EMAIL HIM

His Philosophy

show reviews
1. Immortal Lee County Killers, All Night, The Loners
Supersuckers Country Western Extravaganza, with Jessie Dayton

We drove in around 9 or 10 in the morning of September 4th, a Wednesday. Tobin Shea, our old pal who runs the Garage, a bar on Santa Monica Blvd. in North Hollywood, set us up with three gigs out there on Thursday, Friday and Saturday. We were supposed to have a Wednesday show in San Diego but it fell through. Cool with us because it was one more day to hang with L.A. Shea, Superstar and APWF Ring Announcer Extraordinaire. Nick Peterson, a fine roadie indeed, had the poor roadie fortune of driving through the shit L.A. traffic. This is the first time I’ve been out here and yeah, it’s a smoggy villa, but the scenery ain’t bad with all the mountains and trees and casas among. Casa de Shea was in a nice little section of Silver Lake, the section of Hollywood, incidentally, where the Tate/LaBianca murders occurred, brought to you by the Manson Family™. All the houses in the neighborhood of the Foremost Authority on Professional Wrestling History, one Tobin Shea, were small and sometimes Mexican looking and everyone’s yard has all kinds of flowers and cacti and trim landscaping and what else. It was good to see God’s Gift to Western Pennsylvania Rugby, Tobin J. Shea, again and right away we all went into our Jerky Boys imitations that us Buzzsawyers prepped ourselves for by listening to it in the van before we got there, and of course that lasted all week and then some.

Around 11 a.m. we went down to the Garage so The Master of Mescal, thee Tobin Shea, could get some shit done. We went upstairs to his office which has paintings of naked women on the ceiling and a cabinet filled with more liquor than I’d seen in my life. The kind of liquor cabinet that would get me several nights in the local drunk tank for months and months. We sat in an adjacent room with nothing but white padded walls and black leather aerodynamic furniture, “courtesy of Enrique Iglesias,” who filmed a video there, Big, Tobin…”that’s the Giant Tobin Shea”… Shea, informed us. The room was like a rubber room in MTV hell, but a spacious, comfortable place to hang nonetheless. Jesus Christ, I’m sitting here at work watching Enrique Iglesias videos from his website on Real Player (with the sound turned down of course) looking for the one he shot in that room. All of his videos involve him chasing some hot sweaty pussy that he finally gets to bang in the end. It’s fun to watch, you just have to deal with his pretty boy poses and crying and winks to the camera. Why do pretty boys get all the chicks? Why don’t short, fat guys with drinking problems get them? Fuckin’ world. Okay here’s a serious video where he’s crying on the bed to show chicks he’s deep or some shit. Ah Christ, not even any chicks in this video. I just have to watch this fag cry on his bed? Oh wait here’s a chick with a flashlight and Enriques boohooing in an elevator. Ah fuck they don’t even show her. Alright last one. One of those videos on the highway in the desert with sand going by in an old convertible fucking some broad at the gas station. There must be 100 of those types of videos. What the fuck? Mickey Rourke? Now they’re burning money and fucking on money. Okay now Enrique Iglesias is beating up Mickey fucking Rourke. Dude must be hurting for cash. Now Enrique is crying again. Now it’s raining and you can see nipples. God that was gay. Except for the hot chick. I think she’s famous. Maybe if I had cable or read Entertainment Weekly I’d know what the hell her name is. No rubber room though. Mickey played Bukowski in the movie Barfly by the way. I haven’t seen it yet.

I digress. We drank a few beers and we met Dream who was a fuckin funny dread locked dude who worked at the Garage and seemed to be anxious to fire people even though he really can’t fire anyone because he’s not really the employer. We were talking to him and it turned out he toured with the Circle Jerks back in the day. He told us a story about Keith Morris getting shitfaced on hurricanes in New Orleans. After he found out we were from around Pittsburgh he told us a story about Johnny Banana, which was funny because we first heard the same story out of the mouth of Johnny Banana himself when we did a gig at the legendary Electric Banana about five years ago just before it closed down. “The Circle Jerks put in their book that I shot at ‘em. I didn’t shoot at ‘em, I put two in the ceiling.”

I never determined whether he shot at ‘em or the ceiling, but Dream said something to the effect The Circle Jerks packed the place and were guaranteed $400 but Johnny didn’t want to pay them and the Jerks got pissed so Johnny pulled out the artillery. The Jerks split but then they found a wire and cut out the electric to the Banana. “Probably cost him about $400.” Said Dream. Everybody who’s alive to tell about it has a Johnny Banana story. In fact, last time we talked to his son Donnie, he was talking about writing a book about the whole thing. Shit I’d buy it.

