June 22, 2002

I am ashamed that this review is way too heavy handed. I don’t know what I was thinking with all of that crap about Robert Plant and all of that garbage about trying to get people who probably already liked Led Zeppelin to like them more. I would not bad mouth Robert Plant as much now. Sorry. And just because I came into Led Zeppelin in a weird way does not mean that everybody did. I think that they said something about assuming or something. So this review is kind of crappy. “The worst are filled with passionate intensity.” It does have a good line about the guy who beat you up with the Led Zeppelin t-shirt was not in Led Zeppelin. Yeah, that was a good line.

Led Zeppelin
BBC Sessions
(Atlantic Records, 1997)

Allow me to take you on a historical and anthropological journey to the late eighties in suburban Cleveland. Come with me back to the days of acid washed denim and tons of hair to a place where hard rock/cock rock was king and a fringed leather jacket was one ticket to paradise. Bon Jovi and Cinderella are your soundtrack for this journey.

I was one messed up dude in high school in the late eighties. I went Garfield Heights High School. I did not know anybody my freshman year that would speak to me. I ate lunch with cats that stuttered and had crossed eyes. I dove head first into metal as a means of dealing with my screwed up social situation. I wore a Slayer shirt to the first day of school my sophomore year. That shirt was my introduction to a group of like minded losers. I made friends with the metal dudes. We loved to thrash. We were morons. We were the guys who wore Iron Maiden shirts for yearbook photos. We grew our hair and listened to Metallica.

I have to remind the youthful and un-hip readers of the Cauldron, again, that there once was a time when Metallica meant something. I used to live by Metallica's teachings. I will never forget when they played on the Grammy award show in 1988. I thought the world was coming to an end. I guess the heavy metal world that I inhabited did die in a sense. Metallica faded fast. And soon every sissy and girl in a Warrant shirt was singing "One". Oh well. Grandpa Chris here remembers when you could not buy a Dead Kennedys shirt at Parmatown Mall. And we were called progressive, not alternative. Back in my day sonny...

Anyway, my dorky friends and I found each other and our sense of identity through heavy metal. We spent most of our time talking about metal, listening to metal, shopping for metal records, buying metal T - shirts, watching metal videos, and growing our hair. When there was an all ages metal show, we went to it. We also spent a good chunk of time cruising up and down Turney Road in a 1979 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme - named the "car of death". Everything had "of death" attached to it in our scene. My locker at school was the "locker of death" and so on. We were nerds. Once in a blue moon there was an open door party and during the fall there was football games, but mostly it was up and down Turney Road all night.

The Taco Bell on Turney between Granger and McCracken used to be the big hang out. The management eventually put picnic tables outside so more people could loiter. After doing a few laps between Garfield Mall and the world famous Turneytown Shopping center, we would park at Taco Bell with the other kids who had nothing to do but sit. Everybody would float back and forth between the cars. We sat in the "car of death" with pissed off looks on our faces. Girls would flock around the cool guys' cars. We ate tacos alone. I should also mention that we would have the "car stereo of death" on ten, blasting our precious metal. The "car stereo of death" was pretty loud. If the volume wasn't obnoxious enough, our tape selection completed that task. Metallica, Megadeth, Overkill, Nuclear Assault, Vio-lence, Testament, and King Diamond was our Saturday serenade. We were not trying to make friends. This was not party music. It pissed the cool guys off and that made us happy. Because we were stupid, it never occurred to us that girls also hated this music. I think any one of us would have sworn off metal for life for a girlfriend. I know I would have probably taken a shot at president for sex. But we were dumb. We sat there night after night blasting Cryptic Slaughter and Exodus, eating tacos, alone.

One night, while rummaging through the box of tapes on the "back seat of death", I stumbled upon a copy of “Houses of the Holy” (Atlantic, 1975) by the way uncool Led Zeppelin. I put the tape on as a joke, to goof on the music of the square. My mother used to listen to Led Zeppelin. We sang along with the tape in a mocking girlish manner. Led Zeppelin was still very popular at Garfield when I was in school. Jimmy Page was voted the man the girls would like to take to prom each of my four years - 1987 to 1990. Led Zeppelin shirts were at every table in the lunchroom and "Thank You" was played at every dance. "Man, we are really going to fuck with people, playing this shit, " we laughed. For the first time, however, girls came to the "car of death" that night. During "Over the Hills and Far Away" I actually spoke to a girl. Behold the awesome power of the mighty Zeppelin. Watch them attract burner girls from across the parking lot. I have never made fun of Led Zeppelin again. "Thank You".

