Posts Tagged ‘Music’

Your Metal Baby

Posted: August 20, 2011 by kaostheory in Informative
Tags: , , , , , ,

Children are terrifying, let us come to that agreement right now. They’re little and fragile and as a parent, you would be in charge of forming their minds and bending them to your will, which sounds pretty awesome but also requires financial and time investments that…well…are just inconveniences, especially right now. Worse yet, their taste in music is pure boring pablum. Raffi. Barney. Um…Cher. Other one-name monstrosities that treat music not as an art form so much as a money-swollen cow, heavy with cash, that they can milk directly into their bank accounts. Boring, basic chord structures and lyrics that wouldn’t offend the most sensitive pussy liberal politician or over-paranoid Nancy Grace histrionic.

The point is that you need to, as a reasonable and presumably awesome future parent, take steps to create and recognize the innate potential of embryos to become hard-rocking babies. Thus, we’ll show you what to do to make and then understand Your Metal Baby.

First, let’s get going with conception. Barry White? Absolutely not. Sting? Hell no. Marvin Gaye? Your kid is…gay…e. No, if you want a truly metal baby to immediate start gestating, you have to do the do to a little Metallica, mixing in some Megadeth for a little ironic fuckin’. Get that sperm nice and jacked up.

Okay, so your badass spermatozoa managed to infiltrate her Castle Eggcell and now you have a kid growing in your lady’s body. Set aside the fact that SOMETHING IS GROWING INSIDE A HUMAN BEING HOLY FUCK WHAT IS THAT ABOUT for a moment and understand that you now have some obligations. First and foremost, the belly music thing. In some studies, babies growing in the womb are positively influenced by headphones playing classical music against the belly. Something about the music makes them smarter. Well you know what to do, right? Blast metal through the headphones instead. Instead of Bach, Skid Row. Instead of Mozart, Slayer. You get the picture. Make that baby well-versed in the entire catalog of the metal industry before he (we’re just going with the assumption that the child will be male, otherwise much of this article gets really weird…well, weirdER) even is outside his mother.

Now it’s time to birth this little parasite. Some parents want nice soothing music to accompany the birth. That way, the mother will be more relaxed and ready for her spawn to burst forth from her vagina like a little flesh-colored James Cameron-style Alien. The metal baby, however, must necessarily come out to Iron Maiden. We would suggest “Children of the Damned” or even “Be Quick or Be Dead” if you want the baby to have an ironic welcoming song.

Your first sign that your child is how you want him is very simple and easy to tell. He will be pulled out throwing the horns. Not just his little fingers curling involuntarily. We’re talking horns up, thumb folded under, and his wrist moving it forward and back. Real horns.

Oh yeah. And if your kid is SUPER-metal, he will be born with a goatee like a tiny, adorable Scott Ian from Anthrax.

Naturally, with the horns and the goatee as well as frequent headbanging, family members and nosy concerned strangers who should mind their own fucking business will be concerned that your metal baby has had some problems while in the womb. They may worry that he has cystic fibrosis or something like that. Never fear. All you do is tell them that your baby contracted a case of Fetal Alcohol Awesomeness and that you’re working through it as a family. Then headbutt them to the ground and roar in their face.

Of course, your metal baby still has to eat and solid food just isn’t possible, although he’ll assuredly still try to gum a steak if you put it in front of him. Normally, milk from the mother will be just fine for the little rocker, but sometimes she’s just not around or is showering or sleeping or crying softly in the corner about how her life is over now that she’s had a kid and is feeling unattractive. What to do? Easy. Bottle-feed him whiskey. The essential nutrients in a bottle of Jack Daniels’ will prepare your child for the real world and the alcohol will relax him and allow him to sleep through the night, giving you time to jack off in the backyard since the mom still probably won’t want to have sex or give you a blowie.

Your child will want attention and you may not be there to immediately see that he desires such. He will make noise but he won’t make the noise that you expect of him. If your kid is a metal baby, he doesn’t scream – he falsettos. You’ll have your own little Robert Plant to entertain you.

Eventually, your child will learn how to speak. Yes, yes, ‘mama’ and ‘dada’ will be there because those are the first syllables children figure out. Those barely count. No, if you played your cards right and did your job, your child’s first word will be ‘amp’. And even better, his first phrase will be ‘I am Iron Man’.

This comes more down to luck than anything, but he may be able to think outside the box and do math (when it reaches that point) in a Base 11 system because Base 10 is too low and he wants to go one more. Because Spinal Tap.

