous?"
"Yeah..."
"Well, see, mustaches are like that because they're supposed to let you know that I like to slap the shit out of smartass little kids."
Woulda, coulda shoulda... and the mustache, no longer mighty in the sum of its parts, swirled about the porcelain basin, drowning in rusty hole of shame.
Guess I'll get started on the next one.
--The Robo-Pirate
Look, a post! In half-assed list format!
A List of Super-Rare Wishlist Items That You Probably Won't Get No Matter How Good You Are
1. Enriched uranium
2. Dilithium crystals
3. Stradivarius violin (apparently you can get one here.)
4. Clemency
5. Liver transplant
6. Cop when you need one
7. Chance to do college over
8. Wisecracking pet griffin
9. Eternal youth for Bob Barker
10. Grimace-hide cowboy boots
11. Invulnerability
12. Wings that work
13. Bill Waterson's return
14. Dino DNA!
15. For mopey, one-handed whiner to join you and rule the galaxy as father and son
16. A way out of this crappy deal memo
17. A "yes" answer to your prayer
18. For uppity rock critic to like your band
19. Indiana Jones IV
20. For 2008 to roll around so you can retire to your Crawford ranch and finally build that potato gun.
--The Robo-Pirate
1. Enriched uranium
2. Dilithium crystals
3. Stradivarius violin (apparently you can get one here.)
4. Clemency
5. Liver transplant
6. Cop when you need one
7. Chance to do college over
8. Wisecracking pet griffin
9. Eternal youth for Bob Barker
10. Grimace-hide cowboy boots
11. Invulnerability
12. Wings that work
13. Bill Waterson's return
14. Dino DNA!
15. For mopey, one-handed whiner to join you and rule the galaxy as father and son
16. A way out of this crappy deal memo
17. A "yes" answer to your prayer
18. For uppity rock critic to like your band
19. Indiana Jones IV
20. For 2008 to roll around so you can retire to your Crawford ranch and finally build that potato gun.
--The Robo-Pirate
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
The stirrup pants of the '00s
Dear women who insist on wearing gauchos,
In ten years, when VH1 decides it's time to reinvent I Love the '80s for the aughts, I predict that M'onique, Loni Love or another similarly unfunny comedian will go on and on about how gauchos were terrible. And while I probably won't laugh (unless they pick Wanda Sikes), I will agree with them. Seriously. These pants aren't doing anyone any favors. I've often said that I have about as much business telling a woman how to look as a woman has telling me how to drive, but gauchos are a fashion statement that manages to embarrass both the wearer and the observer. When I see them clinging ferociously to every topographic feature of a woman's ass, I feel shame for both of us. It's the same feeling I get when I get caught staring at a fat man with a toupee or a wiener dog in a sweater.
You could put gauchos on Adriana Lima, and they would still make her look ridiculous. If you look at the link here, you'll see what I'm talking about. Put that lady in anything else, and she'd be fighting off prom dates with a machete. The pants successfully make her lower half look like it belongs to an action figure. And then there's the flares. If I wore these pants, I'd feel obligated to swing from a mast with a knife in my mouth and bury some treasure. Why would a woman want to dress like a pirate? I like pirates and all, but not because the clothes are anything anyone should still be wearing.
I suggest to you, women who insist on wearing gauchos, that you go home and cut a bunch of holes in them so that you won't be tempted to wear them or give them to the Goodwill. I'd hate for a hipster or a hippy to pick them up and embarrass herself even further. Then, once you've cut them up, put them in the trash and set the trash on fire. When the fire goes out, cover the ashes with vomit, pack them in an urn and bury it in a haunted cemetery. Finally, find out who convinced you to buy gauchos in the first place and sit her/him down for a very serious discussion.
Sincerely,
The Robo-Pirate
In ten years, when VH1 decides it's time to reinvent I Love the '80s for the aughts, I predict that M'onique, Loni Love or another similarly unfunny comedian will go on and on about how gauchos were terrible. And while I probably won't laugh (unless they pick Wanda Sikes), I will agree with them. Seriously. These pants aren't doing anyone any favors. I've often said that I have about as much business telling a woman how to look as a woman has telling me how to drive, but gauchos are a fashion statement that manages to embarrass both the wearer and the observer. When I see them clinging ferociously to every topographic feature of a woman's ass, I feel shame for both of us. It's the same feeling I get when I get caught staring at a fat man with a toupee or a wiener dog in a sweater.
