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Monday, April 25, 2005

Punk Rock For Life

So my band - the Chest Pains - played our first show this past weekend.

It was a four-band bill in Raleigh at a place called Kings (

I was nervous as all get out come the day of the show.
But we came, saw and conquered.

Nobody could have fingered us as a new band. Most folks thought we were tight.
Which is good.

I fucked up the verse on the first song but we figured out how to fuck up and keep playing weeks
ago, so it was all good. By the second song, I was channeling my inner rock god and going full bore.

The club owner said my vocals reminded him of Dez Cadena-era Black Flag, my friend Daniel over at thought we had some Minutemen-esque moments. Another friend said we sound like Gwar. Nothing to complain about there; our 8 songs in 20 minutes won over many, as we were asked to be the opener for shows next month with The Ghost Of Rock and the Chrome Plated Apostles. Also Kings c-owner (and Cherry Valence bassist) Paul Siler said he was happy to see something that punk at his club.


Keeping the flame alive.

Punk rock for life.

Tuesday, April 19, 2005

The Lecture

Okay, so I got the lecture again today.

From my wife.

The "you are so fucked up I can't trust you" lecture.

It was almost comical. Comical in the sense of context: Saturday I'm set to play the first show with my new band - first band in 20 years I might add - and my wife thinks it's going to turn into a drunken intervention of the collgiate kind. I think her exact words were: "you will be puking in the alley way behind the club."

I heard Homer Simpson in my head... "It's funny cuz it's true!"
I mean you can't teach an old dog new tricks. I have no agenda set out to get totally fucked up that night but then again there are few nights I've set out to do that yet most nights it can happen. So I'm not aggrevivated by such a comment as smirking delusional on her part - it is what it is.

Egged on even more by the prospect of going to a rugby reunion at my old college the following weekend. "You'll be drunk then too!" Fuck, I'm drunk now! Shut up. And what's so wrong about living a little. "Your pushing 40, have kids, you can't be passing out in the gutter."

But I like the gutter. Me and the gutter are old friends. And sometimes you like to get in touch with your old friends. I guess that's what the lecture was about. Old friends. Gutters. Vomit. Conspiracies. Booze. Brass rings and broken mopeds.

I fucking hate lectures.

Monday, April 11, 2005

Drama City

Not only is Drama City the name of the new George Pelecanos book, but it also sums up my weekend.

Drama started on Friday when I was the victim of a shift change: I was scheduled to work a 200 person served dinner. But when I got to the site, it had turned out that I had been switched to another party - still a served dinner - but only for 70 guests. I could live with that.

What I couldn't live with was getting caught in a downpour while trying to unload food from the van into the building. Working in wet clothes is no fun, I can tell you that. Top that off with having to work with a recently divorced woman so bitter that I believe at times she thought I was her ex-husband by the way she was talking to me. She also had a hard time counting - several times throughout the night I asked her how many plates of needed to run to her from the kitchen she gave me the wrong number.

Next day I worked a party in Raleigh. It iwas a fund raiser for an all-girl private school called Saint Mary's. I got put on bar with this African American guy named Kenny who gave me funniest, dirtiest running commentary throughout the night. "Ooh G, look at that girl. Wo, I'd tear that shit up!" he said standing like the pimp he thinks he is. He then preceeded to rate and grade every female that walked by us be it a co-worker or guest of the party. "Look at that old lady wearing fishnet stockings. Holy smokes. She must be 60. What's a 60-year-old lady doing wearing fishnet stockings?" he finished with a question. "But she looked good though."

He confessed toward the end of the shift that he hasn't eating pussy in over a year and a half but that he's starting to get the hankering for a taste of it. I told him years ago, while working as a courier in DC, that a co-worker told me that "black guys don't eat pussy." Indeed it was a black man that told me so. "It's true Greg," he said. "We don't. But I'll take getting my dick sucked all night long! Sure enough," he said. "But sometimes don't you have to give to receive?" I asked.
"Sheeeet," he said. "Not Kenny."

The talk of pussy reminded me of a friend of mine named Doug, who as an undergrad at the University Of Maryland, had earned himself the nickname Muff Man because he loved to eat him some pussy. I shudder to think at wear his mouth has been. I told this this story to Kenny to which he replied, "Yeah, I do hear that the white man loves himself some pussy."

