Two Tub Mantooth

There’s a time in every man’s life that can only be appropriately called “Sandwich Time.”  It was once called “Nummies Hour,” but you’re not a fucking boy anymore, are you? ARE YOU?   If you are not sure, take a look up at the sun and tell me what you see.  Do you see yourself wrestling a big thick sandwich between your salivating jaws like some sort of rabid man-dog?  Or do you see yourself in a soiled diaper rolling around on the floor, besooted with crushed up Cheerios and breast milk, clenching your fatty paws in anticipation of the new Sex in the City movie?   See, if you are ready, TRULY READY, for Sandwich Time you would eschew all vices, all distractions, in anticipation.  Movies would not exist.  Cheerios and breast milk would be of no consequence to your life. 

At approximately 1 PM EST (Eastern Sandwich Time) I will step in front of a ghasty funhouse mirror and the Mantooth you once knew will no longer exist.  I will be a contorted mass of flesh and bones that only slightly resembles the man that once was.  Of course this mirror is strictly alleghorical and I wouldn’t possibly think of engaging the whimsies of a Funhouse while working for The Man.   You see, Sandwich Time takes this human form and twists it, morphs it into a shape that is only conducive to its own evil/delicious desires.  The ends involve the following:

a) eating a fucking sandwich
b) knowing you are better than anyone NOT eating a sandwich
c) reflecting on your accomplishments (sandwich related accomplishments)

Now keep in mind that I am no “foodie.”  No, I detest the phrase!  Some may attempt to place this label on me out of either jealousy or out of a need for “gentle ribbing.”  Well you know what?  I don’t know about you, but I’ve just enough of SOCIETY getting its “rocks off” by placing it’s fuckin’ damage on me, MAN.  It sits there while I’m trying to enjoy my personal Sandwich Time, masturbating the flesh off its penis, JUST WAITING FOR ME TO CRACK.  

Sandwich Time is no time for “Foodies.”  As I said before, Sandwich Time is for MEN (non-gender specific), not BOYS.  If by chance a FOODIE eats a sandwich, this person is not actually eating a sandwich.  Sandwiches do not tolerate philistine flutesnootery–”Oh!  This Sandwích is so DELECTABLE! It is as if it has been sent to earth from outer space from an intergallactic band of alien Chefs charged with the duty of delivering their gourmet meals engineered from Dark Matter!” 

NO! Sandwich Time involves nothing like that.  Sandwiches are the brute clubs of the food omniverse.  You take that club in your hand and you beat yourself senseless with it because you are a fucking moron POSSESSED with the utilitarian need to destroy society’s conventions.   That convention is YOURSELF.  Think about THAT, dude.  Let that stew in your brainmeats for a while and tell me what it gives birth to.  No, I will TELL YOU what it gives birth to.  A stark realization that your whole fucking life up until this point has been a total FARCE.  Yeah.  YEAH.  Break the glass! Escape!  Get out your Google Map and find your way to freedom!!!!

Anyway, the history of the Sandwich is muddled in controversy, backstabbing, and (probably) tantric sex.  Legend has it that King Arthur and the knights of his round table took the meat of the slain Grendel and made the most terrible (in the moral sense) Sandwich of all time.   This was the first Sandwich ever constructed and set the tone for all Sandwiches to come.   Some say that all Sandwiches after that dreadful evening are forever cursed and all who consume them are doomed to live a life forever anticipating SANDWICH TIME, “blogging” about the latter, and losing all ability to communicate with other human beings without covering them in the spittle of your “sammich fervence.”   Nothing will stop your MANIA FOR CONQUEST until any Sandwich within earshot has been decimated, thrown out of existence.  And in the end days you will be left standing alone amidst the wastelands, oblivious to the carcasses of all your friends and family piled up to your waist, and you will be thinking of only one formula:  a bunch of stuff placed between two other things going into your mouth.  This is my dream.  This is my nightmare.

 UPDATE: 1:38 pm 5/15/08

On my way to Sandwich Time, I ran into some old hippy who complimented me on my Dictators backpatch and proceeded to tell me about seeing The Ramones in 1977 and how Motorhead made him deaf.  Normally I would not have hesitated to strangle furiously anyone who stepped into the divine path to the Sandwich, but for some reason this man, with his carefree attitude of LONG HAIR DON’T CARE, gave me a brief reprieve from my mania.   I packed away my urge to murder and accepted the interaction as an acceptable edition to ST.

