Read my book - sonofsaf.com
My other book - dominipede.com
My other book - theimmaculaterejection.com
My other book - negativefeedbackloop.com
My other book - scalpingjew.com
My other book - TheHatefulHead.com
Read my musical - BatBoyBitesBack.com
My other book - KetosisPsychosis.com
My latest musical - BigfootStomps.com
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NeverForgetLosing.com
Visit my site - agsaf.org
For someone who has led an incredibly sheltered life, I've had the unusual distinction of seeing King Diamond live in concert six times. That's right. Six! As in 666 mutha fucka.
Back in 1989-90, on the cusp of high school/college days, I saw him three times. Once at the South Hills Theater in Pittsburgh and then twice at Bogart's in Cincinnati. During the final show, I witnessed this guy die right in front of me. He got "karate kicked" in the chest. And it wasn't by this arrogant prick ---
Seriously, who the hell does this guy think he is? Was his honor so thoroughly decimated that it was necessary to slice the throat of innocent geisha-girl Kumiko (as if he was a barbaric ISIS terrorist from Ramadi)? Please don't ask me how I knew the correct spelling of her name.
Fortunately, Danielson was able to get the best of him with a well-timed, dexterously administered honkkkk!
Hey, he learned it from the master.
I could've given you the 4 second Mayagi honk-clip. I mean, I found the abbreviated version. And to be honest, it's usually preferable from a blogging perspective. But there's so much to be learned from observing his "passive defense, avoidance technique." And then just when you think Mr. Mayagi is going to kill this heartless bastard, he pulls off that enduring/endearing honky schnozer. Shazam!
If you wish to read about the harrowing death at Bogart's, it's in my odd-oh biography.
Now if Mr. Mayagi is the king of karate, then I shalt proclaim King Diamond as the king of satanic heavy metal. I believe that's a fair analogy. Ozzy, Ronnie James, that Ghoul with no name... they all pale in comparison. None of them are fit to hold King Diamond's jock (strap).
Hey, King is getting up there. I checked. He's 59. But if you ask me, he doesn't look a day over 45 (my age).
So here's what you may or may not find interesting. I basically took a 25-year break from indulging in K.D. Really didn't have much of a say in the matter. He pretty much stopped touring in the United States. Then, out of nowhere, he comes to Pittsburgh 3 times in the span of a year. Two shows at Stage AE and he also played runner-up to Slayer at one of those all-day metal mayhem festivals. Now that's a helluva lotta King Diamond. It's the televised entertainment equivalent of being repeatedly drugged and raped by Bill Cosby.
So I skipped the opener and went to Bettis Grille (mainly to piss but
then thought I'd kill some time). Had a 10 buck Dewars and a 10 buck
chicken quesadilla appetizer. Both were stellar.
I won't delve into an exhaustive review of the concert or the pregame. For those who care... yes, I did sneak a plastic water bottle of red wine into the venue. It's just too easy. I gotta be honest --- when I don't sneak it in, I kinda feel like a failure. Even if I was teetotaler (always hated that word), I'd still do it. I will now share my top-secret methodology. Before heading in, surreptitiously place the bottle beside the metal fence on the perimeter of the outdoor smoking area. Enter the venue. Go immediately to the outdoor patio and embrace the legions of tobacco exhaling filth. Retrieve bottle. If confronted by the dutiful Stage AE staff, just pretend you have a physical disability.
As I was saying, there will be no laborious concert review. It's King Diamond. You either get his operatic, growling brand of "Scandinavian satanism" or you don't. There ain't much of a middle ground.
However, some brief observations:
1. Much smaller crowd than last year. I'd say about 1,200 instead of the somewhere in the range of 2,200.
2. I enjoyed this show significantly more than last time. Of course, he performed the Abigail LP in its entirety, so we got to hear some hidden gems (particularly The 7th Day of July 1777 and Abigail).
3. Gained a new appreciation for lead guitarist Andy LaRocque.
Is it just me or does this guy bear a striking resemblance to Dwight Schrute?
4. Ran into the venerable Ted Cromwell and his buddy. Demonstrated my famed "garbage can, VIP-cordoning-off technique." But it wasn't really necessary due to the sparse crowd. Now this is one I refuse to share with the general public. Regardless, it's pretty much self-explanatory.
So if you can get past the bizarre concert narratives (harassment of an elderly grandma, disposal of an aborted fetus, various accessories being skull-fucked and so on), King Diamond is easily one of the more musically viable acts on the metal continuum. Back in the late 80's, you really couldn't compare him to anything. But in a strange way, the quality of the music reminds me of Ratt, Dokken, etc. Some of the superior bands that played second fiddle to Aunt Jovi, Motley Crud, etc. Different and distinct genres... but the songs remain the same. Anyway, the highlight of the night came for me at the conclusion of the show. I asked the sound guy if I could have a copy of the set list. And lo and behold... he bestowed upon me this sacred text.
Now here's a thought. Put all future set lists into some kind of Dead Sea Scroll format... on parchment paper or lamb scrotum or whatever. Now THAT would make for a concert memento. Bonus point if it has a stain of blood, maybe part of a pre-concert ritualistic slaughter.
Out of all the setlists I've snagged, this one ranks pretty close to the top. Seriously, you can't do much better than... wheelchair in / wheelchair out, goat up / goat down, coffin in / coffin out.
Fuckin' "GOAT UP, GOAT DOWN." Now that's what I'm talkin' about!
Thoughts from this evening's Fox Business Channel debate. I'll do each one.
Bobby Jindal: focused but desperate, grasping for straws against the lesser candidates. "Vishnu slim-jim" appearance doesn't make for a strong bullying quotient.
Chris Christie: WTF was he talking about... how he was "going to prosecute" Hillary? FOX is saying he won the early debate. Christie was a hefty dose of blathering rhetoric.
Mike Huckabee: Great "yellin" quip from the wannabe pastor-in-chief. Easily his best moment.
Marco Rubio: This cat's memorization skills remind me of a zombified Palin on steroids. I'm starting to think he might scare me the most. That's saying something. The most relevant, credible threat to the executive branch of the United States.
