Archive for the ‘Life’ Category
What can I say? This has to be one of the hardest working bands out there. These guys come on stage and bring the house down every time I see them. The Street Dogs are without a doubt the best band you never heard of. Mike McColgan is probably the only singer I have every heard that can make me enjoy a protest song. I don’t agree with his position on Iraq, but he is a combat vet and has earned the right to say whatever he wants. And he does it paying the utmost respect to our troops.
Look for The Street Dogs on the Vans Warped Tour this summer, and back in Detroit in the fall.
A short synopsis:
D.O.T.W. met the hardcore, mohawked girl of his preternatural fantasies.
Ron must have ingested some type of top secret meth prior to this show as he not only stayed awake, but also spent most of his evening in the pit.
Re-Todd spent most of the night on the periphery stalking a specimen of east side dishwater blonde.
Young Jake once again showed promise in the pit. He stayed mostly on the side lines, but came up with a number of sneaky maneuvers that just made me proud.
Dr. Hooligan… Dr. Hooligan once again showed why he is the Dean of the School of Moshing and, with Ron’s help, showed a kid with a green mohawk why you don’t mess with the master!
Crash, Stashe, Jaws and T were AWOL.
I am once again grinning like a retard as I write this. I am also wincing when making certain movements due to a friendly fire accident courtesy of Hooligan. Bruises cover my arms and chest, I have a blister the size of Rhode Island on my foot, and possibly a separated sternum. I also have the requisite smile you couldn’t get off my face with a jack hammer and C-4. It’s nights like this that keep me young, or very well may one day cripple me.
I’m off to the Nevada desert at 04:15 tomarrow for a week long training exercise.
Have a great week.
“He is not here: for he is risen… And Jesus spake unto them, saying, “All power is given unto me in heaven and in earth. Go ye therefore, and teach all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost: Teaching them to observe all things whatsoever I have commanded you: and, lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.” Amen.
Matthew 6, 18-19
Have a blessed Easter,
I found the following stories in a 30 second period last night. They pretty much speak for themselves.
I am still a Fox News fan, but for a moment I thought I might have somehow been redirected to The Weekly World News site.
I was reading “George The Painter’s” column this month in “The Horse–Backstreet Choppers” magazine. As I have said before, “The Horse” is the only motorcycle magazine worth reading and George is a big reason for it.
Here is an excerpt from this month’s column:
“From what I have been able to figure out there are two schools of thought when it comes to getting things done. First, there is the ‘Over plan everything’ school. This is a place where micro-analysis and constant worry riddle the entire process of whatever it is you are doing and any outcome short of perfection is a failure. Then there is the ‘Let’s put the Bullet in the Furnace’ school. Here any outcome short of catastrophic personal injury or death is considered a success. One school achieves greatness; the other is just a shitload of fun.”
Anyone who knows me will tell you that I am definitely a “Bullet in the Furnace” type of guy. Which type are you?
You have a trailer like this.
I have news for this neutered jack ass, if he actually rode his bike instead of trailering it, his ol’ lady might want to ride him.
We are about four months into a Michigan winter that should put the global warming myth to rest. Algore needs a carbon credit suppository administered on the point of a steel toed Chippewa workboot. If I don’t get my face in the wind soon… I was going to reference the wind in my hair, but a certain Canadian Communist elected by a group of illiterate sheep in Detroit, who seems to be surfing a perpetual crimson wave, has arbitrarily eliminated that possibility.
That being said, it seems like a good time to bring out The Scolai’s “You’re Probably Not A Biker If…” list:
If your 2500 mile oil change comes around every two years (or longer), you’re probably NOT a biker (You guys know who I’m talking about).
If you’ve ever missed a Boomer’s Bike Night because you didn’t have time to wash your bike, you’re probably NOT a biker.
If you’ve ever decided not to ride because it “might” rain, you’re probably NOT a biker.
If you’ve ever gotten a temporary tattoo at Fowlerville, you’re probably NOT a biker.
If you think helmets should be mandatory and pipes should be properly baffled, you’re probably NOT a biker.
If the toe of your left boot isn’t somehow deformed from shifting, you’re probably NOT a biker.
If you’ve never swallowed a June Bug, had a Deer Fly go down your back and bite you on the butt, or pulled a Bumble Bee out of your left knee, or right testicle at 75 MPH, you’re probably NOT a biker.
If you’ve ever ridden “bitch” behind your wife, not as a joke, but because she said “it’s my turn to drive,” you’re probably NOT a biker.
If you’ve ever left a bar because the barmaid wouldn’t make you an Amaretto Sour, you’re probably NOT a biker.