You could put gauchos on Adriana Lima, and they would still make her look ridiculous. If you look at the link here, you'll see what I'm talking about. Put that lady in anything else, and she'd be fighting off prom dates with a machete. The pants successfully make her lower half look like it belongs to an action figure. And then there's the flares. If I wore these pants, I'd feel obligated to swing from a mast with a knife in my mouth and bury some treasure. Why would a woman want to dress like a pirate? I like pirates and all, but not because the clothes are anything anyone should still be wearing.
I suggest to you, women who insist on wearing gauchos, that you go home and cut a bunch of holes in them so that you won't be tempted to wear them or give them to the Goodwill. I'd hate for a hipster or a hippy to pick them up and embarrass herself even further. Then, once you've cut them up, put them in the trash and set the trash on fire. When the fire goes out, cover the ashes with vomit, pack them in an urn and bury it in a haunted cemetery. Finally, find out who convinced you to buy gauchos in the first place and sit her/him down for a very serious discussion.
Sincerely,
The Robo-Pirate
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Pauly Shore gets punched out by a redneck in Lubbock.
| Sorry, Pauly, but for once, I'm siding with the redneck. That's what you get for getting Drama kicked out the the Mansion. | |
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
A message from TXDOT
My dad, a recovering technophobe who is finally joining the rest of us in the AGE OF COMPUTERS, sent me this forward today. It's a safety warning. Rather than forward it, I thought I'd post it here. That way, ONLY MY READERS WILL BE SAFE. I think that logic went into writing the Bible. But anyway, feel free to pass around a link to the Robo-Pirate or just tell your friends why you shouldn’t use cruise control on wet roads yourself. If they are skeptical, make sure to tell them you read it on the internet.
1. Where the hell is Gladewater? I know where Kilgore is, but I thought Gladewater was
that place in Florida where magazine subscriptions and vacation scams came from.
2. State cops who travel Texas freeways pulling people over and blocking off traffic are not
called Highway Patrolmen. They are called State Troopers, or, in East Texas, REDNECK
ASSHOLES.
3. I don’t want to tempt fate, but I suspect this is a hoax. In order for something to take flight,
it must have some physical structure that creates lift. Unless her car had wings, I doubt she
went aloft.
4. Flying car = totally awesome.
Now, I acknowledge that unlike DFW and West Texas, East Texas does have some topographic features other than general flatness. So it's possible that she hydroplaned across the top of a hill, which I suppose is technically flying (in a Dukes of Hazzard sort of way). Disregarding this possibility, I think a car taking flight from level ground is impossible.*
--The Robo-Pirate
*Or is it?
A couple of comments:A 36 year old Kilgore, TX resident had an accident several weeks ago and totaled
her car. She was traveling between Gladewater and Kilgore. It was raining,
though not excessively, when her car suddenly began to hydro-plane and literally
flew through the air. She was not seriously injured but very stunned at the
sudden occurrence!When she explained to the highway patrolman what had happened he told her something that every driver should know - NEVER DRIVE IN THE RAIN WITH YOUR CRUISE CONTROL ON.
She thought she was being cautious by setting the cruise control and maintaining a safe, consistent speed in the rain, but the highway patrolman told her that if the cruise control is on and your car begins to hydro-plane (what happens when your tires lose contact with the pavement), it will accelerate to a higher rate of speed and you will take off like an airplane. She told the patrolman that was exactly what had occurred.
The patrolman said this warning should be listed, on the driver's seat
sun-visor - NEVER USE THE CRUISE CONTROL WHEN THE PAVEMENT IS WET OR ICY.
1. Where the hell is Gladewater? I know where Kilgore is, but I thought Gladewater was
that place in Florida where magazine subscriptions and vacation scams came from.
2. State cops who travel Texas freeways pulling people over and blocking off traffic are not
called Highway Patrolmen. They are called State Troopers, or, in East Texas, REDNECK
ASSHOLES.