John Kasich: Stood out. The wildcard winner of the debate. Going after Trump on immigration was his defining moment. Barring something bizarre, Kasich might just be the litmus test for a rational Republican presidential choice. Although I'm pretty sure he's jockeying for the VP slot.
Ben Carson: disoriented, stunted by the bright lights. Seemed hesitant and awkward. I doubt it would impact his position in Iowa. Probably didn't help elsewhere.
Trump: Obnoxious. Triumphant. Fared well enough. Likely stayed on top. If Trump wanted to destroy Rubio he should make an off-handed comment, "Markie, they way you memorize these lines is really freaking me out."
Jeb: Not good. Seems tall-oafish-dwarfish. There's good and there's not good. Jeb is not good.
Lindsey Graham: honorable mention. Would have expressed vitriolic hatred toward ISIS remnants in the mountainous regions of Kurdistan. Instead... nothing.
Pataki: honorable mention? I do not honor him. I do not trust him. Ironic, because he's the only social liberal... er ehh, mainstream Republican candidate.
Ted Cruz: Can't stand this guy. But his debate was strong. Presence, demeanor, resilience.... check. A little tiresome for my taste. Odd... because I'm a bit passionate and long-winded as well.
Carly Fiorina: likely continued her decline. Reminded me of a female Rubio, but less mesmerizing.
Rand Paul: Really starting to marginalize and erode his father's brand. Not his fault. He's just not good enough. No room left in the GOP for fiscal isolationism.
Ever see one of these fugazi hundred dollar bills? You notice it lying on the ground and think, "Holy shit! Dinner and drinks are on me tonight, bizatch!"
Then, you pick it up, take a close look and are utterly deflated beyond comprehension.
Last week at the Steelers game, there was a corpulent bearded individual (not male) distributing them outside the Hyatt. She had a stack roughly the size of a mini-promotional box of Cheez-Its. I glared at her with contempt as I eagerly accepted the "bill." After all, twas a gift from God. Or in this case... a gift from hag.
It reminded me of a journey Mark and I took to Mardi Gras back in 1995. We drove it straight through (Wheeling to N'Awlins). Took about 18 hours or so. Nothing like an eight hour haul through Mississippi and Alabama. If anything, it makes you really appreciate the magical journey of Gump.
For those who've never attended any action in the Big Easy, the amount of crap lying on the ground is unquantifiable. Beads, trinkets, candy, made-in-China gizmos, etc. Pamphlets, brochures, confetti, coupons, and of course, religious money. It's largely a result of the never-ending stream of parades and their accompanying "throws." Everyone on the floats tosses knickknacks to the legions of trained minions. And they swarm and literally gobble up the shit like gnats on a rotting turkey carcass.
It's the truth! I saw a hulking granny lunge out of her wheelchair. Comparable to stealing second base, she sprung head-first toward a sewer grate in a desperate attempt to gather up some Dollar Store plastic gadget. Risking life and limb, this elderly woman had no qualms about throwing elbows. Retrieval of the worthless refuse was her #1 priority.
At the parade, I had an involved conversation with this college kid from Tulane. We talked at length about the abundance of "religious money" all over the place. Our discussion centered around a lone topic --- Why was Mardi Gras such an inviting target for spiritual propaganda?
Here was his line of reasoning. Many people go to Mardi Gras with the intention of escaping their problems. It's like a socially acceptable hangout where depravity is commonplace... similar to heroin junkies in a crack house or crusted whores in a rural brothel. These people are, by definition, victims of their own destiny.
For instance, take a 19 yr. old man named Joe. Joe and his frat buddies caught a cheap flight from Newark. While his gang napped at the hotel, Joe was intent on getting a head-start. So he caught a cab and hit up the casino in nearby Biloxi. Joe might have been accustomed to winning the annual poker tournament at the Phi Beta Alpha house, but he didn't fare so well against the blackjack dealer at the Golden Nugget. Broke and despondent, he hitchhikes back to the hotel. His buddies take pity and treat him to the $14.99 all-you-can-eat crab leg buffet.
Rejuvenated, Joe maxes out his credit card limit and treats his buddies to a live sex show featuring Anal Lana (the human sexual palindrome), multiple gerbils and a stunning finale with an imported Ugandan warthog. The conclusion is best left to your imagination. They make a hasty retreat toward the exit and take it to the streets. Just as he's regaining a smidgeon of composure, someone lowers a beer bong from a second floor balcony. The crowd screeches, "Chug! Chug! Chug!" Joe fails to notice that instead of cheap beer, someone's pouring in a bottle of 151. So, in the span of 7 seconds, his blood alcohol level transitions for .19 to .43.
Shortly before midnight, Joe finds himself separated from his crew, lying face down in a garbage strewn alleyway just off Bourbon Street. Covered in his own shellfish-infused vomit and having been the unwelcome recipient of a golden shower, things aren't looking good. Four hours pass and Joe slowly regains consciousness. He staggers to his feet and wonders, "How on earth did I end up like this?
Penniless and desperately in need of a bath and cold ginger ale, Joe spots a $100 bill on the ground. His heart starts racing and pulse starts palpitating. Thank God! Praise the Lord! His dreams have temporarily been answered. There is indeed a higher power!
But the money isn't real. It's counterfeit. For the love of Christ, it's a ticket to heaven. Holy currency Batman!
At this point, Joe is in a dire predicament bordering on suicide. He's completely lost (mentally, physically and emotionally). He's weeping uncontrollably and snot is running down his nose (kudos to Blue Oyster Cult for sharing that vivid imagery). Needless to say, Joe has hit rock bottom.
Now there's one thing everyone knows. When you've reached the lowest of the low, there can be only ONE definitive answer. Fortunately, it's the easiest solution of them all. One that requires zero effort. Zero intellect. Zero perseverance. Zero wisdom. Zero analysis. It's called the God solution. The ultimate way to rebound from anything bad. Blame all your problems on the devil. Exit the darkness and walk in the shadow of light. Is it any wonder this shit sells?