Chief Shea Strongbo was off doing some bidness and so we went over to Jay Burgers, which is a little burger stand run by old Mexican fellers across the street from the Garage with the aluminum seats wrapped around it and shit. It’s frequented by superstars like John Flude, bass player of Dragstrip Syndicate. (Flude via phone to Tobin: “Tell Jay Burger I miss them!”) A Jay Burger is a hamburger with some chili sauce or some shit on it. Man it’s damn good. You can get a fried egg on the burger, but I passed on that. And I’m 40 minutes from my lunch hour now thinking about. And they’re open 24/7.

After about a few more beers we went over to Ye Olde Rustic Inn where Tobin’s girlfriend Beth works. I dug that place, it wasn’t like you’d imagine a bar in Hollywood would look like. It looked like any bar in Pennsylvania. We crammed into a table there and drank pitcher after pitcher courtesy of Tobin Claus. After that we picked up some more beer at the supermarket and had some carne asada and Spanish rice back at Casa de Shea. Then I think we went back to the Rustic and maybe to the Garage again. It was all blurred together at that point. Supposedly at the Rustic that night Vince Vaughn, he was the guy in Swingers and the unfunny annoying cokehead in Made, and the stoner guy from Dazed and Confused, whatever the hell his real name is, were there. They asked us to move out of the way so they could play video golf. I didn’t even notice. I guess they had movie star disguises on. So that’s the extent of my star encounters in Hollywood, unless meeting the Warlocks counts (more later). Oooo! We had about 50 beers each when it was all said and done.

Next day Tobin Claus buys everything again. Our gig that night was at Goldfinger’s, a little joint with gold padding and mirrors on the walls, and one of those places where you enter in the back, all Hollywoodish. Branson and Brower, our two palls from North Carolina, recently relocated to L.A. for film school, showed up. We started drinkin and talkin and it was good to hear some good ole N.C. accents loud and unapologetic. They starting talking about their celebrity sightings: Dave Navarro in a car, Stephen Spielberg peeked in and said hello at one of Branson’s film classes, (which reminds me we should hit that guy up for a tour video which would be much more entertaining than this boring, poorly thought-out diary), and Andrew Dice Clay in a supermarket. What made the Dice sighting swell was Brower said he was buying nothing but a case of Crystal Light lemonade and steaks, and he had on a Steelers, that’s right STEELERS, you fucks, sweatshirt that went down past his knees. Jesus, his mother Mary, and her boyfriend Joe. Matt’s twin brother Jason showed up and it was good to see his ass – he’s going to UCLA medical school so he can find a cure for death or something. He’ll be famous for some crazy medical invention someday.

Nick took off with the van to pick up his girlfriend from the airport. We played for 12 people. People dug us. Got a card from some dude to set up another show. We had to get our equipment out before Nick was back with the so we had to set everything up outside. Talked to the doorman who told us about all the excellent weed he’s ever smoked in his life. Some black dude started to argue with the doorman about something. Almost a fight. Fight adverted.

Went over to the Garage after we were done playing. A psychobilly band was playing that night that sounded exactly like the Reverend Horton Heat. Guitarist was great. There were all kinds of Betty Pages and Elvises standing all over the place. There was a rockabilly dyke there. A chick dressed exactly as a rockabilly dude with the pomp and the gas station shirt and the chain wallet and cuffs and the whole bit. See somethin new every day.

Then Tobin gave us two options: “Ya wanna go home? Or do ya wanna….” And the rest is censored to protect the guilty. I really wish I could type this line because it was funny the way he said it. Time to use your imagination, class.

The next day, what is it Friday?, yeah, Beth took us out to Pink’s, which is a hot dog stand, one of those Hollywood institution places that has signed 8 x 10s of all kinds of celebrities on the wall, including Ed McMahon, that fat drunk. They had one of Pink, you know that whigger chick. Real cute.

I got a double chili dog – two hot dogs on one big bun with chili and cheese and onions. As if I’m not a big enough fat ass. Apparently at this point I was trying to blow up my heart with all the partying and eating. It was scrumptious. We were standing outside of Pink’s trying to think of what to do next and some shit head rides by on this gay bike and yells “Animal Murder!!!” to all the people standing in line. Oh that kills animals? Let’s eat another one!! Fuck animals! I never wished I was holding a broomstick at one moment so much as that one, so I could throw it into his spokes, the fuck. Then I was taking a photo of the Pink’s sign and I accidentally got too close to some little princess and she said in her most bitchily disgusted voice, “Ex-cuse me! Tss-ahhh!” I mocked her real loud – “Excuse me! Excuse me!” until she was walking fast with her little whore friend. I wish I would have had another hot dog so I could puke all over these people.

It didn’t really bother me that much. I wasn’t flustered about it, I was having fun. When you’re like me and Rodney Dangerfield you really get used to being pissed at rude strangers all the time.