Atlantic Records has just released Led Zeppelin's “BBC Sessions”. It is a two CD live set. Disc One has a variety of songs taped "live" for broadcast on the BBC during 1969. Disc Two has a complete set from one show in 1971. Both discs are good. The second disc is the weaker of the two. If you have ever sat through “The Song Remains the Same”, you already know how much fun twenty minutes of "Dazed and Confused" can be on the ears. You get 18:36 of it on Disc Two. By 1971, Led Zeppelin had evolved into a bloated live act. Snore. On Disc One, "Dazed and Confused" is lasts only 6:39. That is more like it. Disc One contains three, count them - three, different versions of "Communication Breakdown" - quite possibly the greatest rock song ever. Buy this for that song. It is what rock – n - roll is all about.

Unfortunately, all of the songs showcase the vocal stylings of Robert Plant. He sucks more than anyone has sucked before or since. He has inspired many a tight pants douche bag to pick up a microphone. He should be shot. One day Atlantic is going to have to release an instrumental version of the Led Zeppelin catalog, free of Robert Plant's disgusting panting whine - please. My cat does a great Robert Plant impression when she is sick.

The punk in me still hates Led Zeppelin for all of the crap that they have spawned and I have met very few people who claim to be fans of "the Zep" who were not total assholes. And Robert Plant sucks. Still, the rocker in me loves Led Zeppelin for always rocking out. Listen to “Physical Graffiti” if you need proof. Jimmy Page was great in the studio and John Bonham, along with Bill Ward, Keith Moon, Tommy Fox, and Stewart Copeland, is the reason I drum. He rocks. Give Led Zeppelin (minus that singer - I mean it. He blows.) another chance. There is more to the band than the "classics" that 98.5 plays ad nauseam. The guy who beat you up in high school wearing the "Hammer of the Gods" shirt is not in the band.

Led Zeppelin's BBC Sessions rocks.

(1997)


posted by Thea at 9:26 PM

June 21, 2002

I used to live by my record collection – particularly my rap record collection. I had many raps. I think that He Who Shant be Referred to on the Radio Program Ever Again would vouch for my raps. Well, now the record collection is gone. It was the first step that I took in freeing myself from this world. I feel much better now that they are gone and attempting to find them all again will give me something to do with my retirement when I am an old man.

Kurtis Blow presents the History of Rap
(Rhino Records, 1997)

"Make it funky."

I was five years old when the “Saturday Night Fever Soundtrack” (RSO, 1977) was released and disco, in all its throbbing, pulsing Donna Summers glory, peaked. I remember dancing to Rick Dee's "Disco Duck" in Mrs. Bell's kindergarten class. It sure beat playing with blocks or nap time. The Bee Gees and Disco Mickey were my favorite acts. I was grooving. Meanwhile, as I'm shaking my butt to KC and the Sunshine Band, hip hop and punk rock were growing out of a reaction to the hustle. Not all of the kids, whether it be a south Bronx B - Boy or a suburban malcontent with a guitar in his parent's garage, could relate to the cocaine glitz. I liked disco but, hey, I was five years old. The "Miss You" Rolling Stones had no excuse.

The first CD of the three volume “Kurtis Blow presents The History of Rap” is devoted to the music of the early B - Boy. James Brown, The Isley Brothers, and Booker T. and the M.G. s are just a few of the disco era artists that were true to the funk on Volume One. All of the songs on this record are long, funky jams with plenty of drum breaks. The drum break, a necessity for break dancing, are the qualifier for each of these songs. DJs, bored with disco hits, would spin these records at street oriented clubs. MCs would grab a microphone and rap to get the crowd going while break dancers did their thing. According to Kurtis Blow's notes, this is the birth of rap. He does not mention the Last Poets, Gil Scott-Heron, or the Watts Prophets and neither will I. Rap was born from disco but it was more in touch with inner city youth. I am not going to argue with Kurtis Blow.

"Hip. Hop. You don't stop."