So here's my take. Let's make it easier for the masses to fall in line. Let's take that deception to the next level. How you ask? Well... Papa Saffy is here to help.
Remember the "religious money?" Well, let's take that currency and make it a little more convincing! Whaddya say?
Let's use those origami skills and tweak the appearance of that Jesus cash. BEHOLD! Err uhh, behold the fold.
Ouch! That legal tender just became way more credible.
Now the final piece of the puzzle. As any good realtor will concede... everything hinges on location. Location, location, location. So where should we stash this cash? Well, I have an answer which is heavily grounded in the mindset of a blog I wrote this summer. CONDOM DOG, BABY!
Question: What are we gonna do with all these dressed up prophylactic wieners?
Answer: Place them in random, heaping piles of vomit.
It's the same premise for "religious money." But instead of the aforementioned barf-a-rooni destination, let's try urinals and toilets. Let's make it a real awakening. A challenging adventure. Hey, I just think if you're gonna invoke the god solution, you gotta pay a price. There should be some cost, right? After all, nothing else on the planet earth is free. So why does everyone get a pass when it comes to religious awakenings? Even the fabled Chrisagii know one thing for sure. God doesn't pay for your ticket to ride.
You wanna know something. I should rescind that last observation. There is ONE thing that's completely free --- heightened situational awareness and common sense, public safety information for large crowds (especially NFL stadiums).
LEGITIMATE EMERGENCY EVACUATION ORDERS WOULD NEVER BE DELIVERED VIA YOUR PERSONAL CELL PHONE.
Oops. I almost forgot. That information comes at a cost. Not money, you moronic bozo. The price is life and limb. Pain and suffering. Broken bones and shattered kneecaps. Learn the truth about what the federal government and private industry are unwilling to divulge. C'mon, help an atheist jew brother out. Preferably before I suffer the same fate as our buddy Joe.
I wrote about the Republican debate. So I might as well offer some thoughts on the Democrats. I'll keep it simple and just proffer a blathering of adjectives.
Could the purchase and restoration of one house in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania... prevent the next 9/11?
Like many other couples, Gigi and I have been searching for that perfect home. And we finally found it! It's a three story Old Style house on the city's scenic North Shore.
As if downtown Pittsburgh isn't a memorable sight. Walk out the front door and prepare yourself for spectacular views of the Point State Park fountain and the upper tier of Heinz Field. Behold the confluence of not one, not two, but three rivers. Bridges galore and more interstates, interchanges and intersections than you could possibly fathom. In keeping with that sentiment, you can even hop in your car and make the quickie trek to Intercourse, PA. Afternoon delight.
Unfortunately, the house is currently vacant and in need of a complete restoration. It precariously sits between a dusty warehouse and a Taco Bell. A short walk to the Rivers Casino and you'll likely gamble away next month's mortgage payment. A rusted guardrail separates the house from the Allegheny Police Headquarters. Now let's throw in a few panhandlers, some occasional gunfire, a ton of cigarette butts and the perpetual screeching of the train tracks.
Trust me. Aside from the notion of Bill Cosby purchasing some quaaludes in the backyard alley, this ain't the Huxtable residence.
Suffice to say, the house is admittedly different.
So if we did buy this place, how on earth would it prevent an asymmetric national security disaster? Now that statement requires a little bit of explaining.
Now you're probably wondering, "what the hell is this guy talking about?"
Okay, here's the deal. On game day, every NFL stadium has 50,000 - 100,000 active cellular devices. Considering the current state of wireless hyper-connectivity in every venue, the time has finally come to tell fans the truth. People have a fundamental right to know...
that if they are in a large, confined crowd and receive an evacuation order and/or panic-inducing information from their cell phone or mobile device...
it's almost certainly a malicious hoax designed to create an artificially generated stampede.
If a stadium emergency evacuation is deemed absolutely necessary, incident command uses the public address system in tandem with the video monitors. Because it's imperative to deliver a clear, unified, all-encompassing directive. You do NOT use cell phones to evacuate large, confined crowds. You do not play texting games with mega-throngs. That's just not how it works.
Sounds pretty simple and straightforward. Regrettably, nobody's allowed to talk about this generic safety issue for a variety of reasons: plausible deniability, foreseeable litigation and the lose-lose proposition. But there's an even bigger dilemma. Acknowledging the problem raises the notion of killing people without conventional weaponry. A terrifying precedent in the realm of generational warfare. It's the prospect of weaponizing a human stampede --- a black swan event that would irreparably alter the course of humanity.
I know all of this sounds really scary and even a bit conspiratorial. However, it's actually quite simple. It all boils down to the modern, technological equivalent of shouting "fire" in a crowded theater. Nothing more, nothing less. And just for the record, it's probably not one stampede. It's likely in the range of 8-10 stampedes.
Obviously, this is not an acceptable outcome.
So that's where we come in. What better a location to break ground on the first museum of its kind? Directly in the shadow of Heinz Field. An arsenal of wisdom and knowledge dedicated exclusively toward the prevention of the next possible 9/11 --- a dominipede (multiple, simultaneous human stampedes likely impacting the NFL 1 o'clock slate of games).
And it would provide the ideal setting for my book signings:
Sonofsaf: odd oh biography is an autobiography. Go figure! A lifetime collection of comically debilitating short stories circa 1970-2011. You'll find the circumcised perspective of an atheist Jew from West Virginia to be both uplifting and traumatic. Joy and pain. Sunshine and rain.
His heartfelt observations on a wide array of topics: art, labor, leisure and music will take your breath away. His thoughts on people, politics, religion and sports will leave you gasping for air. His ominous predictions will suck the life right outta yer lungs.
For Christ sake, enough with the innuendo. The book's about an undiscussable national security issue --- artificially generated stampedes. Give it a shot. If anything, it's free.
Dominipede: Book of Fear is the explicit prediction of an unfathomable future event. An incomprehensible disaster surpassing the scope and magnitude of 9/11.
The entire NFL 1 o'clock slate of games will be impacted. But it was all just a malicious hoax. Everything was based on a lie. Society will be transformed. Everything will change.