Next we drove up to Melrose Avenue all squeezed into Beth’s Volvo. Melrose had all kinds of little clothing stores and boutiques and supermodel looking bitches prancing down the street in the latest fashion with boobs and ass galore. And us with superboners. We saw a David Lee Roth tour T-shirt, nothing really special looking about it, from around the early 90s, that was $90! I wondered aloud if he wiped his ass with it. We went into a used clothing store and Matt actually, by and unbelievable coincidence, found a shirt for Fort Bedford in Bedford, PA (his home than) that looked like it was from the 80s, for the low low price of $18. There were all kinds of overpriced rock T shirts and a baseball shirt that had nothing but I (heart) Cocaine on it. A shirt like that is priceless.

Double chili dog at pinks: $3
David Lee Roth shirt: $90
I heart Cocaine shirt: Priceless.

Not that I dig cocaine or anything kids. Fuck, ain’t no room for no rolled up dollar bills up the nostrils because there’s usually an upside down bottle blocking the way.

The coolest thing about Melrose, other than the supermodels, was this record store that was exclusively punk rock up there. It was divided into sections like “Hardcore” and “Garage Punk” and all that. It had a pretty swell book section as well. I think it was called Frenchy’s or something. That’s what Tobin called the French motherfucker who worked there anyway.

The way back made for some fun freak watching. There was this crazy motherfucker sitting at a bus stop talking to his hand. No, HOLLARING at it. You know how you can paint eyes and lips on the side of your hand and make a puppet? Yeah. Like that. But he actually thought it was another person. He was pointing to it with his other hand and yelling, red in the face and veins sticking out of his neck. That’s how I noticed him because I heard a guy screaming. I look over and some fuck is yelling at his hand. It’s like Tom Hanks in Castaway with the volleyball. Even with millions of people I guess it can get pretty lonely in the big city.

For dinner Santa Shea took us along with Jazzbo to this joint his partner Steve owns called Zen Sushi. We had a private table in the back with the beads and whatnot. They ordered all kinds of appetizers and Japanese beer and then the entrees along with a big sushi platter and we ate way too much. We were so full I think we had a “brown out” that night. I recently read this in some other fool’s rock article – it ain’t a black out where you get fucked up and don’t remember anything – it’s when you eat too much and you feel like a hunk of shit, so it affected our playing at the Garage that night.

The Spiders who we met in Phoenix, from Austin, shared the bill with us that night too. The drummer had a new Ludwig kit he picked up from some guy in L.A., that was supposedly once owned by John Bonham. It might even be more than bullshit too. He took it to a music store, he said, and as I said before I know a bullshitter from a truth teller, and they compared pictures of Bonzo’s customized drum kits and his. I’ll have to contact to guy to see if he got it authenticated. The Spiders played well that night and it was good to see them in front of an audience.

Saturday was our big superstar rock n roll gig. This was the night we shared the bill with Nebula and the Warlocks. Nebula is a great rock band with a couple guys from the more well-known Fu Manchu. Before the gig Shawn, who we met in San Francisco at Sleazefest West last February and who works at the Garage, had a cookout for us. He lives right behind the Garage so it was like being backstage at Lollapalooza or something. This dude is a saint, because he cooked us up some THICK porterhouse steaks and corn on the cob on the grill. Damn the shit was GOOD eatin’.

The gig that night went well. People seemed to dig us, but of course it ain’t hip to applaud in the big city unless you know the band is going to be big or get signed or something. Big city people are more laid back and insercure like that, but that’s okay. The Warlocks were a bunch of fucknobs dressed up like the Strokes with the designer jean outfits and the cute feathery $200 haircuts that go over the eyes. You know what I’m talking about. The only thing the one guy said to me was “Jesus” because I didn’t have my army box off the stage in time for them to put all their hip vintage equipment up there. I think they were worried we were cramping their style because our music isn’t tight-assed enough. They were trying to sound like the Velvet Underground (read their bio it even tells you, and and it makes them out to be tough like they could play in front of the Hells Angels and not pee themselves, and it uses the word “visceral” which is a gay, hack rock writer word), and it bored the shit out of all the rock people who went to the other side of the bar. Other people said they were trying to sound like Black Rebel Motorcycle Club (ooo what a tough name), who must sound like shit. Once the BRMC were playing over at the Cats Cradle and tried to get into the 506 for free by saying, “We’re the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club, mate.” Matt was drunk and would have none of that. “Five bucks. You can afford it.” The Hells Angels or at least the Lords of Altamont ought to kick these homos lilly white asses.

The Warlocks served one purpose anyway – I got to meet some people that dug us and like rock ‘n’ roll music on the other side of the bar and have a common thing to bitch about. They say tragedy brings people together, but nothing brings people together like something they can hate in common.

Then Nebula came on and they rocked the motherfucker. Great band. The guitar player was trying to dance around like me but he slipped and fell on his ass. It was funny and he laughed it off.

Well we figured we’d get a jump on things and said our final thank yous and goodbyes to Tobin “I drink to have fun every time and I win, every time.” Shea, and headed East, finally East, toward Sin City.