The first rap record was released in 1979. It was not "Rapper's Delight" by the Sugarhill Gang as is commonly believed. The first rap record was, as Kurtis Blow takes great pains to point out, "King Tim III (Personality Jock)" by Fatback. In any event, early rap records were simple funk song, played by a live band, with an MC or rap group, rhyming over the track. Keeping the disco vibe, all the lyrics were dedicated to the party groove. Volume Two is loaded with the way old school - pre Beat Street. It is a fun record even though all the songs sound the same.

"Its like a jungle sometimes. It makes me wonder how I keep from going under."

Rap started to break away, ever so slightly, from strictly good time lyrics with Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five's 1982 record "The Message" featured on Volume Two. Kurtis Blow is quick to point out, however, that his record, "The Breaks" (1980) - also on disc two, was the first certified gold hip hop record and it also featured socially conscious lyrics. Thank you Kurtis.

“I want to rock right now."

As the eighties progressed, rap began to benefit from some mainstream attention. Volume Three of the set are hit records that anyone with an interest in hip hop will recognize. Run DMC, Public Enemy, Boogie Down Productions - the best of the not so old school. I am too young to remember any of the songs from Volume One and most from Volume Two but the last Volume is a great trip down memory lane. As a nerdy white dude, rap music was one of my first tastes of simulated rebellion. I am still the only person I know who owns the "Rock Box" twelve inch. I remember when hip hop was more than a glorified commercial for consumption culture. Volume Three will take you back to a time when young and fresh. I still remember the first time I heard "Criminal Minded" (Volume 3). I miss the old days.

“The History of Rap” is a good start for anyone interested in a brief, way too brief, overview of hip hop. Even though the music is not yet twenty years old, misinformation and plain old no information surrounds rap's history. A three volume set is not even scratching the surface. The Sugar Hill box set was five CDs and that was just one label's output. There are several things that could be done to enhance this collection. Including two Whodini and two Biz Markie cuts and nothing from the west coast was not the best idea. I realize that licensing problems are a reality but no Doug E. Fresh, Digital Underground, or De La Soul - all stylistic innovators, c'mon. Kurtis Blow does a commendable job with his informative notes. They are a decent blueprint for further research. I am sure my complaints are dismissed by the fact that this set was probably not intended to be all inclusive. This set is not a complete history of hip hop - just a taste.

Break out your old Adidas shell toes and bust a move.

“Kurtis Blow presents the History of Rap” rocks and it just don't stop

(1997)

posted by Thea at 6:59 PM

June 20, 2002

It was the summer of 1994. I spent the day playing softball in the hot sun. I did not eat anything all day. I drank three boilermakers at a party that John Doobie was throwing. My future wife (not yet live in girlfriend), Big Al and I left the party to go see Green Day at Nautica. I drove. I was drunk. I hit a lady’s car while parking in front of the Justice Center. She yelled at me. I blew it off. I walked as fast as I could to the Nautica Stage with Big Al and Laurie chasing after me. I was just trying to stay conscious by walking fast. The police shut down the Green Day concert before we could get even close. A police walking barricade was pushing people out of the Flats. I jumped on the ground in front of the police to be funny. Neither the police nor Big Al nor Laurie laughed. I ran into my friend Eric from high school. He didn’t laugh either. I jumped a fence and fell down a hill somewhere in the Flats. I don’t remember. Laurie and Big All were really pissed off that I was acting like an asshole. I explained it to Laurie the next day that I was drunk on an empty stomach. She said that I had better been because if I acted like that sober, she would leave me.

Green Day
nimrod.
(Reprise Records, 1997)

I wanted to give “nimrod.” (Reprise) a terrible review. I really did. Green Day is not rock – n - roll. They never have been I doubt they ever will be. I am punk rock. Green Day is not. I had no intention of liking the record even mildly. I figured this review would be a powerful display of the brutality I could wield as a rock critic. Don't put out a half rate record and expect me to dig it, buster. I'll write so much trash about you that you won't know whether to wind your watch or cry. I am a rock critic. I think I can do it better than you.