Finally, as your metal baby sleeps peacefully in his crib, curled up in a vintage Def Leppard t-shirt, hook up a stereo system with a lot of speakers and play ‘Rock You Like A Hurricane’ all night. The pure power of beautiful metal in that song will comfort him if he wakes and will give you a chance to get the mother of your child drunk and maybe horny enough for a quick 1-2-3 in the laundry room. That way, everyone is happy. Well, except the neighbors, especially if they live in an apartment but fuck them. They can have their tapas and Neutral Milk Hotel and organic faux-leather Birkenstocks to go with their vegan-friendly, West Coast stoner-slash-East Coast progressive baby daughter with large fake black glasses and dyed hair. Your metal baby is gonna be fuckin’ that hippie baby in about sixteen years. COUNT on it.

Basically, what we’re saying here is to make your child as awesome as possible as early as possible. That way, the awesome will drip off of him his entire life. Unless, of course, he rebels as a teenager and becomes really into 90s pop music but…come on. Since when do kids ever rebel?


One note on this half of Sunday before I begin. I’m going to do my best to piece this together but these notes are drunken and horribly scribbled. The fact that they actually EXIST is a testament to my dedication to the idea of recapping my experiences. I’ll do my best to get these down as best I can, but there’s only so much I can do with garbage. Also, one further note: Sunday nights in Vegas for whatever reason tend to FUCK me. It did last year. It did this year. I’m sure it will next time I show up there – either for a bachelor party or just Spring Break again. Sunday nights make Monday mornings horrible. But more on that next entry. For now? The second and insane half of Sunday night.
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After fucking around with gambling for a little while, we went back up to the room to change. My choice of clothes for the night was a nice black suit that fit me a little better than the gray one and my blue/purple iridescent shirt, which I still believe is totally badass and not gay at all. Fortunately, our reservation was at Prime Steakhouse, just next door at The Bellagio, so we were able to just trot over there around 7:30. I gotta say…not the best experience. I mean, the food is fantastic – we both got steaks (Superfly got peppercorn and I got a bone-in ribeye) – but it…it’s not a place I would recommend. To start with, as soon as we got there, we saw that there were tables open near the windows so we could have a great view of the fountains but when my brother asked if we could have one of them, the maitre’d responded, and I quote, “I’m sorry, but those tables are reserved for our priority customers”. Priority customers. Translation? “I’m sorry, but you clearly aren’t important enough to warrant prime seating”. Superfly and I were so insulted that he nearly made us walk out right there, but we managed to calm down and get seated at a not-bad table instead. Of course, our waiter, an older man, also clearly didn’t consider us important enough. We saw him about three or four times all meal. He did not, shall we say, get a good tip. This is the thing that chaps my ass is this: how did those men that we were NOT going to drop a couple thousand on a huge meal and wine? We could have been heirs to a fortune and could have loaded up the bill. Instead, because we were young, we got less than optimal treatment. Poor show. We’re not going to go back again.

The next stop, though, was by far and away the best of the trip. Why, you ask? Simple. Titties. We went to X-Burlesque at The Flamingo. It was the greatest public experience of my life. Notice I prefaced it with public, since I have had a few private moments that have been much more awesome, but those are neither here nor there. Anyways, we stood in line about a half hour behind these two couples, one of which was very nice and the other which was obnoxious. Surprisingly, the older couple was the obnoxious one. He was clearly a grizzled Vegas vet and she was his “trophy” floozie (although trophy is generous – call her more the ‘participation’ ribbon). Amusingly, the two of them didn’t have VIP passes like they thought they did so we were able to go in ahead of them and take our table. The tables are small and really packed in but they’re very close to the stage which is the important thing. And boy, is it.

It was incredible. Gorgeous girls without tops on is a very underrated subset of American society. Criminally underused. I can’t even go into detail about what I saw. A stunning blonde doing “When You’ve Got It, Flaunt It” from The Producers (basically now the default setting for my Happy Place). “Hey, Big Spender”. Multiple rap songs. This way hot “Innocence” thing. A legs thing that got most guys sweating, if they weren’t already. This one girl that looked like Danica McKellar doing a song that was basically just “Um, I noticed you, I found you very attractive, will you go to bed with me?” (more or less). And of course, the requisite hot-as-hellfire Asian to go along with almost dead-ringers for Zooey Deschanel and Julia Allison. They even had a comedian for “half-time”, James Bean, that was maybe the funniest guy I’ve ever seen. Walking out, nearly every guy that was there had the biggest shit-eating grin on his face, myself included. Incredible.