3. I don’t want to tempt fate, but I suspect this is a hoax. In order for something to take flight,
it must have some physical structure that creates lift. Unless her car had wings, I doubt she
went aloft.
4. Flying car = totally awesome.
Now, I acknowledge that unlike DFW and West Texas, East Texas does have some topographic features other than general flatness. So it's possible that she hydroplaned across the top of a hill, which I suppose is technically flying (in a Dukes of Hazzard sort of way). Disregarding this possibility, I think a car taking flight from level ground is impossible.*
--The Robo-Pirate
*Or is it?
Monday, November 13, 2006
"I'll be doing what?"
My eyes are crossing in trepidation. I just read a meeting request that contained the sentence "Steve will lead the meeting."
I have no idea what leading a meeting entails. It might as well have read, "Steve will be planning the next space shuttle mission" or "Steve will be demonstrating how to turn pickles into chickens."
--The Robo-Pirate
p.s.
On the plus side, this looks like a job for....
STEVE'S MEETING PANTS!!!
I have no idea what leading a meeting entails. It might as well have read, "Steve will be planning the next space shuttle mission" or "Steve will be demonstrating how to turn pickles into chickens."
--The Robo-Pirate
p.s.
On the plus side, this looks like a job for....
STEVE'S MEETING PANTS!!!
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Don't worry, K-Fed. There's always Wal-Mart.
Well, it took her long enough.
Celebrity redneck and baby-factory Britney Spears filed for divorce from white-trash husband Kevin Federline, citing the ever-popular irreconciable differences.
In the case of this marital dissolution, I think irreconcilable differences means "I'd like my abs and career back, please."
Kevin Federline, of course, will likely wait dejectedly for the shortbus to pick him up and take him back to the resource room.
--The Robo-Pirate
p.s.
Entertainment Weekly, after giving him the silly backpage last week, gave his album an F in this week's issue. If you read this, Kevin, the F is not for your last name.
Celebrity redneck and baby-factory Britney Spears filed for divorce from white-trash husband Kevin Federline, citing the ever-popular irreconciable differences.
In the case of this marital dissolution, I think irreconcilable differences means "I'd like my abs and career back, please."
Kevin Federline, of course, will likely wait dejectedly for the shortbus to pick him up and take him back to the resource room.
--The Robo-Pirate
p.s.
Entertainment Weekly, after giving him the silly backpage last week, gave his album an F in this week's issue. If you read this, Kevin, the F is not for your last name.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Why I heart the Me-Thinks
Look to the links under the things that make my ears hurt and click on the Me-Thinks. On the FW Weekly's dime, I took them out last Wednesday and then tried to remember the details. It'll run in the Weekly on Thursday, but you can read it down below first.
An Evening with The Me-Thinks
If you drive east on Belknap, you’ll end up in Haltom City. You’ll know because the background scenery turns into a loop of pawnshops, used-car lots and shade-tree mechanics. It’s a little like being in a cartoon, if said cartoon were directed by T.S. Elliot. Sometimes the scenery is broken up by a Vietnamese or Mexican restaurant, but mostly it looks about as industrial as a suburb can be. It’s not bad; it’s just, you know, Haltom City.
This is where The Me-Thinks are from. When you hear them, it makes perfect sense.
Ever year, The Me-Thinks win the Weekly’s Best Hard Rock award. If you had to describe them in two words, I suppose Hard Rock would work, but it does no justice to the poetic inebriation that makes them my favorite band in town. Instead of Hard Rock, try these:
The Me-Thinks are the sound of smog, collected and sculpted into grinning, slaphappy gargoyles.
They are the sonic manifestation of the bong rip you took right before puking.
They are an ’82 Monte Carlo, painted by Earl Scheib and driven by Rat Fink.
They are talented burnouts.
They are perpetual adolescents who have extended their glory days instead of merely longing for them.
They’re funny, they’re loud, and they bask in self-deprecating wit, while remaining untainted by precious, cutesy hipster-irony.
And also, they bring their own fog machine.