Imagine the evil excitement I felt as I unwrapped the cellophane. I looked at myself in the mirror side of the compact disc. I had a devilish glint in my eye. I winked at my reflection. "You're the baddest rock critic since Lester Bangs. You're superbad," I purred at my growing head. "After this review, Rolling Stone is going to ring your phone off the hook. Publicists are going to tremble at the mere mention of your name."

My breathing quickened, nervous and giddy, as I made my way across the living room to the stereo. The machines clicked on and I set “nimrod.” into the tray of the CD player. The CD cued up, I hit play, and quickly found myself back at the couch. By the time the opening notes of the record hit my ear, I had grabbed my pen and sat down, drooling slightly, waiting to note each and every offense against rock – n - roll. Take that Green Day. Your false rocking is no match for a rock critic on ego overdrive.

I made notes for about half of the CD before I tossed the pen and propped my feet on the coffee table. This was too easy. "I'm so happy I could fucking cry" is an actual lyric from the first song, "Nice Guys Finish Last". It was like Green Day was asking, no - begging, me to open up the can of whup - ass that I keep on hand for such occasions. "Life's a bitch and so am I" is, again, an ACTUAL lyric from "The Grouch". I was beginning to think that Billie Joe (guitar, vocal) had stolen my journal from the fifth grade. I was a poet in my youth - the Ginsberg of SS. Peter & Paul Elementary School.

I finished listening to the record. My eyes were sore from being stuck in the rolled back position. Whatever. I decided to listen to it again to really agitate myself. I read the enclosed lyric booklet to fuel the fire and wondered if I could find the video of Green Day throwing mud at Woodstock '94. That was stupid and very irritating.

I putzed around the house while waiting for the album to end. I cranked the stereo so I could hear the music over the vacuum cleaner. I was getting angry. I was filling up with venom. While washing the dishes, Green Day blasting in the background, I noticed that my head was bobbing to the music.

It would not be too hard for me to rip “nimrod.” to shreds. I've listened to a lot of music. There are records that are better than this one. But I guess there are a zillion way worse “nimrod.” is O.K. (Yes, I listened to the record a third time to check if my suck detector was on the blink for the day. Although I did not break into full tilt, Pete Townshend - style air guitar, I think my hands moved. I'm not sure. It's a blur. This is not happening.)

Green Day's story has been told enough times. I won't waste too much ink. (hey, newspaper talk) But on the off chance that this review is your first taste of American pop culture, I'll give you a brief overview. Teenagers start punk band. Punk band stinks. Punk band gigs. Punk band makes records for small independent label. Records stink. Punk band gets popular anyway. Punk band becomes aware of the benefits of money. (Hello?!?) Punk band signs contract with evil, multinational, entertainment corporation. Punk scene (remember I am punk rock) screams sellout and moves on to next crappy group of teenagers. Repeat.

Green Day actually benefited from the major label dough. “Dookie”(Reprise, 1994), unlike their previous offerings, actually sounds a bit rocking. Punk band sells millions of records. Punk band is on MTV every minute of the day. Rock critic looses what little bit of interest he had in punk group. Repeat.

“nimrod.” is not as good as Dookie. I did not hear “Insomniac” (Reprise, 1995) so I can't make a comparison. “nimrod.” is an enormously average pop punk record. I would reference other bands or records here but the most accurate description is that it sounds like a Green Day record. The songwriting, performance, and attack has not changed a bit since the last time you heard the group.

With the exception of scattered additional instrumentation (violin, harmonica) and a few changes of pace (spaghetti western instrumental, ragtime horns), “nimrod.” is the same as anything else from Green Day. That is not necessarily a bad thing but this record was hyped as an experimental departure. It is not. I have nothing against mindless repetition. I am a Ramones fan. “nimrod.” is not awful. I even found "Scattered" and "Haushinka" rather good and almost rocking.

I thought I would get a big charge out of slamming this record and I have to admit that I'm a bit disappointed that I didn't get the chance. I am sure that if I was forced to sit through every video that is released off the record, I will. Green Day made my foot tap. That is what a record is supposed to do.

“nimrod.” does not rock.