You'll be left permanently exasperated. Is it real? Is it fiction? Could it happen? Will it happen? When will it happen? History and humanity will judge the author. But should they? You decide.
A few months ago I wrote a book. Soon after, I became the most reviled Steelers fan in the history of mankind.
The Immaculate Rejection is the disheartening game day tale of a Pittsburgh 5th grader wishing to improve stadium safety. An overly optimistic Jewish boy from Squirrel Hill tries to shed light on an undiscussable subject --- the prospect of an artificially generated stampede at Heinz Field. But nobody wants to listen. Sid and Miss Priddy find things quickly spiraling out of control, resulting in what many will come to view as the next 9/11. Based on a true story... and a black swan.
NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell and several billionaire owners want this book "removed" from the internet but cannot acknowledge its existence. Quite the conundrum. Making matters worse, the book is free.
So whadda ya think? Let's fix up this house, stave off disaster and help make the world a better place. Also, we need more room for the dome hockey and foosball table.
Normally, the journey from Cleveland to Akron to Canton takes about an hour on I-77. However, my recent expedition lasted a little bit longer. 4 days to be precise. With a trip back to Pittsburgh thrown in the mix. Again, again and again.
I managed to hit up 3 high profile events. None of which are remotely connected in the slightest way whatsoever. In less than a span of 100 hours, I was exposed to some of the most heavily diverse segments of the population one could conceivably fathom. Such was the case from a Northeast Ohio population perspective.
Thursday night was the inaugural Republican Presidential debate on Fox. Sensing the political buzz and convenient proximity of Quicken Loans Arena in downtown Cleveland, I felt physically compelled to scope it out. Hey, what better a location to harass some high profile human beings about my asymmetric national security issue. Some were willing to speak. Others were unwilling to talk. Most would prefer to ignore or avoid me. So let me pose this question. Do you honestly think I care about the emotional predicaments of ANY of the 17 Republican presidential candidates? No. Newsflash: I neither give a flying fuck, nor a liquefied shit nay a mineralized piss.
Anyone who takes an interest in my ramblings, knows about my concerns regarding obsolete emergency evacuation protocol for large, confined crowds. I tend not to keep it a secret. In fact, for the past month or so, I've been spamming the fuck out of every presidential prospect's facebook page. Democrats too. Although I derive far greater satisfaction from assaulting the aspiring Republicans.
Five of them have even blocked me from their pages (Carson, Huckabee, Kasich, Santorum and Pataki). I must confess --- each time I see one block me, I actually get goosebumps. It's a distinction I carry with tremendous pride. Hell, in my mind, it's a noteworthy component of the electronic paper trail that will someday be a part of history. That's assuming my predictions about the next 9/11 are generally accurate, of course.
If you don't follow politics, scroll down a bit.
I'm just going to focus on my personal highlight reel. Now here's what that really means. I see someone in the distance and go pester them. I try to be polite yet stern. Focused but not annoying. Pleasant, succinct and unrelenting. Let's just say it's a delicate balance.
I made it to Cleveland around 3pm and headed straight into the action. Sensing the utter futility in acquiring a ticket (I didn't even bother to try), I focused more on crowd observation. Technically speaking, tickets really weren't "available." A limited number of 4,500 had been allotted a while back to Republican donors and party representatives. Suffice to say, I'm not on this list. I'd be more likely to find myself on Schindler's list in a 70 year pre-embryonic stage. Regardless, I'm sure the Republican party would have my zygotic back. Huzzah.
I ran into all kinds of people that fateful night. But for me personally, these ones stood apart from the rest.
First up was this guy. He's running for president!
Originally, I thought it was Jean-Luc Picard from the Starship Enterprise. But it's actually K. Ross Newland from Rockford, Illinois. We spoke for a bit and exchanged "platforms." His main theme was mostly about putting "Christ back into our country." You know, lap dancing with Jesus. Miscellaneous lordy lovin' and such. I suggested he team up with our very own Chrisagis Brothers. Maybe persuade them to do his campaign speech intro music. I did explain the risk factors though... the prospect of being overshadowed as well as the chortling laughter and vivacious crotch shots.
He had other positions too. Enhanced border security, liveable wages and fair taxation. Unfortunately, you won't be seeing him on the debate stage anytime soon. In all honesty, I doubt I'd vote for him (due to the religious crap), but I will tell you something... he's definitely a "man of the people." I give him credit.
Next up. Debbie Wasserman Shultz --- the Chair of the Democratic Party. My mom's a big fan.
She was doing some "rebuttal" interviews for CNN. She was pleasant but pretty busy. Dressed to impress as well. Wearing an extremely form-fitting black and white dress. Let's just say... for a diminutive white gal... baby got back! Her junk in the trunk would be the envy of any salvage operation. She referred me to one of her aides. Fellow Floridian Sean Bartlett. He was incredibly engaging. Totally understood my concerns and asked a few relevant questions and made some decent observations. I emailed him as promised, but won't be holding my breath waiting for a reply.
Watched this woman for a while at the Fox News tent.
She's outstanding. Former press secretary for George Bush. I've always had a lot of respect for Dana Perino. Stealth, professional delivery.
The pace was slowly picking up. This dashing young man below was chatting with someone and asked me to snap their picture.
I kindly obliged, "No problem at all, but you'll have to listen to my concerns about stadium safety."
Yep, it was former CNN and now Fox News O'Reilly substitute Juan Williams. Now this is one sharp dressed man. As I introduced my material, he said (and I quote), "Yeah, I've actually heard about this issue. I've personally never researched the subject but I totally see the problem. And I understand why none of the candidates would want to have anything to do with it." Now that got my heart pumping. He was incredibly authentic. Considering the setting, I can't fathom any reason he would possibly lie. And he totally got the catch-22. Just as my journo-man crush began to consume my stampeding groin, he informed me that he needed to get inside the arena. But he assured me he'd look into the matter further.
Gigi called me and told me I should find the MSNBC crew who were doing extensive live coverage nearby. They had a pretty big crowd. Enthusiastic too. Great set up. I snagged a free Hardball w/ Chris Matthews t-shirt for my woman. She thinks he should run for PA governor. I concur. I'd take it one step further and say... POTUS.