The band used to be a three piece, but now it’s a quartet. Ray sings and plays bass. He’s also Fort Worth’s answer to Coop, as his subversive takes on pop art have advertised pretty much every rad show in town for the past three years. Marlin is lead shredder; he also operates the fog machine. When he plays, he looks like a statue of Bacchus, if Bacchus hung out with the Norse pantheon. Will used to play drums, but now he trades leads with Marlin. His other forte is biting wit. In any other band, dual guitarists would merit coordinated rock poses, but that sounds like a lot of effort for these guys. The latest addition is Trucker John, who has filled Will’s vacant drum throne. He’s in a billion other bands, most of which are some permutation of hardcore. They are buds since junior high, and they make their own fun. Whether it involves booze, pharmaceuticals or vintage amps, they still manage a good time.
For the past 800 years or so (by my estimate, anyway), they’ve been chronicling their good time on an upcoming album. It’s called Make Mine a Double, so named, because it’s actually a double-E.P. If making a double E.P. rather than a single album strikes you as a cleverly moronic thing to do, you’re absolutely right. It’s reason #108 why they are the coolest band in town. But now the record is finally in the can, and it’s awesome. I’m biased, but I defy anyone to find a better blend of stoner-garage-punk around. It’s like Motorhead playing Circle Jerks songs, or the Stooges fronted by Fat Mike. Songs like “Burnout Timeline” and “Permanent Krokus” perfectly encapsulate life in the HC in its entire gritty splendor. If there is a need for a soundtrack to a house party gone off-the-tracks (and I posit that there is), that soundtrack is Make Mine a Double.
People tell me that my band, Darth Vato, plays party music, and I always respond with, “you should listen to the Me-Thinks instead.” Our partying is bush-league compared to theirs. I don’t mean to sell Darth Vato short, but I’m okay with being second-string. We’re in illustrious company, after all. To be fair, I think some of the best nights I’ve had have been playing with the Me-Thinks at the Wreck Room. When the “Best Of” issue of the Weekly comes out every year, I am genuinely puzzled that “Darth Vato and the Me-Thinks, Any Time They’ve Played at the Wreck Room” is not a nominee. I realize that we were nominated this year for our shows at the Moon, but I think our shows with the Me-Thinks are way better. This is not to say that the Moon shows suck; I just prefer watching the Me-Thinks churn out Turbonegro covers while drinking enough to forget my own songs. But whatever. Opinions, assholes, etcetera.
So I love the Me-Thinks. Even though they claim to be “Fort Worth’s shittiest band,” everyone knows different. Sure they get ripped, but they also shred, and they usually do both at the same time. They have a funny rule, though. They don’t headline. I know because I asked. Darth Vato is playing with them on December 15th. Since I think they’re pretty much kings, I suggested they take the midnight slot. Ray said, “Nah, because we’re only functional drunks past eleven. By twelve, we’re totally useless.”
Last week, I found out that this is really only a half-truth. I took them out for drinks in honor of their double-E.P. release on Saturday. Predictably, their capacity for functional booze absorption is a lot greater than they let on. What follows is foggy record of my attempt to hang with them and their crew.
* * * * *
I guess I got the memo wrong, because I show up at Fred’s at 7:30. We’re starting early, but not that early. I kill my time with a Maker’s-and-Seven at 7th Haven. So really it’s more like two Maker’s, but whatever. I reason that with these guys, plus or minus a drink isn’t going to change the evening’s outcome too dramatically.
Eight o’clock rolls around, and I roll back to Fred’s. Ray, Will and Trucker John have arrived simultaneously, and a couple schooners go the way of the dodo as we await burgers. Will and Trucker John will later be mocked for sharing an order of fries between them.
We’re on our third beers when the burgers arrive. Between bites, I get a bit of Haltom City Punk Rock History from Ray and Will. I ask them about Hasslehorse, an old band of Ray and Marlin’s in which Marlin actually played keys. Hasslehorse’s history is given cursory treatment, because it quickly gives way to a more enthusiastic discussion of life in the early to mid-‘90s. This thread leads me to believe that those years were little more than a series of keggers rumbling between the HC and Riverside Drive. The stories are populated by heshers and whippets and a trio of pilled-out scenesters, three chicks who would barrel into every party like Andy Capp tussling with his wife. Nowadays, the radius of the party zone is a little narrower. For the Me-Thinks, the epicenter is now their rehearsal space, a non-climate controlled tin shack, where they claim nothing ever gets done, except for a lot of drinking and the occasional screening of a Vivid Video.