(1997)
posted by Thea at 8:01 PM

June 19, 2002

From now and for a while, everything that you read after the daily intro was originally published in the “CSU Cauldron” in 1997 and the 1998. I have plenty to say about these first attempts at writing for publication but I though it might be a good idea to get a few of them out there before I started commenting on them. If you have been following my multi media career since the very beginning and have already read these, I apologize for the repeats. If you were in school with me, read these the first time and are listening to the radio show, please get in touch at iamthea@aol.com. I would like to hear from you to see what you think. And if you were the one girl to laugh at my black culture joke before the midterm in the African American art class and called up the Assholier than Thou radio show to win Queens of the Stone Age tickets in 1999, you definitely need to contact iamthea@aol.com. I have a valuable prize for you.

I will never forget the first time I heard this record. It was a Saturday morning after getting no sleep because I was out all night the night before in Pittsburgh, PA with Thea. The Revelers had their first decent show in Pittsburgh, PA that night at the 31st Street Pub. It looked like things were turning up and this record, after just two hours of sleep, almost made me cry it was so good. This was a good time in my life – just before going back to school and things picking up with the band. I should not have asked for more.

Big ups to Jerry Wick (RIP) of Gaunt for turning me on to the Smoking Popes. I will pour a Forty in your honor on Clifton Blvd. tonight.

Smoking Popes
Destination Failure
(Capitol Records, 1997)

I was at the Grog Shop in Cleveland Heights a while back to see the Figgs. I got to the club early to bullshit with the Figgs and suck smoke through my eyes for a few hours until they hit the stage. The cancer was moving through my body quite nicely when it was rudely distracted by some dreadful, half - baked, pop punk pap with some of the most annoying vocalizing I've heard since a Doug and Wendy Whiner sketch on SNL many moons ago.

It was the Smoking Popes. They were terrible. They were sloppy. They were fat. They were goofy. They were lead by a bald, bloated crooner who blinked too much while he sang and made stupid jokes that I could not understand between each song. They stunk and I hated them. The worse part of it was, the mostly teenage crowd was eating it up. The bar was packed with super baggy trousers and backpacks hanging on king Popes' every word.

I made the vomit sign, screamed, "You guys suck! ", and booed. A teenage grrrl hit me with her lunchbox. The Smoking Popes finished their set. The Grog Shop emptied.

The Figgs had next to no crowd in the house for their little foray into what the ancestors called rock - n - roll. I wondered aloud, many times - loudly, what was wrong with the kids today? They wouldn't know rock - n - roll if Little Richard bit them in the ass. What's up with the Smoking Popes? How could the kids fall for a second rate Buzzcocks? Was I out of touch with my young brothers and sisters?

A song on the Smoking Popes new LP, “Destination Failure”, is called "I Was Right". I counter with "I was wrong". The Smoking Popes are a good band and “Destination Failure” is a solid record. Hailing from way suburban Chicago, IL, the Smoking Popes, consisting of the three Caterer brothers: Matt (bass), Eli (guitar), Josh (guitar/vocals) and their next door neighbor Mike Felumlee (drums), released two independent LPs, “Get Fired” (1993) and “Born to Quit” (1994), before being picked up by Capitol in the post - Green Day pop punk signing bonanza. (Quick﷓ who was Jawbreaker?) Capitol rereleased Born to Quit in 1995 and placed four of the record's ten songs on movie soundtrack albums. Most notably, "I Need You Around" was on the platinum “Clueless” soundtrack.

That's how I became a fan of the band. That song was too damn catchy and Alicia Silverstone - who wouldn't?

I found “Born to Quit” in the dump bin at the Record Exchange. I loved it. I saw them live a few more times. They were OK. As a band the Smoking Popes are not that much different or better than a million other bands that grew up on the Descendants. But the Popes have a powerhouse songwriter in Josh Caterer and his voice carries the band.

“Destination Failure” has some of the strongest punkesque singer/songwriter material I've heard since Nick Lowe and Elvis Costello were in their prime. "Paul", "Before I'm Gone", and "Megan" find Caterer on top of his craft - perfect melody and a sweet voice. "No More Smiles" and "Capitol Cristine" are excellent examples of the buzzpop sound that the Smoking Popes are known. And there are also some decent attempts at rock moderne - Chicago style with "I Know that You Love Me" and "Pretty Pathetic".

This is the longest record of the Popes short career. It is the first to break thirty minutes. But they had to rerecord two songs, "Can't Find It" and "Let's Hear it For Love", from “Get Fired” to do it. The versions are slower and not as good as the first time around.