If, on a cold day, you’ve ever had to pull over to blow your nose, your probably NOT a biker. (Make sure you’re alone, or at the back of the pack when you try that maneuver)
If you’ve ever trailered your bike for any reason other than….well there is no reason to trailer a functional bike; Ever. You’re probably NOT a biker.
If you’ve ever seen a bike broken down on the side of the road and didn’t stop because you thought the owner looked “scummy,” Then you are DEFINITELY NOT a biker.
8:00pm–The two opening bands are completely forgettable, other than the 300 pound woman who actually turned out to be a washboard virtuoso. That’s right the rhythm section of the second band consisted of drums and a washboard. The singer resembled either the old WWE wrestler “Hillbilly Jim,” or any number of people, male or female, found walking the streets of Milford Michigan on any given market day. Many more $7 beers and a shot or two of something I can’t recall. Hooligan and I make a reconnaissance of the main floor in front of the stage and see there will be plenty of people to push around once the mosh pit gets going. A good many are males in their late teens/early twenties who seem to be inordinately proud of their hairless, sunken chests. Steve the Brewer tells me I am to old for mosh pits. Remember that statement.
9:00 pm– Flogging Molly hits the stage and the kids start pushing. Hooligan and I start throwing some elbows and are soon separated as we lock onto different targets. It’s funny how kids today seem to think they invented the pit. My experience goes back to the late seventies Detroit punk scene. Trust me, things were a lot less forgiving then. Through the crowd, I see Dr. Hooligan putting on an extension course of the Hooligan School of Moshing. These kids don’t realize the value they are getting is better than a Pell Grant. A girl who could be, and reminds me of, my oldest daughter, falls in front of me and in trying to keep her from being trampled, I am basically knee capped by one of the people around us. While in a vulnerable position, someone also cracks me on the noggin raising a golf ball sized lump. I get the girl to her feet and limp back to our table. I notice DOTW, Steve the Brewer, and Ol’ Don at the table. Ron and Young Jake seem to have decamped for the ladies room. This is strange for Ron, usually when I come out to take a break I find him sleeping. DOTW thinks we should have him checked for narcolepsy. I chug a beer and turn to head back down when I am confronted by Steve the Brewer who says: “I’m 46 and I’ve never been in a mosh pit.” I tell him it’s now or never, as we both wade into the fray. 5 minutes later, I have to explain the cardinal rule: You don’t fire on friendlies! At any rate, he held his own and did well for a 46 year old novice.
11:30 pm– The show ends and we head for the Wartabago intending a quick exit as most of us were working the next day. My clothes were damp with sweat as we exited into the aforementioned 10 degree evening. While cold, it was most likely a blessing for those around me. After spending an hour or so in an active mosh pit, one develops a smell that can only be compared to that of someone leaving an all night orgy at Plato’s Retreat– at the height of the disco era. When we arrived at the station, three cars were parked across the entrance, in a marked no parking zone, blocking our exit. Young Jake goes into the station to see if anyone there knows who owns the Suburban that is making our exit impossible. DOTW, Hooligan and myself contemplate breaking all the glass, ripping open the steering column and pushing the offending vehicle into the street, Steve the Brewer and Ol’ Don head across the street to a bar and proceed to get hammered, Ron climbs in the Wartabago and falls asleep (we just may have to have him tested for narcolepsy).
12:30 am–Still waiting. No one in the station knew who owned the vehicle, but since it had an IAFF sticker we decided to leave it intact. A cop shows up and offers to have it towed. Just when we think we are getting out of there an off duty member of the DFD shows up, hears what is going on, and runs in the station to prevent it. He comes outside with the station lieutenant who says he doesn’t want the vehicle towed because it may belong to one his guys. The cop agrees not to tow it. The Lieutenant goes back in the station. Off duty bitch boy makes the mistake of telling Young Jake “We has diffint rules down here than all y’all in the country.” He’s not much in the mosh pit, but Young Jake is developing a mean streak I really admire. Off Duty Bitch Boy should be making novenas to DOTW for saving him from the ass whipping he had in store had Young Jake been allowed to continue on course.
01:30 am–Still waiting. Steve the Brewer and Ol’ Don call me to meet them across the street. I hope the guy with the Suburban isn’t hooked up with one of the many transvestite hookers that seem to infest the area. Actually, if it wasn’t a time issue, I hope he is. It would serve the rat bastard right. Steve the Brewer and Ol’ Don seem to have become fast friends with a large group of patrons. Ol’ Don pulls me aside and slurs: “He doshent get out to mush, and thash a goo thing. HA HA HA!!!” I get an ice water and talk to a couple of people who happen to live near me. Yeah, I said “ice water.” By this point I was not only bone tired, but also completely dehydrated.