Call it a symptom of GETTING OLD and DROPPING OUT–call it what you will–but the prospect of 1 billion shows over the course of one weekend does not make me stand up out of my wheelchair and pogo around the room like it used to.  I don’t necessarily dread weekends like this past one, but I won’t say it doesn’t make me sigh and hope that I get at least 5 minutes of precious Mantoothtime in which I can properly relieve myself without being nagged by the omnipresent duty of being a PUNK etc. 

 And so that omnipresent duty swept me up like a tornado and into a land that could resemble Oz except you can’t sync it up with Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon” and sit around your smelly room with your stupid friends in stoned awe of how fucking amazing it is that, like, Pink Floyd might not have even KNOWN their album matched up with this movie–all the while forgetting that Pink Floyd is for total losers and you are in fact a total loser.

Friday night I walked over to The Rock Room to see:

1) Brain Handle
2) Kim Phuc
3) Under Pressure

The gig itself was solid.  I made a promise to myself a long time ago that I would never attempt to write a music review because 90% (real statistic) of all music reviews, whether serious or joking, wind up overreaching into grotesque academia OR end up aping Lester Bangs.  LOOK, I’M A CRAAAAZY MUSIC REVIEWER!  I’M ON FUCKIN’ DRUGS! I THINK OUTSIDE THE FUCKIN’ BOX!  I TOSS CONVENTION OUT OF THE FUCKIN’ WINDOW INTO THE BOX BECAUSE I’M ON FUCKIN’ DRUUUUGS!   Yes, please, “give me a fuckin’ break.”  Both are grasping at the same straws.  Both serve more as a review of the author than the subject.  It’s an instance of a writer trying to one-up a musician by saying, “lookit me! I can manhandle my craft in ways in which you could only imagine! So please put your guitars/flutes/oboes away and return to fiddling with your pathetic genitalia instead!”  Yes, this is EXACTLY what happens when someone, ANYONE, writes a music review unless it looks like this: 

“Under Pressure were really great.” 

But even now I feel DIRTY.  SHAMEFUL.  I am DIRTY with SHAME.

The Rock Room itself is surprisingly tolerable place for a bar show.  The place itself has the feel of a “townie” bar.  It’s unaware that there are any other bars around, like it’s THE ONLY BAR left on the face of the earth.  And Polish Hill as a whole kind of replicates that feeling.   It’s weird little Island of Dr. Moreau, except it’s more like the book based on the 1977 movie based on the original book by HG Wells.   Is this to say that the denizens of this fair neighborhood are essentially mutants?  Sure.  That is exactly what I’m saying.  And I bet they try to write MUSIC REVIEWS as well, the fuckers.

I drank three beers, had Michael “Ska” Felice tell me had a maggot in his toe and to consequently “fuck the cops,” and spent a good portion of the evening staring into a wooded gorge across the street AKA Jurassic Park.

Saturday was the second Under Pressure gig of the weekend, which was well attended considering it was their second show in Pittsburgh in two days.  I like to think that the good turnout for both shows is a testament to my belief that the “scene” here is not dead, just the enthusiasm for it is.  The reasons for the enthusiasm’s demise remain clouded in mystery and passive aggressive accusations, but the finger remains squarely pointed at each one of “us.”  It’s not the fault of Roboto, Garfield Artworks, Modern Formations, Nevertellmetheodds.org, Myspace, DeLucca’s, Bar Gigs, House Gigs, the price of gas, the price of drugs, the Drink Tax, The City Paper, The Port Authority, Dr. Cyril Wecht etc., etc.–but it’s the fault of everyone who’s grown cranky, depressed, backbitey, angry, reclusive, bitter, etc., etc. and projected it onto something as inconsequential as THE PUNK SCENE.   Maybe we all thought the good vibes of 2002-2004 would last forever and now we’re all just experiencing the shock of getting older and everyone we know, ourselves included, are not matching up to the expectations of a brighty and shiny future–where we all make lots of money, all of our friends are not mean to us 100% of the time, batman is real, the Manpig 12″ is finally released, the streets run red with the blood of The Pigs, the Pirates kick butt, and everything we ever set out to do was accomplished and lauded as fucking genius but society in general. 