Josh Caterer's voice is an acquired taste. He still sounds a little too like Morissey for some people. The romance lyrics of his songs are way sappy. I would be embarrassed to even think some of what he sings for the world to hear. I do think he can develop into a major talent with the right band. Family or not, the rest of the Popes are nothing to write home about.

If you don't mind a little too much heart on your sleeve, check out the Smoking Popes. Keep an eye open for Josh Caterer. He will write the 90s' "Cruel to be Kind".

“Destination Failure” rocks.

(1997)

posted by Thea at 10:03 PM

June 18, 2002

I started running again yesterday after a ten month lay off. What am I running from? How about a fat grim reaper? How about my own soul? I am thirty years old and need to be in better shape.

I could not believe how out of it I was after running a very slow mile yesterday. Holy shit, this stuff creeps up on you. I was huffing hard and grabbing my side. A couple of old ladies blew past me on Edgewater. I was so embarrassed that I am going out again tonight. Right now. Wish me luck.

Some thoughts for today compliments of me and my office:

You can always have the last word with a mute, but why bother?

If you want nothing out of life, it is easy to get.

The bigger the office, the more invisible I am.

Why were these notes rejected from The Revelers – “Better Get Hit in Your Soul” CD in 1996? Because somebody is always trying to keep a brother down.

Rejected Liner Notes for “Better Get Hit in Your Soul”

We are driving down 177 south. There are steel mills on our right and urban decay on our left. The Louvin Brothers are singing from the van's speakers. He is preaching rock - n - roll to the converted. We believe in rock - n - roll. Otherwise, we would not be driving in a van bound for Youngstown, OH.

There is an hour of suburbia and former farmland between Cleveland, OH and Youngstown, OH. There is not much else. One of the only roadside distractions on the trip is a giant GM plant glowing brightly in the middle of nowhere - literally. Trailers litter the surrounding area. Plant workers have to stay close to the plant. Their homes are nothing more than glorified break rooms - a place to crash between shifts. This is the heartland.

The city springs up fast from the darkness of the turnpike. The van rolls down 680 into downtown Youngstown, OH. The city has the quiet charm of a ghost town. There is nothing to see out the window since the novelty of this foreign city wore off years ago. We have been making this drive once, sometimes twice, a month for the last six years. I claim I could make the trip blind - folded. Cedars Lounge is more of a home to us now than our parent's houses.

We unload our equipment in the alley that runs between the bar and a vacant warehouse. We stack the amps and guitars in the "green room". The only thing green about this room is the bench that used to be in a Chevy van that is supposed to be our couch.

After the gear is loaded, greetings to the house are dispensed and drinks are poured. It is going to be a long night and we're always a bit better with a few in us.

The first round goes down quick. We order seconds. An old geezer slouched at the other end of the bar offers to buy a round for "the evening's entertainment". He looks like he doesn't have a pot to piss in nor has he seen the light of day for years. I feel sorry for this guy. I have a soft spot in my heart for broken down barflies. We graciously accept his offer.

As the bartender gets the round together, I notice a new sign behind the bar. It is a photocopied piece of paper that reads, "Youngstown, OH: All The Drugs And Crime Of New York City At Half The Price."

The wait before the band goes on is endless. It only takes so long to tune a guitar or set up the drums. We sit for hours at a booth in the corner of the bar. We watch people who are walking to the bathroom. We talk about rock – n - roll. We believe.

Eventually, Cedars has enough people inside to warrant the opening act starting the show. They are a young group. They sing their songs and try to pretend like they are supposed to be on stage. They hack at their instruments because they are new to them. They are not one yet. They probably never will be one. Young bands come and go. Once the thrill that comes from being accepted by a crowd is gone and your friends find something better to do with their Saturday nights there had better be a reason to continue playing the game. From where I'm standing I can't tell if this group believes. I hope they do.

The baby band finishes and we load our stuff onto the stage. The crowd is starting to become a crowd. It is hard to get the barmaid's attention for one more round of drinks. We are set up and waiting for the soundman. No sound check - so we pray for the best. I check the vocal mics and look into the crowd. I like looking at the faces of the customers. Most are college kids with a few semiprofessional drunks thrown in for good measure. The place is almost full. The soundman gives his OK. The band is ready. I stand at one of the mics and do my best showbiz impersonation.