It’s now 9:00, and we’ve put away three or four rounds. I should probably keep better track of this, but whatever. We make plans to hit 7th Haven before calling it a night. I know this will likely never happen given the pace we’re at, but it’s good to have goals, I guess, the road to hell being paved as it is. The next stop, anyway, is the Shamrock. Prior to this, we sit in my van listening fIREHOSE. Weed may have been involved. I don’t really know; at this point things are already hazy. Marlin never made it, and his absence prompts Will to deride his bandmate’s affinity for cock-rock such as Poison and Cinderella. Ray defends him, as much as is possible, on the grounds that Marlin just really likes hot licks. This, I think, is a dubious argument, but I say nothing, since it’s now 9:15 and there are still drinks to be had. We amble to the Shamrock.
The Asian Media Crew is waiting for us in the parking lot. They are as much a component of the band as Marlin or Trucker John.
The Asian Media Crew is a two-man operation whose ostensible function is to accompany the band everywhere and record any ensuing hilarity. There is a video camera, and I’ve seen them use it before, but tonight it will be employed intermittently. The Asians are Rat and Calvin, and they wear matching jumpsuits. Mostly they just drink and crack jokes. This past summer, I asked Ray if he was coming to the FW Weekly music awards. “Maybe,” he said. “Depending on hangovers, we might just send The Asians.” Sure enough, Rat and Calvin were the only ones present to accept the Me-Thinks Best Hard Rock Band award. I asked Rat where the band was, and he said, “I dunno. Probably at home being lame or something.” I can think of no other local band that makes public appearances by proxy, and this is yet another reason why the Me-Thinks are my favorite crew in town.
Anyway, we bounce into the Shamrock, where Marlin has been patiently waiting for the past hour. Apparently he didn’t get the memo either. Marlin is soft-spoken and considerate, and like the rest of them, enjoys a lot of beer. It’s 9:30ish. Round one (or round five or six, if you’re counting), is a flight of Sierra Nevada that everyone quickly polishes off. By 9:45, we have emptied round two, and One-Fingered Will (front man for hardcore outfit One Fingered Fist) brings over a bunch of Patron shots. When my stomach gets wind of this development, it knots up in anger. Its relationship with tequila is at best stormy; most of the time it is one of pure hatred. But down the hatch anyway, stomach be damned. I notice that Ray, Will and Marlin toss these down without blinking. Same with the Asians. I hope no one catches my grimace.
I didn’t walk into the bar clearheaded, but now my view of the Shamrock looks like a Monet painting. The joint is kind of empty; in my current state, it looks positively cavernous. Like Bat Cave cavernous. For all I know, Batman and Alfred are picking the songs on the jukebox. Evidently, they like Black Sabbath.
I don’t know what time it is by this point. My phone is on the floor, probably because I am unable to make a convincing fist. Still drinking, Ray and Will are discussing the Pogues. There is one rule about this particular topic: you can never talk about the Pogues’ music, but only about Shane McGowan’s gnarly teeth. Like an idiot, I break this rule by saying something about how Flogging Molly sounds like the Pogues. Will graciously steers things back where they belong, in the realm of Irish punk band orthodontics. Someone buys some Jager shots. After these go down, Marlin says they can call me a cab later if I want. I don’t know when later is, because it feels like 3 AM. Though I’ve drank with these guys at a number of shows, I forget that I am a rank amateur. It’s like being proud of getting your orange belt and then sparring with Chuck Norris.
My phone says it’s 10:42. I think it’s a fucking liar.
At this point, Rat is animatedly talking about grilling fish. He’s so excited that I think he has won the lottery. It turns out that he just really likes fish. He schools me on where to eat pho in the HC. I go to Tu Hai, which he says is good, but I’m supposed to go someplace else, which is better. I’m not sure, but I think Calvin is taping this exchange. He’s cracking up, regardless. But the whole table confirms, that yes, whatever this other place is called, it’s where you go for pho.