01:45 am– Hooligan calls me and says “We’re leaving. You got 2:oo or you guys are walking. Great, now I have round these two up and roll them toward the door. Steve the Brewer makes this task more difficult by insisting on bidding farewell to each of his new pals. I manage to get them out the door and into the street just as the Wartabago pulls up. We’re on our way.
Highlights of the return trip? Ol’ Don lurching from the back of the Wartabago and crashing head first into the dash. DOTW and I having to hold Ol’ Don in place at every stop and start. Ron sleeping through this and Steve the Brewer’s repeated calls to “turn it up!!” And of course Ol’ Don’s header from the side door of the Wartabago onto Young Jake’s driveway. Good thing it was covered with about 4″ of snow or Ol’ Don may have really gotten hurt.
All in all, minus the dickhead with the Suburban, it was a typical night for one of these shows and a great example of why we get together for them whenever we have the chance.
STREET DOGS at The Majestic on April 18th!
This post is one that should have been written a week ago. But those that know me, know this last week was hectic to say the least. The length needed to get whole story out also necessitates it being a two part-er. Here is part one:
4:00 pm–Get to Young Jake’s and check out the new bar. I’ll give him credit, he’s not much in the mosh pit, but he sure knows a saw from an axe. Young Jake reminds me alot of myself at his age, except he is much better with money. He bought his first house before his 21st birthday and is already established in his chosen profession. When I was his age, I was sharing a studio apartment with my brother in Pompano Beach and the only legal substance to be found in the entire place was the pitcher of Tequila Sunrises in the refrigerator. Hooligan is already bellied up when we arrive. I walk in with two additions to the regular crew:”Steve the Brewer” and “Ol’ Don.” Steve brings 2 growlers of home brew to compliment the British mix of Guinness, Boddington’s, and Tetley’s that fills my cooler and some ghastly lite beer with which Young Jake has chosen to foul his beer fridge. Ron comes next, followed by the Driver of the Wartabago who walks in with 3 large pizzas. The line up is set. Jaws and T have decided to sit this one out due to some sort of unspecified cramps.
5:15 pm–Load the coolers into the Wartabago. The Driver of the Wartabago has made several recent improvements. These include: extra speakers for the boom box that serves as a stereo, rope lights, and a funnel–containing the obligatory large white mint– connected to a garden hose that serves it’s purpose as a urinal. I know just how white trash that sounds, but believe me when you’ve nearly been run down on the shoulder of I-75 while relieving yourself, while wearing a kilt, this sort of convenience makes perfect sense. I’ve got shotgun and we get underway to the sounds of the best Celtic punk found anywhere this side of The Pouges.
6:15 pm–Outside DFD’s Station 1. I check with the guys inside who give us permission to park the Wartabago in their lot. There are no locks on this behemoth and anything not locked in Detroit has a tendency to disappear like a plate of warm Krispy Kremes in front of the fat broad who fronts the Dixie Chicks. We head around the corner to the theatre doors and see a line of people snaking around the block. Good thing there is a bar in the same building with an entrance to the theatre. I step up and order beers for Young Jake, Hooligan and myself and am nearly apoplectic when the bartender says: “That’ll be $21.” I give him my standard harangue about how, with $5 more, I could buy 60 PBR’s and how do they expect to stay in business charging such prices to such an obviously low rent crowd. This, as usual, has no effect on the bartender, but postpones my aneurysm one more day.
7:00 pm–The door to the theatre opens but we are told that no one from the bar will be admitted until 8:00. Something about being fair to those who have stood outside in 10 degree weather or some non-sense. In my mind, if you go to a show and aren’t willing to scam to improve your situation, you should really just stay home. Luckily, I am with a group of natural born scamsters. DOTW goes to the doorman and lays a line on him about this being Young Jake’s “Make a Wish” concert. He tells him he is suffering from bladder cancer brought on by a rare undescended penis condition and this may be his last chance to see his favorite band. The story is effective, but doesn’t get us through the door until Ron explains that he is a paramedic assigned to stay with Young Jake in case his catheter becomes blocked or dislodged.
7:05 pm– We are at the entrance to the main floor, but holding tickets for the balcony. This situation was handled by a sympathetic doorman who had no doubt overheard the “Make a Wish” story. He shakes Young Jake’s hand and says “Hang in there little buddy.” Three young ladies in short plaid skirts stop by our table. Ron and Ol’ Don tell them of Young Jake’s plight. One fixes him with her best pout and says: “It’s too bad you can’t (have intercourse), you would make cute babies.” I’m glad he wasn’t armed at that point, there would have been at least 6 fatalities.
(To be continued)