After we left The Flamingo, we began the process of sending the night spiraling. The tipping point? Stopping at an on-Strip liquor store for 16 oz. Dos Equis cans. From there, things just got…weird. As we walked, we were suddenly accosted by a very animated lady ushering over to a “movie booth” with a motorcycle and a green screen. Apparently, we needed to make our own shitty-quality movie for free (with the implication that we’d pay money for a copy of the shitty-quality movie). We shrugged, said ‘what the hell’ and went and did it. It was bizarre but I at least got to chug my beer and flip off a crowd of people gathering to watch which was okay. And no, we didn’t buy the damn thing. It was horrendous, worse than I was thinking. About two hundred yards from there, this guy dressed in a nice suit came up to us and asked if we wanted to go to a strip club. We almost took him up on it but rationalized that we didn’t have any ones and probably shouldn’t be deviating from our route anyway, so we declined.

Eventually, we made it to The Palazzo and Lavo. It was…unspectacular. There aren’t even really any notes available other than a scribbled “sucked” followed by “fine, okay”. Whatever that means. Oh wait, before we hit Lavo, we were shangheid in The Palazzo by a dude with the promise of no cover into a not-very-hopping bar. I think it was called V? Something like that. It was alright. Pretty quiet. We each killed a Corona and flirted with the bartender a bit. Nothing more to that. THEN we did Lavo and all that stuff I said about it up there.

Honestly, I don’t know how we got to The Bellagio. I have in my notes that we taxied, which we may have, but I recall also walking at night through the shops at Caesar’s Palace. Maybe that was the night before? It’s all kind of a blur. I do know that we made it to Caramel (a lounge) and get two for one drinks from a bartender with unbelieveable tits. Like, they may have been the most magnificent ones I’ve seen in person and I don’t throw that moniker around lightly. Spectacular doesn’t begin to describe it. While I was drinking, I was hitting on the hot brunette next to me and she seemed receptive until another guy went on her other side at which point she started talking to him. Bitch. Whatever. It was on to The Bank.

The Bank has never really been a…particularly positive experience for Superfly and I. The wait, even with the VIP passes, is way too long and it was this time as well. The way they play their admission is absolutely unfair. We bought the VIP passes which means that we should go in first, right? Apparently wrong. Apparently their default is “Oh no, man. We’re at capacity. Nobody getting in right now.” even in plain view of the many people walking out the club. Although, for a hundo in the pocket, apparently they aren’t at capacity anymore. Fucking douchebags. All of us in the VIP line, including a hot Egyptian chick that I was into, were drunk and pissed off. It was not a pleasant atmosphere in that line. At least I passed the time hitting on the chick, which was fun. After a far-too-long wait, our VIP passes seemed to work and we were let in. The Bank is never “in control”. It’s always way past the line of being able to be constrained. It’s just noise and light and dancing and sweat and sex. It’s pretty cool. It’s even cooler when Superfly and I together drop a hundo on drinks and have a great spot to stand and take pictures and chat with European dudes who don’t really get the vibe of the club. Oh and apparently the Black Eyes Peas were there, although I didn’t see them. Chaos is the best word for it.

I have no idea how long we were there. All I know is that we made it back to The Cosmo, went and got tater tots at The Henry, went back to the room and crashed the fuck out. Sleep was merciful to me because let me tell you…the next morning was not.
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The last two days of the trip will be up tomorrow (God willing). As if it even matters, right?


As it is St. Patrick’s Day, I will…still not be writing this article in an Irish brogue because that is one of the most overdone journalistic/Internet website article attempts at being “fun” that exists. It’s not fun, it’s not cute and it’s not original. Instead, I’ll just listen to Dropkick Murphys and Flogging Molly and the Real McKenzies and drink Guinness. A lot of Guinness. Like, a six pack to this point in the night. And a Harp lager. I think that’s a reasonable compromise, yes? Let’s get to this.
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After the massages, we were told to drink plenty of water to flush all the toxins out – and not “that kind of water” which my masseuse made a point to mention, to which I just grinned. So what then did we do? Went back to our room and drink most of a bottle of not-great white wine. Yes, we is smarterest brothers. Soon enough after that, though, we suited up and got ready to head to dinner. I will say with no hyperbole that we looked fantastic. Superfly was in his black suit with a pink-striped white shirt and I borrowed his light gray suit and wore my red shirt underneath. Yes, you would be correct to label us “hot bitches” in that moment. Downstairs, we snagged a cab with a crazy-ass Asian driver who whipped us around on back roads to get us to The Venetian, bitching about traffic and throwing out some incomprehensible diatribe about Osama bin Laden. No, I am not kidding. But it was hilarious.