It’s 11:05. I’m trying to ease the booze-throttle back a bit, not that it matters a whole lot now. Will says he has to check out around midnight, but that doesn’t seem to slow him down. Same for Ray. While some more beers arrive, he tells me a story about being sixteen and sneaking backstage at a G.B.H. show in Dallas. I think this is about the coolest thing in the world, until he tells me about being a kid and showing up to skate a pool only to be overrun by the Zorlac Skateboard guys. Marlin gives me a burned copy of a Peaches album. I unsuccessfully try to stuff this in my shirt pocket. The three of them duck in and out of encyclopedic music debates, gently giving me crap for being a relative lightweight and giving each other crap over Rolling Stones songs. I wonder if it is midnight yet. It’s only 11:15.
The next time I check my phone, it’s almost midnight. I think the Asians have just left. Something about work the next day. Marlin has taken tomorrow off so his booze-cruise is still merrily afloat. Will and Ray are comfortable with loping into work beneath clouds of staggering hangovers, though Will leaves shortly after this proclamation. Something about driving home before he gets too gone. Eventually, Ray and I remain. When he leaves, I follow. I will nap in my van. My fortune is such that I have to make 9:00 flight the next day. I’m pretty sure I won’t notice any of it. I figure I won’t remember too much of the night anyway. Hopefully someone will, and I think this is pretty much par for the Me-Thinks course. It makes me wish I had my own Asian Media Crew. Too bad I didn’t grow up in Haltom City.
--The Robo-Pirate
An Evening with The Me-Thinks
If you drive east on Belknap, you’ll end up in Haltom City. You’ll know because the background scenery turns into a loop of pawnshops, used-car lots and shade-tree mechanics. It’s a little like being in a cartoon, if said cartoon were directed by T.S. Elliot. Sometimes the scenery is broken up by a Vietnamese or Mexican restaurant, but mostly it looks about as industrial as a suburb can be. It’s not bad; it’s just, you know, Haltom City.
This is where The Me-Thinks are from. When you hear them, it makes perfect sense.
Ever year, The Me-Thinks win the Weekly’s Best Hard Rock award. If you had to describe them in two words, I suppose Hard Rock would work, but it does no justice to the poetic inebriation that makes them my favorite band in town. Instead of Hard Rock, try these:
The Me-Thinks are the sound of smog, collected and sculpted into grinning, slaphappy gargoyles.
They are the sonic manifestation of the bong rip you took right before puking.
They are an ’82 Monte Carlo, painted by Earl Scheib and driven by Rat Fink.
They are talented burnouts.
They are perpetual adolescents who have extended their glory days instead of merely longing for them.
They’re funny, they’re loud, and they bask in self-deprecating wit, while remaining untainted by precious, cutesy hipster-irony.
And also, they bring their own fog machine.
The band used to be a three piece, but now it’s a quartet. Ray sings and plays bass. He’s also Fort Worth’s answer to Coop, as his subversive takes on pop art have advertised pretty much every rad show in town for the past three years. Marlin is lead shredder; he also operates the fog machine. When he plays, he looks like a statue of Bacchus, if Bacchus hung out with the Norse pantheon. Will used to play drums, but now he trades leads with Marlin. His other forte is biting wit. In any other band, dual guitarists would merit coordinated rock poses, but that sounds like a lot of effort for these guys. The latest addition is Trucker John, who has filled Will’s vacant drum throne. He’s in a billion other bands, most of which are some permutation of hardcore. They are buds since junior high, and they make their own fun. Whether it involves booze, pharmaceuticals or vintage amps, they still manage a good time.
For the past 800 years or so (by my estimate, anyway), they’ve been chronicling their good time on an upcoming album. It’s called Make Mine a Double, so named, because it’s actually a double-E.P. If making a double E.P. rather than a single album strikes you as a cleverly moronic thing to do, you’re absolutely right. It’s reason #108 why they are the coolest band in town. But now the record is finally in the can, and it’s awesome. I’m biased, but I defy anyone to find a better blend of stoner-garage-punk around. It’s like Motorhead playing Circle Jerks songs, or the Stooges fronted by Fat Mike. Songs like “Burnout Timeline” and “Permanent Krokus” perfectly encapsulate life in the HC in its entire gritty splendor. If there is a need for a soundtrack to a house party gone off-the-tracks (and I posit that there is), that soundtrack is Make Mine a Double.
