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His Philosophy

I. The Nature of the Beast

Oh shit, I thought, what the hell was that?
It was Saturday afternoon: day 2 of the mayhem. Vision . . . blurred . . .. . . Can’t . . . move . . . head . . . spinning . . . At my first waking moment the only driblet my fractured memory could produce was a loud, psychotic scream like something from Zeke’s Dirty Sanchez.

Oh Christ. Yep. It was me.

We’d only been in Chapel Hill for a month, the new transplants from PA hoping for a measly Tuesday nighter. Well, one thing led to another and we were booked mainstage for the drunken orgy of pulled pig BBQ, nakedness, Russ Meyer flicks and raw rocknroll they call Sleazefest. Shit! It was either Fate or Dumb Luck that ex-NC resident Corey Parks left Nashville Pussy a few weeks prior to be replaced by Helldorado’s Tracy Almazon, forcing Helldorado to cancel forthcoming gigs indefinitely, including the aforementioned weekender, and we got the job. Other than the rubber pellet-like name-dropping ammo that gave us, we got these little green “all access” passes to wear around our neck, which meant we were allowed to walk around the gravel lot behind the 506 and drink free beer all weekend and watch multiple ass kicking bands for free (incl. Twin 6, the Bell Rays, The Woggles, 45s, SCOTS, Fleshtones, etc) and eat some fine southern pig.
Sure, everyone but me left early Friday night. We’d been drinking non-stop since we stepped offstage at around noon or so, and I’m the only one who lives staggering distance from the joint, so who could blame ‘em? Me. When I’m drunk. Their unannounced departure threw me into a drunken rage causing me to leave psychotic Zeke-like howls on my bandmates’ and Thurn’s answering machines (I think she retained the message for entertainment purposes) (editors note: click link to hear it). I don’t know why it pissed me off that much. Hey, if they didn’t get to see the Fleshtones it’s their loss, right? Besides, I was sorta saying “Hey, you’re my pals, stick around” in a deranged sorta way. But that little thing called rationale was to busy swimming in a beer bath to function properly.
I saw a show on the Discovery Channel once about the effects of alcohol on the brain. What it does is cuts off signals from the lower brain part that we had when we were apes, to the upper brain and frontal lobe area that years of evolution developed, to create the superior homosapien mind. So when the communication lines between the 2 are cut, all the things like reason, rationale, analysis, the Ego take a vacation, and we’re left, when shitfaced, mostly with the raw survival instincts: hunger and sex drive (or as I call it, Hornitude). Freud would say, we’re left with the “Id” that is the lower brain. Here’s what happens to years of human brain evolution: kerplunk!!! -- down the tubes all because of 10 PBRs and a few shots of Mezcal. The brain is turned inside out! Welcome to the jungle!
That bit o’ science makes a helluva lotta sense. That’s why people are more honest, horny, hungry and loud when they’re drunk. They’re more like apes. You cut through all the human bullshit and get to the bottom of your mind, where the fun, animalistic stuff and in my case violent repressed anger is. No Ego to filter the Id, no Ego to make you conscience of faux pas or ettiquite: the true Beast in full view. I think that’s why I like getting tanked so much.
The best music has the same effect. It’s stripped of all bullshit. It turns the audience into a bunch of horny, unapoligetic beasts. Look at Elvis, the King of Rock n Roll, and all how horny he made all those screaming chicks. Horny, unapoligetic beasts have the most fun. I think that’s the whole point of why rock ‘n’ roll and Sleazefest and sex was invented. (The term “rock ‘n’ roll”, as many of you know, was originally jive for sex).
I don’t like to use my frontal lobes when I go out. There’s all kinds of people that play music which makes you use your frontal lobes or stirs up some emotion other than horniness. That’s all well and good, but save that shit for a weeknight. When I’ve been using my frontal lobes all week being nice to people at work, I want those damn lobes to relax on the weekend. That’s what the Ramones song “Lobotomy” is about, essentially.
I don’t remember using my upper frontal lobes ONCE during the weekend at Sleazefest. Maybe Sat. afternoon when I felt like an asshole for yelling at everyone the night before, but that soon went away when I said a temporary bye-bye to my frontal lobes by dousing them with alcohol and burning them with some loud ass rock n roll.
Anyway, I don’t want to talk about sex, lobes and rock n roll. I wanna talk about why I’m here. I’m a Pennsylvanian, a Pittsburgher, a 412-er, that moved to the great South, where much American music originated. I asked C.E.O. of 814 Dan Rugh if I could write this thing, and he said “No.” But I did anyway. I’m going to observe this yall-ish place and seek out bums, sluts, drugs, bands, violence and barbeques gone bad, and write about them for your entertainment. I’m going to make you people salivate. Because I know you people want that shit. At the very bottom of every human mind, there’s the ultimate desire to have a good time, all the time. So, I’m going to turn you into horny, unapoligetic beasts and teach you how to give your frontal lobes a vacation and make you quit listening to that lame ass crap that passes for rock (not that any of YOU do, but someone might happen on by…)
It’s my job as a seeker of the Truth, the ultimate Good Time, through Rock ‘n’ Roll, the highest art and the very Nature of Exsitance all rolled into one. When I’m not on stage performing the Buzzsawyer Satanic ritual with my 3 collegues, I better damn well be doing something else to make you have pure, unblemished Fun.