In The Venetian, up an elevator, was our restaurant, Bouchon. It’s a fancy French place and it was, to say the least, awesome. We were attended to almost as soon as we sat down by our waiter who, hand to God, looked like Chris Kattan but sounded like Aziz Ansari. He was great. He talked with us, made us feel welcome and make sure we were taken care of. Hell, he even managed to slip us a free appetizer of some really good salmon mix. Superfly got the lamb and I got some fantastic braised short ribs to go with some solid wine. Of course, the meal can never be completely free of mistakes. Next to us for the last half of the meal were sitting a really hot MILF-ish lady and her nerd douche husband or boyfriend. Yes, there is a difference between douche and nerd douche. Regular douche are those idiots walking around with popped collars, calling each other ‘bra’ and drinking Natty Light. Nerd douches are the stuck-up, bespectacled jackasses with an unearned sense of superiority. Anyways, near the end of our meal, there was a crash and wine splattered our table, miraculously missing my pants leg. Seems Nerdouche was playing around with his glass and used the extent of his physical strength to snap the glass stem, hurtling his wine to the floor. We left soon after when another guy, clearly blacked out, at the table behind us spilled his beer and fell out of his chair. Still, great meal and Superfly left the waiter a very good tip. He honestly earned it.

Our next move was to trot on over to The Wynn to gamble a little and hop into Tryst, one of the newer clubs located there. Just a warning, The Wynn has some really shitty slot machines and winning there is just…it doesn’t happen much, if at all. One might actually call the casino the “Loss”…if one was a terrible pun-maker, of course. Anyways, due to my bro buying this big VIP package, we were in possession of VIP line passes complete with no cover. Yes. It’s just as awesome as you think it is. There’s not a whole lot more that’s more gratifying (especially in Vegas where money talks) than hearing some whiny fat bastard bitch and moan about not being let in even though he “has a table” and “will be calling the owner”, coming up in front of him, flashing the passes, having the bouncer nod and let us in and then walk past a good 350 people on our way straight into the club. The shocked and offended glares are wonderful.

Anyways, Tryst was…alright. We snuck in right near the beginning so there wasn’t a whole lot of traffic in the club yet. That made it easy to hit the bar, snag our Patron and Sprites (the official Viking Blood drink of Las Vegas), gawk at the dancing girls who really didn’t look into it at all and find a phenomenal spot outdoors. See, Tryst is half open-air with a huge, gorgeous waterfall and beautiful blue pool to hang out by. Which we did. It was mostly a pretty quiet stay, even though we helped out some Australian cougars by taking their pictures and having them take ours, those few pics basically the only time that we look presentable and/or not drunk. No, we didn’t tag the kitties, but they weren’t all THAT hot anyway. Soon enough, we got bored with Tryst and decided to take our talents to Tao, in The Palazzo, one of – what I have been informed – the hottest clubs in Vegas and maybe the world. Bitchin’.

Tao was…well, it’s one of the hottest for a reason. It’s awesome. It’s multi-level with a ton of rooms and lower lighting that, according to Superfly, made me look like Gordon Gekko. Now, here is where things go all weird for us. You see, as I’ve previously mentioned, money talks in Vegas. Vegas sluts are drawn like moths to flame to the wallets of rich dickheads. Regular dudes like Superfly and me have about as much chance of dipping our wicks in Vegas crotch wax as we would of…doing…something impossible. Shut up. Anyway, we were waiting in a quite long line to grab our (at this point) third go-round of Patron and Sprites when two things happened in the course of a few minutes.

First, a couple girls behind us started to fall on my brother. In an incredible act of bravado, we struck up a conversation with them and I whispered to my bro to get them to join us outside on the patio (a quieter area to talk). About this time, I felt someone run their hand down my arm. I turned to find a second pair of girls looking at me. One was…well, my brother’s later description was “wildebeest” but the other was very cute and for God knows what reason, interested in talking to me. Now, Superfly and I to this day disagree on whether or not she was Asian (I maintain she was, he insists she wasn’t), but she was definitely attractive enough to be puzzling. Apparently, she really liked my color scheme. Yes, that’s right, bitches. I can match colors very well. Anyways, I invited them outside as well and wanted to wait for them but Superfly hustled us out there to hang out for a while. I don’t think he actually knew what he was doing because, long story short, we left the club without seeing them again. My dick is still angry at me for leaving him out to dry like that.