People tell me that my band, Darth Vato, plays party music, and I always respond with, “you should listen to the Me-Thinks instead.” Our partying is bush-league compared to theirs. I don’t mean to sell Darth Vato short, but I’m okay with being second-string. We’re in illustrious company, after all. To be fair, I think some of the best nights I’ve had have been playing with the Me-Thinks at the Wreck Room. When the “Best Of” issue of the Weekly comes out every year, I am genuinely puzzled that “Darth Vato and the Me-Thinks, Any Time They’ve Played at the Wreck Room” is not a nominee. I realize that we were nominated this year for our shows at the Moon, but I think our shows with the Me-Thinks are way better. This is not to say that the Moon shows suck; I just prefer watching the Me-Thinks churn out Turbonegro covers while drinking enough to forget my own songs. But whatever. Opinions, assholes, etcetera.
So I love the Me-Thinks. Even though they claim to be “Fort Worth’s shittiest band,” everyone knows different. Sure they get ripped, but they also shred, and they usually do both at the same time. They have a funny rule, though. They don’t headline. I know because I asked. Darth Vato is playing with them on December 15th. Since I think they’re pretty much kings, I suggested they take the midnight slot. Ray said, “Nah, because we’re only functional drunks past eleven. By twelve, we’re totally useless.”
Last week, I found out that this is really only a half-truth. I took them out for drinks in honor of their double-E.P. release on Saturday. Predictably, their capacity for functional booze absorption is a lot greater than they let on. What follows is foggy record of my attempt to hang with them and their crew.
* * * * *
I guess I got the memo wrong, because I show up at Fred’s at 7:30. We’re starting early, but not that early. I kill my time with a Maker’s-and-Seven at 7th Haven. So really it’s more like two Maker’s, but whatever. I reason that with these guys, plus or minus a drink isn’t going to change the evening’s outcome too dramatically.
Eight o’clock rolls around, and I roll back to Fred’s. Ray, Will and Trucker John have arrived simultaneously, and a couple schooners go the way of the dodo as we await burgers. Will and Trucker John will later be mocked for sharing an order of fries between them.
We’re on our third beers when the burgers arrive. Between bites, I get a bit of Haltom City Punk Rock History from Ray and Will. I ask them about Hasslehorse, an old band of Ray and Marlin’s in which Marlin actually played keys. Hasslehorse’s history is given cursory treatment, because it quickly gives way to a more enthusiastic discussion of life in the early to mid-‘90s. This thread leads me to believe that those years were little more than a series of keggers rumbling between the HC and Riverside Drive. The stories are populated by heshers and whippets and a trio of pilled-out scenesters, three chicks who would barrel into every party like Andy Capp tussling with his wife. Nowadays, the radius of the party zone is a little narrower. For the Me-Thinks, the epicenter is now their rehearsal space, a non-climate controlled tin shack, where they claim nothing ever gets done, except for a lot of drinking and the occasional screening of a Vivid Video.
It’s now 9:00, and we’ve put away three or four rounds. I should probably keep better track of this, but whatever. We make plans to hit 7th Haven before calling it a night. I know this will likely never happen given the pace we’re at, but it’s good to have goals, I guess, the road to hell being paved as it is. The next stop, anyway, is the Shamrock. Prior to this, we sit in my van listening fIREHOSE. Weed may have been involved. I don’t really know; at this point things are already hazy. Marlin never made it, and his absence prompts Will to deride his bandmate’s affinity for cock-rock such as Poison and Cinderella. Ray defends him, as much as is possible, on the grounds that Marlin just really likes hot licks. This, I think, is a dubious argument, but I say nothing, since it’s now 9:15 and there are still drinks to be had. We amble to the Shamrock.
The Asian Media Crew is waiting for us in the parking lot. They are as much a component of the band as Marlin or Trucker John.