All kinds of celebrity journalists were offering commentary and rotating insight. Totally fascinating to watch the producers and the back and forth with New York. The way they shuffled the speakers, never missing a beat. I planted myself next to the monitors for the entire debate. During the course of the evening, I was literally plastered all over the MSNBC telecast. Don't fret. I wasn't one of those waving imbeciles or screeching jerk-offs. Rest assured, I worry about the herd. But I'm not a part of the herd.
Around 11pm, I was milling about and encountered this dude... who looked like a lady.
Totally blew my mind. What the fuck was Steven Tyler doing in Cleveland at the corner of East 4th and Huron? He was surrounded by a posse of 3 women and 1 other guy. They were walking away from the action. So naturally, I followed and started to engage him. The guy he was with tried to brush me off, but Steven Tyler CAME TO MY DEFENSE. "Let the man talk," he said. "Walk with us." As I explained the stampede issue and how he could essentially play a "Bob Barker-esque" role in preventing a future catastrophe, he started to get where I was coming from. It took him a while but he started to understand what I was yapping about. The blond girl in the crew stared at me intently. She said, "Holy shit, my friends and I have talked about this stuff. You think it's going to be "a hack," don't you?" I explained how there were numerous ways to create an artificially generated stampede.
After a few minutes, they said they had to "skedaddle" and wished me well. I later found out that he was there for the Hall of Fame game (more on that later). Aerosmith was performing at the televised ceremonies and had a follow-up concert at the Covelli Center in Youngstown. I had zero knowledge of any of this which made the accidental run-in very kewl. Seriously, a happen-chance meeting with Steven Tyler after the inaugural Republican primary debate. I'd have never seen that one comin' in a million years. It felt odd to literally tower over a celebrity. He couldn't be much taller than 5'6" or so. And thin as a rail.
Now for a big one.
This man stepped off the Hardball stage. I think he's second to last in the polls (behind former Virginia governor Jim Gilmore). Obviously in the mix hoping for a VP slot.
Yep. Former 3 term governor of New York, George Pataki. Naturally, I went in for the swift kill (with a little more guts than that asshole who killed Cecil the Lion in Zimbabwe). Think in terms of being on the prowl. I asked him directly in front of a dozen people if he'd take 30 seconds to hear my concerns about a potential asymmetric national security issue that could conceivably rival 9/11. He tried to turn away and pivot but I followed explaining how nobody's willing to acknowledge the downside of wireless hyper-connectivity in every NFL stadium. That got everyone's attention.
Consummate politician. He didn't utter a word but gave me this hazed gaze. Like a deer stuck in headlights. Pataki had trouble processing the fact that some street-person-nobody would attempt to "rain on his parade." Hmmm, sounds pretty consistent with the Republican bigwigs. Call me crazy, but I'm pretty sure he knew about my material. After all, his campaign team went through the trouble to block me from commenting on their facebook page. Considering I never curse or engage in ad hominem attacks, banning someone strikes me as pretty outside the norm. Pataki routinely gets about 40 replies when he posts a comment. Very miniscule social media presence. Not like Donald Trump with tens of thousands of bloodthirsty, menstruating commentators weighing in. Anyway, one of his aides played the role of "running interference" and tried to "absorb" the interrogation. I actually ended up speaking to him for a good bit and he had a pretty decent grasp regarding my concerns.
A little while passed and I ran into Chip Englander.
Now who the hell is this? Excellent question. It's Rand Paul's campaign manager. And he was a complete douchebag asshole. Totally petulant and unresponsive. At first, I assumed it was because his man Rand had an "off" night in the debate. I later learned that several of Rand's campaign staff just came under FBI indictments for basically taking bribes, multiple payments of $8,000. Seems like someone high up in the Justice Department doesn't wish to "stand with Rand."
Although there were several others, these two were my last major victims of the evening.
At least I got to finish on a high note. Chris Matthews and Howard Fineman. Love the former. Admire the latter. Nearing 1:30am, both were physically exhausted so I kept it brief. Chris pointedly asked me if anyone else is concerned about this issue. I replied, "plenty." Then he asked if anyone else had written about "this artificially generated stampede thing." I explained that I was the only one. He playfully smiled back with a light smirk. Still, he promised he'd look into it. Now I love Chris Matthews, but once again, I won't be holding my breath.
All in all, it was a scintillating night. I blew off plenty of steam and got my point across to the best of my ability. Will any of it matter? Of course not. But that's okay. I got to say my peace. And I wasn't even bullied by the Cleveland SWAT unit or the rooftop snipers. Seriously, the military presence was outrageous. What were they expecting anyway? An urban uprising from a bunch of 70 year old Caucasian grannies from Tyler, Texas and Juniper, Florida? What about all those neo-con policy wonk upstarts? Gimme a fuckin' break.
Anyway, mission accomplished. So it was around 2am and I decided to head down to Blossom Amphitheater in Akron for a Phish concert later that night. But I get near the general area and all the hotels rooms are booked because there's a PGA event at the Firestone course. I found a hotel but they wanted $250 for the night. Blah. So I tried to sleep in my car. After a half hour of tossing around, I just couldn't crash. So I went back to the Burgh.
Next morning I hooked up with the duo of Maximum Joy in Wheeling. Ahh, a chauffeured ride to the Phish concert. I'm not going to explain what a Phish show is. For reference purposes, we'll just call it a big party.
Snagged a ticket for $40 off a guy who just paid $45 at the box office window. Hardly the deal of a lifetime, but it gave me just enough satisfaction. I'll provide three random excerpts.
Met a confused, disoriented girl from Connecticut who couldn't find her way back to the car. She asked me, "Do you know where I'm supposed to be?" I once asked a similar question at Nelson Ledges (about 30 minutes up the road) back in 1998. Triggered an amusing memory.
Bought a really limp grilled cheese sandwich after the show. Lamest, nonexistent grill marks in the history of any Phish lot. Shame on the girl who sold it to me. You know who you are. Instead of advertising "yummy grilled cheese," she should have been yelling "American cheese food on discount Wonder."