"Ladies and gentleman ...Inbred Records and Cedars Lounge are proud to present ...from Cleveland, OH ...the little kings of rock - n - roll ...the Revelers."

We believe in rock - n - roll.

(1996)

posted by Thea at 7:58 PM

June 16, 2002

Big ups to all fathers everywhere – especially my father-in-law, my dad and my grandpa. They truly are the men now dogs.

Act 1, Scene 3

Setting

The same as Scene 1. Outside of the Old Man’s house. The Young Boy is approaching the door with quickness and determination. He is wearing all black clothes, sandals, beret and a goatee. He is scat singing one of Jack Kerouac’s blues haikus as he rings the buzzer to the door.

Young Boy – Skee bop da do bo. (rings buzzer) Hopped on goofballs ska do ba do. The young man’s wisdom. (rings again) Da boom da boom bright lights and hard liquor. (third ring) Skoo ba doobie Mexican lady.

Old Man – (yelling from offstage) Who the fuck is it?

Young Boy – It is I, daddio, the young cat that doth truly dig your verse.

Old Man – What do you want now, dip shit? I thought I told you to stay the fuck away from my house.

Young Boy – Come on out, pops. No need for you to hide in your personal uncoolness forever. I just want you to feast your orbs on a piece of my shit.

Old Man - (opens the door and walks to the boy) Didn’t I tell you to come back when you had something in print? I don’t want to look at the chicken scratch in your fucking notebooks.

Young Boy – It’s cool, dad. Your man is walking in the world of the published.

Old Man – I don’t believe it. Who would want to read that horse shit human struggle crap that you write – let alone publish it?

Young Boy – Lookee hear, man. (The Young Boy hands a carefully folded magazaine to the Old Man.) It’s this month’s issue of “Hustler”. One of my poems made it to their “Found on the Bathroom Wall” section. Dig it. I guarantee that you will be hip to my scene.

Old Man – (grabbing the magazine) I doubt this is worth a single squirt of my piss. (reads poem out loud) “Bitches (Some Words of Wisdom)” by Junior Blow. Bitches, man, Can you figure their shit out? That take your dough and fuck with your mind. Bitches, man, aren’t worth the time, That you waste listening to them flap their yaps. Bitches, man, I can’t take it anymore. Instead of all my time and money, I’ll just pay for a whore.

Young Boy – Well? What do you think, daddio? Is it worth a squirt? Lay it on me, bub.

Old Man – I can’t believe my fucking eyes. This is not bad. How did your pussy ass come up with something that wasn’t a complete piece of shit? Did your mother write it for you?

Young Boy – Instead of trying to figure the shit out, man, I wrote through the shit. You can’t feed the masses, man. You can only show them where to buy food. I was fooling myself into thinking that people wanted to be hip. I just had to get down with the fact that I was hip. I chilled with some of your shit and realized that you had to dig your shit first – mankind when they could handle it. I was on a bum trip for a long time – trying to tell my fellow chicks and cats what the shit was all about. Now, I just tell them what my shit is about. It is all I can do.

Old Man – Woah, hot shot. I can barely make out a God damn word of what you are saying but I think I get the point. All you can do is live it and write it. If you can do that, the glamorous world of the professional writer is at your fucking fingertips. You can’t just learn shit from an old dog like me. You have to make up your own tricks.

Young Boy - And you have to make up new trips, man. That is another reason why I came by your pad, dad. I am hitting the road with a group of like minded free thinkers. We are going to like dig America and go with the flow.

Old Man – That sounds like a hoot.

Young Boy – But I did want to thank you before I split for all of your kind assistance to my struggle. You really turned me onto the way. You lead me down the path of hipness – so to speak.

Old Man – Uhh.. Don’t mention it.

Young Boy – You busting my balls and kicking me out of your pad was the best thing that you could have ever done for me. I could only groove off of your scene for so long before I would have been bummed out of my own trip and just tripped you. I am free. Thank you, old timer, for allowing me to grow. ( pauses for grand exit) I am off. I am a writer.

The Young Boy walks off stage. The Old Man cries.

Old Man - So long, you stupid shit.

(1996)

posted by Thea at 9:07 PM