Anyhow, our next stop was Pure in Caesar’s Palace. Honestly? It sucks. Well, maybe not sucks but both times we’ve gone, we’ve left within twenty minutes because it just doesn’t work. Not the best place at all. I mean, $10 for a damn Bud Light? That’s pretty shitty expensive, even for Las Vegas. By that point, our feet had really started to hurt, so we hitched another ride back to the Cosmo for a little more gambling. There, I proceeded to get fucked six ways from Sunday with a lousy-ass lying slot machine that sucked twenty bucks from me faster and with less impact than a drunk hooker. I’m still mad about it, actually. From there, it was off to bed since we were exhausted. Want to know why?

BECAUSE FUCKING DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME STARTED THAT NIGHT. Yes, at some point during the night, we lost yet another hour of sleep. We only realized this the next day when it dawned on us that we had gotten back to our room around 5AM. Long night, but honestly a really fun one.
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With that, “Sunday” begins tomorrow for you lovely readers. Yes, this is going to be an almost-series for a few days while I try to recap this behemoth of a trip. You better enjoy it.

Dan Eats Cat Food Rocks Out With Scorpions

Posted: July 11, 2010 by kaostheory in Slice of Life
Tags: , , ,

Because we are a giving organization – and basically fold like a wussy gambler when it comes to any kind of pressure, we were “convinced” by KaosTheory to let him offer a special “Rock Out Report”, as he called it, after his concert that he went to. Since we have no real ideas left in the tank, we figured we might as well let him write something he wants to instead of having to deal with him crying and complaining and literally pissing in some random corner of our office that we won’t be able to find until the entire third floor is saturated with reek. So…we guess, enjoy this.
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Woo. I have free reign to write what I want now! And what I WANT to write is ROCK. Specifically, ROCK from the concert I saw last night with Ratt and Scorpions. So let’s do this bitch.

Thoughts from dinner and preshow:
– It is best that Superfly and I did not sit at the bar in Rippy’s. The bartender was about 5’8″, brunette pageboy hair cut, tan, hot and had tits like two halves of canteloupe. We never would have left. We would have had drinks until we passed out. Jeesh.
– Cowboy hats are simply not metal. It doesn’t matter if Bret Michaels wears one. Once you get the amount of tail he gets, you can wear one and be metal.
– Superfly and I were skinnier than 85% of the attendees. This was both cool and depressing.
– Rednecks should not be allowed to create their children’s hairstyles. A forward mullet with white blonde hair is not a good look for a five year old.
– I would be interested to know why Asian dudes tend to be so damn spindly.
– Superfly tends to strike out when it comes to not sitting next to massively obese women.
– Ladies with lots of meat on your bones: sometimes a tanktop is a poor fashion choice. Sometimes backne needs to be covered.
– I swear on all that is holy that if I go to another amazing concert and some raging shithole in front of me spends most of it kissing and snuggling his girlfriend who clearly doesn’t want to be there or do stuff with him, I will kick the fucker in the head until his eyes roll back so I can see only the whites. There is a time and a place to be cutesy. A fucking legendary rock concert is not it. At varying points, I was willing to risk jail just to murder the bastard. And I can’t go to jail. I’m too pretty.

Thoughts on Ratt:
– Gotta say this. They rocked it. They really did.
– Ratt works a lot better as an opener than as a headliner band, I think. It may have been different back in the day but…
– Also, nobody really knows Ratt lyrics. They had some really fun songs but nobody really KNOWS them enough to sing along with them.
– It’s really sobering to hear the singer apologizing for not jumping around because he doesn’t want to bust his stitches. Stephen Pearcy, you still have the voice. Just…don’t remind us that you’re old.
– For all the restlessness the audience had going into the last ten minutes of Ratt’s hourlong set, Round and Round kicked the SHIT. Man. The energy level in the building just spiked as everyone sang along. It was pretty damn awesome.

Thoughts on Scorpions:
– First off, holy shit.
– Seriously. Holy shit.
– It’s going to take a LOT for any concert to be more pure awesome than this one was.
– Everything was about perfect about it, save Asshole McCuddles mentioned earlier.
– Call this a major damn check mark for my Rock Bucket List.
– These guys in their sixties can rock harder than ANY bands currently performing. I am fully in belief of that.
– This is how rock is SUPPOSED to be.
– Both my voice and ears and Superfly’s voice and ears were shot. Like we’re going to wear earplugs for freakin’ Scorpions. Yeah. Sure.
– Not even kidding. Holy shit.