Phish encored with Zeppelin's "Good Times, Bad Times." I honestly prefer the cover done by Nuclear Assault. A little raw, but worthy of a quick glance.
So onto the finale. Gigi and I hit the NFL Hall of Fame game on Sunday. We skipped the 76 turnpike and decided to take the back-way because the weather was so pleasant. Plus it's the same time. Slightly over 2 hours. Mostly route 30W through most of PA and OH.
We didn't enter the actual Hall of Fame. Thirty bucks to stand in a 2 hour line waiting for an autograph. We also didn't play punt, pass or kick in the virtual Fun Zone. Blaring, distorted speakers churning out Sweet Child O' Mine on endless repeat. No $250 NFL official jersey. No $10 Bud Light drafts. No $5 hot dog. We didn't spend a dime. We're definitely not the NFL prototype consumers.
We snagged a couple freebie tickets though. A special thanks to our friends --- you know who you you are.
Note the "exposed cat ass" magnet in between the helmets. We call this "frig-worthy" in honor of Elaine Benes and those she deems "sponge-worthy."
Our seats were in different locations. Technically speaking, one of them wasn't a seat. Twas an all-access pass. So we grabbed some "obstructed view seats" next to a cameraman on the last row of the upper level. Best seats in Fawcett Stadium. Nothing's worse than those old-school high school bleacher seats... when the person tromps midway through the aisle and has the spot next to you... and they weigh close to the 400 lb. range. We watched this scenario unfold and felt horrible for all involved.
We saw the parachutists. We saw the towels. We saw the flyover. We saw the pyrotechnics. We saw the polar bear. We saw the marching band. We saw enough and bolted at the end of the third period.
On the way out, we scored a "stack" of NFL sticker books (30 in total). As Gigi would say, these will make excellent "stocking stuffers" for when Santa makes his annual Sewickley sojourn.
I was a little taken aback by the NFL's gimmicky generosity. But I figured they'd make nice little throw-away gifts to our friends with grade school kids. I even reflected... what an uplifting parting gift for those who made the trek to Canton. Maybe the NFL really does care about its fans!
Today, I opened the sticker book. They give you 10 "free" stickers. And then ask you to mail a check or money order for additional packets. So here's the reality. Each team has about 14 stickers. Each sticker costs 20 cents. That's $2.80 per team. If you wish to fill the book, that's 32 teams. For a grand total of $89.60 + $2.00 s/h = $91.60.
Then I found some additional "hidden" sticker add-ons. Ones representing the draft, Superbowl 50 and various Hall of Fame inductees. And last but not least, there was a page devoted exclusively to Roger Goodell's cock and balls. I don't know about you but I would most certainly pay .20 for a sticker of Goodell's circumcised prick. I'd even be willing to get a tattoo of his ass... on my ass!
This brought the total number of stickers to 476. That increased the total to $95.20 + s/h. Obviously, the goal here was to keep everything just under the $100 mark. C'mon Man! I nearly projectile vomited into an officially licensed NFL commode.
Could I have possibly been more naive. What a fucking racket! Kind of like their new special deal for college kids --- half off the NFL DirecTV package. So instead of $199 for all those dorm rooms and frat houses, you get every game for $100. What better a way to promote frugality and collegiate indoctrination.
I'd be curious to see how much the NFL grossed from this Hall of Fame rubbish. Back in the day, we went to a couple of them. 49ers vs. the Patriots and Browns vs. Cowboys. There was little fanfare or pomp and circumstance. For the most part, it was just the season kickoff. Now it has evolved into a hoopie vacation-land and carnie-like money grab on steroids.
Is it any wonder I'm the most hated person in the history of the NFL? In no particular order....
A quarter of a century ago, I attended one of my all-time favorite concerts. Jane's Addiction played to a packed house at the University of Duquesne's A.J. Palumbo Center on the Ritual de lo Habitual tour. Around 5,000 people crammed into a basketball gymnasium. That was 1991 and I was 21 years old.
Fortunately, whoever ripped my ticket left behind the latter part of the
band's name. Hey, information can be addicting. Information spawns
addiction. At least for me it does. If you disagree with that
sentiment, you need not continue reading. The remainder of this blog
will be of little interest.
When entering a venue, they used to pat you down and rip
your ticket. Now they "wand you" and scan the ticket. I remember when
fans would beg the usher to just rip a tiny corner of the ticket. I'll assume they
wanted to
preserve the evidence for their scrapbook. Guilty as charged.
How times have changed. Just learning about the event itself is different. Back then, you stumbled across a flyer stapled to a telephone pole. Or maybe you saw an ad in the Pittsburgh City Paper. Nowadays, you do a google search and receive the details in 2-3 seconds. Modes of communication have changed as well. In 1991, there were pay phones everywhere. You'd deposit a dime or a quarter. These days, everyone (regardless of income level) has a cell phone. Since 1998, the world has changed markedly. Personalized transmission of information and wireless mobile devices are the wildcard. And narcissism is the ticket. Everyone participates but few seem willing to speculate about the consequences. Even fewer realize the role they play.
Everyone has a mobile device. Perhaps it's
already attached to your face. Someday, I imagine it will be embedded
in your body. There was a hysterical episode of Shark Tank
where this "futuristic weirdo" had a proposal to surgically implant a Blue
Tooth-like device in your ear. He may have seemed a little off but I
don't think his vision was that far off. If you seriously consider the
reliance on pacemakers, artificial limbs, boob implants... I can see
where he was heading.
Here's the Jane's Addiction set list from that memorable night in 1991:
Now here I sit, almost 25 years later, having just attended another Jane's Addiction concert. Gigi and I hit the July 10 show at Stage AE. I'd estimate an outdoor crowd around 3,500 or so.
Gigi snagged an official set list. Score!
They performed Nothing Shocking in its entirety. Killer stuff. Great concert opener: Up the Beach > Ocean Size.