The shift goes from bad to worse when the hour and a half cocktail reception goes past two hours as the hostess bellowed from a sqeaky mic, "Folks, Pl-ease sit down!" Kitchen crew panics as it throws off the cooking of 350 filet mignons. Tragedy strikes again when it is discovered that the diagram that has everybodies designated sections on it has been taped to the wall upside down.
So I was really in section 9, not 6. Confusion ensued. Our VIP party turned into and All You Can Eat at Red Lobster scene with chaos as to who was serving which table. Could it get worse? Yes. Halfway through dessert the hostess anounces that the bar has opened back up. Kenny and I look at each other. "Oh shit!" he said before scrambling for some bags of ice to replenish the ice bowl. Back at the bar I calm the nerves with a double Kettel One and tonic. By the night's end, I would be borderline drunk.

Next day. Sunday. The family is about to head off the the store when a scream came from the passenger side of our parked car. As I walk around I saw Cole's hand closed in the door. I don't know how to react: I'm scare at the site of his hand; I want to open a can of whoop ass on Spencer. Cole turned out to be okay but I still lsot my shit on Spencer.

Saturday, April 09, 2005

Old King Cole Was A Jolly Old Soul

While my son Cole is generally a happy kid like the fairy tale that he wasn't named after, he is turning out to be quite the mischievous lad.

I've caught him wrapping the living room in toilet paper and I've stopped him from pulling wine bottles out of the wine rack. Just two days ago, I went into the kitchen to make lunch for us and when I was finished preparing it and came back to get him, I noticed the sliding door to the deck in our back yard was open. I dashed outside, yelled his name, and saw him standing in the middle of my neighbor's back yard sticking his finger in what appeared to be a mud puddle.

You can't turn your head for a second with this boy.

No sir.

As a matter of fact, I'm going to check and see if he's still napping.

Just because the house is quiet doesn't mean he's not trying to bring on the ruckus.

We Are The Chestpains

It's downright odd that my band has its first gig almost a year to the day of my sudafed O.D., which happened April 19 of last year.

Ironic in that it was because of that health scare that I got off my ass and decided to start a punk rock band; ironic in that it's how the band got our name.

So the band has buckled down.

We've scheduled two extra practices into the next two weeks - Sunday and Wednesdays respectively - to tighten up our 10-songs-in-25 minutes set. Two of them are covers: "Beverly Hills" off of the Circle Jerks' seminal Group Sex album and "Hall Of Fame" from Joyride-era Goverment Issue. Again you can find irony: we only added the covers as a way to pad our set, yet each song barely clocks in at 60 seconds.

It's Snowing Out

But the flakes are not frozen water, rather a fine yellow mist of pine pollen.

This is the time of year I dread: sinus hell.

Despite the fact that the weather is beautiful - mid-70s with a gentle breeze - you cannot open the windows to your house or car because it will be covered in a fine yellow film of pine pollen.

When the wind blows, little mini tornados - dust devils - whirl about in all their yellow glory and I have to be on my best behavior or else I will be crushed by it all; the whirling devils a constant reminder of the evil that lurks outside my closed windows.

I've been vigilant in taking my Zyrtec and even got a prescription to Flonase filled just as an extra percaution to ward off the rhinitis and sinusitis that I'm prone to get this time of year. My head is still mad congested - and I can hear my sinuses whistle and squeak when I blow my nose - but at least I can function and don't feel like total horseshit.

It's important that I keep my wits about it all right now as:

a.) it's the busiest time of the year for the catering world of which is my sole means of income
b.) my band - the Chestpains ( - have our debut gig April 23 at Kings in Raleigh (

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

The Pope Died

And being the good Catholic that I am, I figured I should weigh in on the matter.

As much as I have abandoned catholicism and its strict guidelines over the years, the impact of 12 years of Catholic school made a strong imprint.

This blog's name afterall is based on St. Jude who is seen as the patron saint of hopeless cases and lost causes. We catholics have a patron saint for everything, trust me.

St. Jude was also the name of the parish I belonged to growing up and consquently, the name of the elementary school I went to from first to eighth grade.

Our school field trips were to places like cathedrals and shrines. There were May Processions and Friday masses; First Communion and Confirmation; and lots of confessioning.

I still dearly moved by religious iconography and art.
I mean what is the first thing you see when you walk into a catholic church?
Jesus nailed to the cross.

Like Mardi Gras

So UNC won the NCAA basketball championship last night.

And in predictable fashion, drunken revelry ensued: people flocked to the town's main drag Franklin Street, started bonfires, hung from street signs and trees and stumbled around like freaks on Fat Tuesday in New Orleans.

There are some hungover people today in Chapel Hill.

One of them was a mother of four. Her oldest daughter plays on my son Spencer's soccer team. Her husband is an academic counselor for student athletes at UNC.

Shortly after arrived for the 4 pm practice, she mumbles to me that she has a raging headache.
"I celebrated a little too hard last night," she said.

It's a little after 7 pm and I'm on my second vodka tonic.

No hangovers here my friend.