The Asian Media Crew is a two-man operation whose ostensible function is to accompany the band everywhere and record any ensuing hilarity. There is a video camera, and I’ve seen them use it before, but tonight it will be employed intermittently. The Asians are Rat and Calvin, and they wear matching jumpsuits. Mostly they just drink and crack jokes. This past summer, I asked Ray if he was coming to the FW Weekly music awards. “Maybe,” he said. “Depending on hangovers, we might just send The Asians.” Sure enough, Rat and Calvin were the only ones present to accept the Me-Thinks Best Hard Rock Band award. I asked Rat where the band was, and he said, “I dunno. Probably at home being lame or something.” I can think of no other local band that makes public appearances by proxy, and this is yet another reason why the Me-Thinks are my favorite crew in town.
Anyway, we bounce into the Shamrock, where Marlin has been patiently waiting for the past hour. Apparently he didn’t get the memo either. Marlin is soft-spoken and considerate, and like the rest of them, enjoys a lot of beer. It’s 9:30ish. Round one (or round five or six, if you’re counting), is a flight of Sierra Nevada that everyone quickly polishes off. By 9:45, we have emptied round two, and One-Fingered Will (front man for hardcore outfit One Fingered Fist) brings over a bunch of Patron shots. When my stomach gets wind of this development, it knots up in anger. Its relationship with tequila is at best stormy; most of the time it is one of pure hatred. But down the hatch anyway, stomach be damned. I notice that Ray, Will and Marlin toss these down without blinking. Same with the Asians. I hope no one catches my grimace.
I didn’t walk into the bar clearheaded, but now my view of the Shamrock looks like a Monet painting. The joint is kind of empty; in my current state, it looks positively cavernous. Like Bat Cave cavernous. For all I know, Batman and Alfred are picking the songs on the jukebox. Evidently, they like Black Sabbath.
I don’t know what time it is by this point. My phone is on the floor, probably because I am unable to make a convincing fist. Still drinking, Ray and Will are discussing the Pogues. There is one rule about this particular topic: you can never talk about the Pogues’ music, but only about Shane McGowan’s gnarly teeth. Like an idiot, I break this rule by saying something about how Flogging Molly sounds like the Pogues. Will graciously steers things back where they belong, in the realm of Irish punk band orthodontics. Someone buys some Jager shots. After these go down, Marlin says they can call me a cab later if I want. I don’t know when later is, because it feels like 3 AM. Though I’ve drank with these guys at a number of shows, I forget that I am a rank amateur. It’s like being proud of getting your orange belt and then sparring with Chuck Norris.
My phone says it’s 10:42. I think it’s a fucking liar.
At this point, Rat is animatedly talking about grilling fish. He’s so excited that I think he has won the lottery. It turns out that he just really likes fish. He schools me on where to eat pho in the HC. I go to Tu Hai, which he says is good, but I’m supposed to go someplace else, which is better. I’m not sure, but I think Calvin is taping this exchange. He’s cracking up, regardless. But the whole table confirms, that yes, whatever this other place is called, it’s where you go for pho.
It’s 11:05. I’m trying to ease the booze-throttle back a bit, not that it matters a whole lot now. Will says he has to check out around midnight, but that doesn’t seem to slow him down. Same for Ray. While some more beers arrive, he tells me a story about being sixteen and sneaking backstage at a G.B.H. show in Dallas. I think this is about the coolest thing in the world, until he tells me about being a kid and showing up to skate a pool only to be overrun by the Zorlac Skateboard guys. Marlin gives me a burned copy of a Peaches album. I unsuccessfully try to stuff this in my shirt pocket. The three of them duck in and out of encyclopedic music debates, gently giving me crap for being a relative lightweight and giving each other crap over Rolling Stones songs. I wonder if it is midnight yet. It’s only 11:15.
The next time I check my phone, it’s almost midnight. I think the Asians have just left. Something about work the next day. Marlin has taken tomorrow off so his booze-cruise is still merrily afloat. Will and Ray are comfortable with loping into work beneath clouds of staggering hangovers, though Will leaves shortly after this proclamation. Something about driving home before he gets too gone. Eventually, Ray and I remain. When he leaves, I follow. I will nap in my van. My fortune is such that I have to make 9:00 flight the next day. I’m pretty sure I won’t notice any of it. I figure I won’t remember too much of the night anyway. Hopefully someone will, and I think this is pretty much par for the Me-Thinks course. It makes me wish I had my own Asian Media Crew. Too bad I didn’t grow up in Haltom City.
--The Robo-Pirate
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