But yeah, it didn’t.  Instead you wake up and find yourself in Mr. Belvedere’s in Lawrenceville.  For a minute you think that the last 10 years of your life has all been a dream and you never really left that wood paneled Rec Center watching a bunch of townies push-mosh to a Battle of the Bands.   But no, you are in fact watching Fucked Up go through the motions, making a mockery of every great set and song they ever played.  All the while you are compulsively screaming behind a bamboo curtain that you are stuck in Margaritaville AND that you are “The Wizard of Belvies.”  Neither comments are funny to anyone but you, so you stumble through a haze into the bathroom where you imagine yourself staring down the barrel of a gun, but it’s really the floor drain clogged with feces.

Then your story is turned into the hit television show “Everybody Loves Raymond” and all those What Happens Next? records you bought in 2000 turn to gold allowing you to retire at the ripe age of 26 and no one ever cries again.  The End.  

Acanthochelys spixii

Mata Mata

Geoemyda spengleri

Rhinoclemmys pulcherrima incisa

Geochelone radiata

Geochelone Carbonaria

Glyptemys muhlenbergii

Cuora galbinifrons

Geochelone pardalis

Graptemys nigrinoda

Geoemyda gamera

Geochelone elegans

Transitioning between jobs can be somewhat awkward.  Plagued with questions, you don’t know who to ask: where can I poop?  At this establishment, will I be reprimanded for pooping too often?  Is this place rock and roll friendly?  Is Van Halen acceptable work talk?  Which one is The Manand are there cameras to record me dropping to my knees and cursing him?  Am I allowed to bring my turtles to work to ease the crushing pain of cubelife? Why the fuck not? Who the fuck do you think you are anyway?  Are you The Man?

Questions.  Questions without answers.  I am trapped in a desert of no-answers.  An answerless quagmire.  A black hole of reason, where the answers I seek cannot escape the event horizon of knitted polo t-shirts.   If we were to construct a ven diagram comparing THE ANSWERS I HAVE and THE ANSWERS I DESPERATELY NEED it would look like two separate circles….with faces….mocking faces….and they have arms and fingers and those fingers are giving me “the bird,” which I might add is completely work-inappropriate.

 And all these drop ceilings.  Terrible drop ceilings.  What are these people trying to hide? 

 It also seems, as opposed to my last job, that not everyone is out to get me.  Or at least it seems at this point.  My back is to an aisle and I find myself very nervous.  I could turn around at any point having been STABBED IN THE BACK at any moment and duty would implore me to go home sobbing and listen to Dystopia’s “backstabber” on repeat–I DON’T EVEN LIKE MONEY.

But it hasn’t happened.  If my eyeballs hadn’t already been turned to mush by the artificial lighting, my pupils would most likely be contracting in suspicion of all these office drones milling about, plotting my demise, JUDGING ME AND MY LIFE.   Well you know what, TOKEN PITTSBURGH OFFICE??  You will not have me!  You will not dominate me!  I am a human being!  I will–nay–CANNOT be smooshed into your cubular mold of pleated pants and frosted tips and qdoba for lunch and appropriate number of poop breaks or proper wiping methods and not screaming like a fucking maniac all the fucking time. 

But otherwise it’s pretty alright.

First off, I know it’s been quite some time since my last “real” update. I’ve been trying to muster the courage to keep the content herein Pittsburgh centric. I’m very much committed to this idea, but unfortunately good ideas only strike me when I’m either half-asleep or on the shitter at work. Motivation gets lost between those two times and some other ideas simply do not age well. But I digress…

This Thursday, Iron Lung will once again be blessing Pittsburgh with their presence. They first blew through here several years ago, shortly before the release of their s/t 7″ on 625 productions. Both parties describe their own set as “the worst Iron Lung show ever,” but I remember being completely geeked on it. Maybe it was because they followed up “Homage to Catalonia,” an acoustic somethingorother that still makes my skin crawl to this very day. I can’t recall the distinct details that made it so unbearable, but I guess it’s better that way.

It’d be contrived and inaccurate to lump them into the relatively recent yet already subsiding tide of nth wave “power violence.” They were doing this back in 2000 when it was then going out of style. Furthermore, they’ve been able to move away from all the traps and tired aesthetics (something I can’t even say my former band even did most of the time) that many pretenders to the HSMP throne fall into.