Monday, April 04, 2005


And for those of you still wondering about the status of my cock, well its alive and well.

I dropped off an ejaculation sample at the urology clinic today and got a call back later that I officially have no swimmers... my sperm has been rendered unless.

Now for those of you paying any attention, you realize that I had my vasectomy procedure way back in January.

It's true, it has taken me that long to get up the nerve to cum into a sample specimen cup.
I mean I don't have a problem impregnating the sewer/septic systems of the world but there's something about having to put it in a cup and take it somewhere that kept me from doing it.

My interaction went something like this:

"Honey, what do you say we knock out a sample for the doctor today?"
"Um, well okay," she says.
"What do you have in mind?"

I unbuckle my pants and dropped my drawers to reveal a hard cock.
"I'm thinking it'd be great if you blew me"

"It better not take long," she says.
"Does it ever?" I say.

Then I call the urologist and ask if the doctor's in (this is what I've been instructed to do knowing full well my doctor isn't going to test my semen for sperm).

The doctor's in alright.

"Can I drop off a sperm sample?" I say.
The old lady receptionist does her best Mrs. Doubtfire impersonation: "Ohh well um, hee ho, why I'm yes."

Five minutes later I'm at the doctor's office with my sample in a brown lunch bag as to not scare anybody walking in with a specimen cup loaded up with cum. Mrs. Doubtfire asks me a few questions.

"Is this from this morning?"
I turn around and look at the clock.
"Um, about ten minutes ago," I say.
"Uh, ooh, ahem, Okay and your date of birth is?" asks Mrs. Doubtfire and I could swear she was blushing.
"Two sixteen sixty eight,"I say.
"And when was your procedure?" she asks.
The phone rings.
"Excuse me," she says as she picks up the phone.
"Durham Urology. How can I help you?"

I can't help but wonder what the person who handles these specimens thinks:
"Um, that's all he could muster up? Poor fellow" or "God damn that guy delivered a monster load." And then I have this weird, creepy sexual deviant thought that the lady who works in the lab is one of those buttakke-types who likes to drink cum. Of course! That's why she works in the lab testing men's ejacualte for traces of sperm.

I'm only momentarily freaked out by this.
And it's more so that I thought about it then it actually happening.

Christ My Spelling Is Bad

I'm so glad my mother doesn't read this blog.

Lord onlyknows how much she'd be on my ass seeing all those mispelled words in the last few posts. I mean given the fucking fit she threw about the way I endorsed my checks and all.

The next vodka tonic is for you mom.


They're Playing Basketball


That's right folks. There's a basketball game on tonight.

And if you live in my neck of the woods, this means serious business.
Bars are apacked, streets are closed, blue spray paint has been unavailbale for sale for a couple of days and hotels are packed to the brim with the faithful.

ACC basketball in the Southeast is like a religion; like fucking Pentecostal snakehandlers, worked up into a fevered pitched for their team.

Once I went to the grocery store in mid-February on a Saturday, late afternoon, and it ws like a ghost town. "It sure is slow in here for a Saturday afternoon," I said to the cashier.

"Game's on," she said.

Tree House Boot Camp

Oh my.

The wifey took off last week for spring break, whihc just also happened to correspond with my son Spencer's 5th birthday.

And yeah, stupid us we made some promises: to take him to the beach and to build him a tree house.

The beacj part was easy. My wife works for Holiday Inn so we scored an Employee rate at the Holiday Inn in Wrightsville Beach, NC. A little over two hours is the drive and there's pretty much nothing between Raleigh and the beach. It can get boring. But the boys slept most of the way, that is until the wife got pulled over for speeding by an unmarked police car.

I'd tell you more but all you locals can read about it in the next issue of Raleigh's Hatchet magazine ( where it will be the bulk of my Confessions Of A Punk Rock Dad column.

Anyway, to brief you on the subject, the wife and I spent the better part of four days - from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. - contructing a tree house for the kids in our backyard. By Day Two, my body was so sore I thought I was coming down with the flu. By Day 4, I couldn't close my fingers into a fist from excessive use of hammer and drill.

Hey, but will built the fucking thing in a week.
And it's strong, study and has a god damn tin roof to boot.

Too Much Time On Their Hands

I've officially come to the conclusion that most bloggers have entirely too much time on their hands.


Pot calling the kettle black?
Maybe so, but I haven't posted anything in two weeks and suddenly my password has changed, the Pope has died and my son had a birthday.

People think that being a stay-at-home-dad, I have all the time in the world on my hands.
I should be posting a good half dozen blogs a day. To some extent, I agree. I should be posting more.

So prepare yourself for the dazzling display of catch up I'm going to do this evening....