I attended a couple other Jane shows along the way. Cleopatra Carmen, me and a few others hit up the Perry Ferrell solo project (Porno for Pyros) at I.C. Light Amphitheater back in 1993. It was the same night "Fugazi" exposed himself to me in an alley by the Metropol in the Strip District. They also headlined the 2003 Lollapalooza concert at Starlake. Saw that one too. They played Starlake again in 2009 w/ Nine Inch Nails, but I missed that one. Not sure what stopped me. Through it all, I've maintained an admittedly steadfast addiction and infatuation with all things Jane.
While I don't personally know the man, Perry Ferrell and I have much in common. Not the bisexuality. Not the dreadlocks. But rather, the creativity and vision. That's right. I'm comparing myself to a rock icon. Given, that's a lot of audacity. But with one major difference. My shit's more important.
Back in the early 90's, Ferrell conceptualized the entire premise of Lollapalooza. This is a much bigger deal than you'd think. At the time, there were plenty of music festivals, but nobody dared bring together all the different genres. Ferrell pushed the envelope with this societal experiment. The rap crowd, the country crowd, the indie crowd, the metal crowd. Hey, why not try it? The answer --- because nobody had the courage to embrace the unpredictability... the prophetic notion of taking a risk.
A few years back, I borrowed the "palooza" monicker for my own idea... SOAKAPALOOZA. It was all about Westboro Baptist church payback. Whenever the Topekafucks show up, you simultaneously announce an all-out water balloon fight to coincide with the festivities. You also arm everyone with Super Soakers. Fill 'em up with cheap beer. May I recommend a keg of Natural Ice? Everyone gets drenched in the crossfire. Ohh, the outlandish hilarity of fun and games. Eventually, the video footage goes viral and those intolerant Kansan bastards get a dose of their own righteous medicine. Hint: It's called being a copycat. I wrote about it in the Religion chapter of my odd oh biography.
Those same assholes just announced they're going to "protest" the funerals of the recent movie theater shootings in Louisiana. What the fuck. It will never end unless regular people step up their game. Unless society chooses to be proactive as opposed to reactive. I know. I know. Don't give them the publicity. That's how they thrive. It's what they crave. You're playing right into their hands.
Newsflash: The WBC follows the same model as the current asinine freakshow leading the polls for the Republican presidential nomination. Trumpapalooza.
Yeah, Soakapalooza was amusing. It never really panned out, but I know it has anarchistic merit.
Anyway, this blog isn't about my recollections of Soakapalooza. It's about the creation of words and concepts that have yet to emerge. Picture yourself back in 1980. Before words like "internet." Before concepts like "cyberspace." The same rules apply directly to my shit. Words like "dominipede." Concepts like an "artificially generated stampede." They just haven't happened... yet.
I can assure you of something. This stuff was around well before it just seemingly happened. The vast majority of mankind just has difficulty envisioning the future. It's always about celebrating events of the past. Holidays, birthdays, baptisms, circumcisions, tombstones, the list goes on. Few are willing to write about "that which is yet to come." Because if they try, it becomes fictional or conspiratorial or delusional. With one major exception --- the return of Jeebus... of course.
I humbly give you the definition of a "black swan" - an unpredictable or unforeseen event, typically one with extreme consequences. If there was ever a term that's google-worthy. Trust me, try"black swan."
Gigi and I took in a brief Midwest road trip over the 4th of July weekend. Considering our vehicles are a little dated (2001 Subaru Outback and a 1995 Honda Civic), we thought it would be advisable to rent a car. The prospect of breaking down in Gary, Indiana just didn't seem too appealing. So we snagged a midsize, which translated into a 2015 Nissan Altima, which loosely deciphers into vehicular nirvana.
We checked inn to our hotel, a Hampton In, inn downtown Chicago early Thursday night. About 3 miles up from the Soldier Field. Snagged some dinner at a nearby restaurant named Beatrix. Gigi had a pork shank w/ peaches. I had the braised short ribs w/ mashed potatoes. Good stuff. Took in a few drinks at the hotel hot tub and called it a night.
We checked out early (literally not figuratively) and parked at a nearby lot (Adler Planetarium along scenic Lake Michigan). All parking was $49. Not much you can do to avoid the evil reality of parking and tolls. We're gradually reaching a tipping point in American society. When the cost to park your car exceeds the cost of the event itself.
The weather was absolutely perfect - high 70's, low 80's and breezy. I snagged some exceptional beer for this road trip. Terrapin Brewery from Athens, GA seemed like the appropriate choice. Excellent stuff. A variety pack consisting of Rye, Hopsecutioner, Chocolate Peanut Butter and Captain Krunkles India Pale Ale. All four were outstanding, particularly the Rye Pale Ale.
Even the Count Chocula crap was pretty good. You just have to be in the right frame of mind. I absolutely despise all the fruit-craft beers, particularly anything with lemon or raspberry. But of all the idiot beers, I abhor anything pumpkin/cinnamon spice related. Why not just force feed yourself a tablespoon of nutmeg? Why would you pay a premium price to quaff this nonsensical Bahama Mama bullshit? Note: we did have our standard backup of MBL (Milwaukee's Best Light), but that's neither here nor there.
So we got our "hike on" and hit up some of the local sites. Then, we had a chance encounter with our friends from Wintersville, Ohio (Dave and Renea). Great seeing those two.
Those who know me, are aware that I have an extensive Grateful Dead license plate collection. About 380 actual pictures of plates taken from the lot scene circa 1990-1995. During the move to Pittsburgh, everything was disassembled from my bedroom wall. One day I'll make a poster out of them. In the interim, enjoy this fantasy set list I constructed back in 2011 for my odd-oh biography.
Naturally, I kept an eye out for some new ones, but didn't have much success. We spotted a hippie bus with a California plate (DAWHEEL), but I couldn't get it in time. Saw a Wisconsin SLPKNT which I had previously taken back in the day, but the Saab owners had left the scene. What a pity. I would've enjoyed speaking with them. I did scrounge up these two.
This one's a little on the lame side. I mean.. I guess I get it. I'm sure he's a proud father of his patchouli drenched offspring and all... but seriously, c'mon man!