Having never put out a bad record, or a bad song for that matter, I find it somewhat baffling that they seem to be largely ignored through the punk rock omniverse. Or maybe it’s just that I’m out of touch and don’t know what “the kids” are buzzing about these days. Probably cocaine or something equally rehashed from the early 90’s. I don’t want to say Jon or Jensen have “studied” bands like No Comment, Infest, or Crossed Out, because quite frankly they just seem to know. That’s why Iron Lung is only a two piece. They both know what’s bullshit and what kicks ass. And so far everything they’ve done utterly destroys everything else in the genre, perhaps aside from Hatred Surge.

Alex Hughes is an angel. For those not “in the know,” Alex IS Hatred Surge. He’s a jack of all trades, doing time in dozens of bands in an around Texas. Starting off, Hatred Surge was essentially a Despise You cover band. I mean that in the greatest way possible. Despise You was essentially the Pessimiser house/joke band, anyway, so who gives a shit? I was so excited when I heard that first 7″ that I probably wore out Missy’s copy flipping it over and over again. A few splits and comp tracks down the road, Alex has slightly changed the formula a bit, making Hatred Surge a bit more distinctive–it’s got more girth. Yeah, I said “girth.” Iron Lung will be Alex’s backing band Thursday night.

And of course we have the locals. Slices returns after a few month hiatus. We recently recorded a demo that will certainly not be ready by Thursday night. This will be Soft Sickle’s first formal show since ADD fest. Members of Pressgang, Brain Handle, and HTML doing something very SWIZ-like, with a bit of Born Against thrown in because I know none of them can resist. Thrak will undoubtedly bowl everyone over with Slime of Power.

here’s the flyer (omitting Hatred Surge because they got added late) with some of my artwork.

It’s been probably 8 years since I last visited the dentist. My childhood dentist was an ornery old man who obviously had no liking or patience for children. Plus, his office was in a dilapidated, semi-abandoned strip mall, so not only are my memories of “the dentist” full of drilling sounds and cussing, but also contains the image of an arcade (located right next to the office) containing the smashed up remnants of Mortal Kombat and Time Killers

Last week I returned to the dentist to find out that, essentially, my entire mouth is rotten and I have several months of drilling, filling, capping, inlaying, outlaying, and root canaling to look forward to. And thanks to my mediocre dental coverage, I can also look forward to the depletion of a lot of my savings. I suppose it’s better than the alternative.

Currently a theory I’m dreadfully obsessed with.

The heat death is a possible final state of the universe, in which it has “run down” to a state of no thermodynamic free energy to sustain motion or life.

I first learned about this theory in a  class I took during my junior year called “The Physics of Science Fiction.”  Before I took this class, I anticipated it to read just as the title states, but instead I got “The Physics of Science Fiction that will never be discussed, but instead Greg will be brought to his knees by an almost strictly mathematical course.”

Regardless, I did take this theory away and now I pray to whatever Lovecraftian monsters lurking in the shadows between yesterday and never that this will one day come true–that all matter in the universe becomes as cold and lifeless as I.  Ooo…spooky!

Since Sunday I’ve worked a grand total of about 58 hours.  Let’s have a rundown of what I remember from each day.

Sunday: I remember very little, but with my powers of deduction I can safely say I was annoyed at work for 8 hours.

Monday: Between the Cafe and catering, I worked from 8 am until about 10:30 pm.  I seem to remember assembling hors dourves of some sort.

Tuesday:  Again, another 8 am until 10 pm marathon on about 5 hours of sleep.   I remember cooking improperly prepared quesadillas on the loading dock of the Warhol.  I also remember walking across the Roberto Clemente Bridge amongst the hordes of post-baseball game attendees and it being one of the most surreal experiences of my life.

Wednesday:  A “pansy shift” at the Cafe - 8 hours.  Made some tomato-white bean soup.

Thursday:  8 am until 10 pm between the Cafe and catering at the Warhol.  I made some mozzarella salads, prep’ed some squash cakes, and arranged platters of walnut crusted chicken with a roasted garlic crème fraîche.

Now I am off to DHD and MJ’s wedding in the middle of the woods.   How typically “blog” this post is!