This Illinois (Terrapin) is kinda weak but the guy who owned it was exceptionally cool. Apparently, his wife "used to date Bob Weir." Odd... because I always thought Bobby was closeted homosexual. His gang regaled us with a variety of classic acoustic rock songs. And their leader told us of his 1990 tour exploits at the Tinley World Music Amphitheater (among other places). Great storyteller. He also gave us some patriotic jello shots and a couple bumper stickers.
I'm normally not one who emblazons my vehicle with skulls and roses or dancing bears, turtles and the historic evolution of the mushroom. But I do like the smiley face on the grilled cheese. Maybe I'll stick it on our scrabble notebook.
Having no tickets in hand, we kinda made a deliberate decision to NOT compete with the legions of miracle seekers. It's always about supply and demand. Lamentably, the dreaded hordes of stank were inextricably on the prowl, fingers raised in abundance. We could have given it a better effort but it just didn't conform to the flow of the afternoon.
Towards crunch time, this one crazed, zany Dead fan tried to give Gigi his ticket. He acted like he wouldn't be able to cope with the sensory input overload from a rock concert. But she just couldn't accept it. We hung out with him for a good bit and "brought him back down." He thanked us accordingly for our discretion and psychiatric counseling. Then, he abruptly bolted into Soldier Field.
Having not seen any of the three actual Chicago shows, I'm won't offer a lengthy analysis of the set lists. Suffice to say, I really liked the song selections from the 4th and 5th. I zipped through some of the pay per view footage on youtube. The musicianship seemed a little slow for my taste, but that's just me. In retrospect, I'm content to leave my memories of the Dead firmly grounded in 1989-90. Everything else, I just don't take too seriously. Maybe 1985-1988.
One last observation of the Fare Thee Well tour. I have zero tolerance for these fake laminate, cardboard idiot necklace things.
These are NOT badges of honor. They are badges of shame. Why must people advertise that they're "concert newbies?" It's like those Japanese tourists relentlessly snapping pictures of the McDonald's golden arches. But duhhh, it came with the $199 VIP package. Yeah, nice job fucko! You got a dollar t-shirt, a vegan hot dog, a single plastic rose, that 10 cent wearable and a Casey Jones "high on cocaine" energy drink. Way to go. I'm really impressed.
So we bolted South as the band finished up with Help > Slip > Frank. Figured it would be best to not spend an hour or two in heavy traffic. Snagged a room at the Radisson Hotel in Merrillville, Indiana and called it a night.
Next morning we wolfed down a surprisingly tasty hotel breakfast and headed down I-65. Stopped to refuel and grabbed an extra 6-pack of Red Stripe. We hit up the Tippecanoe Battlefield Memorial adjacent to Prophetstown State Park near Lafayette. Not bad, many perished, nice restrooms, avoided the gift shop.
We arrived at the Indy Motor Speedway around 3pm. Huge line of traffic. Ironic, because we just strolled in and parked for free at a lot adjacent to the Southeastern grandstands. Why are all these people desperate to pay and park in the infield when you can just use the perimeter lots? I don't get the mindset. Must be an "Indy manners, Peyton Manning hospitality thing." The locals will patiently wait and pay out the ass... while the out-of-towners are treated like royalty.
We had little difficulty in snagging two freebies. One was a gold ticket, the other a bronze. With applicable service charges and printing fees, one was $400 and the other was $100. Ouch. People were eating tickets left and right... as if they were comfortably throwing away food at a Golden Corral buffet.
You could stand in three different areas (Bronze, Silver or Gold). If you've never been to a concert, that loosely translates to close, closer and closest. Then, we fashioned some "illegal" wrist bands to help expedite our move to the front.
Examine them carefully and you'll see the hastily taped "Marlboro Light box cigarette cut-out" enhancement. Inspired by our excursion to Chicago, it was reminiscent of the doctored Obama "short form" birth certificate. Admittedly a tad more ghetto.
I must concede... I had an unbelievably naive perspective of the Stones concert at IMS. For some reason, I thought all of the grandstands would be used for seating. And the in-field would be for standing general admission. Of course, if my vision was accurate, attendance would have been around 3 million+.
Fuck it, there's a nine hole golf course inside that place.
Turns out, they cordoned off a small section for a crowd of roughly 50,000. However, it was the biggest (and only weekend) concert in the history of the motor speedway.
The concert itself was bad ass. Far superior to the uninspired Pittsburgh performance. You can't even compare the two. The band was energized. At one point, Jagger referenced a bad joke about New England's Tom Brady which left him feeling a bit "deflated." Funny stuff.
Highlights for me were a soulful rendition of "Wild Horses" and an absolutely killer "Gimme Shelter." Another highlight --- intentionally skipping the Rascal Flatt's opening act.
Incessant fireworks following the concert. After the show, Gigi found a KOA campground and whipped out her pop-up tent. Needless to say, we crashed out in no time. Woke up early and hit the road. Stopped at Katzinger's Deli in Columbus and got some soup and sandwiches to go. Katzinger's gets my atheist Jew, godless kike seal of approval. Word to the wise, pay the extra couple bucks and get the bigger sandwich. You won't be disappointed. We weren't.
And oh yeah, we snagged a GD sign off the western chain-link fence of Soldier Field. Not a huge deal, but it did help emotionally compensate for being shut out. One of the banned items on the list is confetti! Gimme a fucking break.
And that concludes our 4-day, haphazard vacation of the Midwest. Let me put it in terms you deadheads can comprehend.
2nd set: Pennsylvania > Ohio > Indiana > Illinois > Indiana > Ohio > West Virginia > Pennsylvania.
Double encore:
Hot shower
Corned beef sandwich
If you enjoyed this dueling concert review, please consider reading either of these articles I've penned regarding the Grateful Dead or Rolling Stones solving a looming, asymmetric national security threat to the United States. It's a black swan event that could very well be the next 9/11. But don't worry so much. Just sit back, drink your beer and smoke your grass. Hey, nobody else gives a shit. So why should you care? You god-damn fucking hippie.