Okay, let’s go through the set list with notes on all of those, huh?

Sting In The Tail – As soon as the lights went down, the arena erupted in cheers. They got almost deafening when the lights flared on and Scorpions took the stage. While this wouldn’t have been my first choice for an opener (that would be Blood Too Hot from Unbreakable), they rocked this enough that everyone was going nuts. We all stood up when they came on. We didn’t sit down again.

Make It Real – This was a great followup song. Everyone knew it so we sang along (which would continue for most of the concert). The stage also had an extended runway and ministage in front of it. Every time the chorus came along, Rudolf Schenker made sure to charge up the runway and play in the middle of the crowd on the ministage.

Bad Boys Running Wild – This surprised me a bit. This is definitely one of their fun songs but the crowd was crazy for it. I did get all caught up in it which was awesome, though. I can still buy that these bad boys can run wild, that’s for sure.

The Zoo – One of my favorite Scorpions songs to begin with, they rocked the hell out of this. The awesome vid screens they had behind the stage were flashing red and black bars with “THE ZOO” occasionally, not to mention the women in cages clawing and writhing. Yes. You read that right. Great song though.

Coast To Coast – Man, this one was awesome. This is an instrumental, which gave Klaus Meine a break for his voice, which by the way is still as high and amazing as it was at the beginning of his career. But there’s this one chord shift by the guitars in this song that I already love but…goosebumps. Legit goosebumps. Everyone felt that too because it got a nice big reaction.

Loving You Sunday Morning – I haven’t heard this song a whole lot. It’s not my favorite of theirs, but in concert and with a large, excited crowd around us, it was great. Very pretty, very fun. Not a whole lot more to say for this one. It was a bit of a shame that I didn’t know it well enough to sing along.

The Best Is Yet To Come – Wow. Just wow. This song is ALREADY emotional due to the context – being the last song of their last CD ever and talking about how the future is still wonderful even though they won’t be there as a group anymore. It just increased tenfold when you have an entire arena near tears at this legendary group retiring. The “hey-a hey-o” ECHOED throughout the arena. Echoed. Every single person in there was singing that at the top of their lungs. I got all verklempt. Not even going to lie. It wasn’t the toughest emotional though, even with that.

Send Me An Angel – THIS one was. Holy damn. They all came out and did this acoustically on the ministage which would have been tough as it was. However, they did it as a tribute to Ronnie James Dio. It’s a gorgeous song anyways. I may have shed a tear or two. That and thrown up massive horns both for Scorpions and for the dearly departed God of Rock.

Holiday – Man. Now this one was a good one. For those who don’t know this song, it starts off nice and slow until it hits a little long, stretched out bridge then comes exploding in in legit hard rock. It’s one of the most awesome parts in music ever. They…just wow. Meine stretched the little bridge out and let the crowd sing along. After a minute or two, they went silent to let the crowd echo around them. Then when “Longing for the sun” part came in, there was a massive drum entrance to rip into the rock. It was amazing. Legit rockbumps on my arms.

Raised on Rock -Transitioning from Holiday would have been tough for anyone. Not for these boys though. Meine yelled and I quote “I don’t know about you, Nashville, but we were RAISED ON ROCK!” which for anyone else it would be cheesy. Not this time though. It was just awesome. Crazy energy in the crowd. It’s like they ramped up the adrenaline.

Tease Me Please Me – Again, not one that I know. Sadly. It’s just not one I’ve listened to enough to really get the lyrics engrained in my head. It didn’t really matter though. Everyone sang along with it again which eventually managed to get me hooked into at least being able to do the chorus which was worth it enough.

Dynamite – Oh my God. Raised on Rock was insane. Holiday was insane. But this one? Dynamite? This had nothing less than absolute batshit energy. Nothing less. It was tough at times to even hear the vocals because of the pure rock in the place. Absolutely nuts. If you weren’t hyped up during or after this song, you had to – HAD TO – be fucking clinically dead. Seriously.

Kottak Attack – This was a fun little thing. This was done, I think, to give the Schenker, Jabs, Maciwoda and Meine a break from rocking out for a little while, so this was about a five, seven minute drum solo of a bunch of the different drum parts throughout their years of CDs. Kottak is freakin’ crazy but he was great. He played really well, chugged a beer, made sure that we knew that we kicked ass and stood on top of his drum kit which was, I may have neglected to mention, elevated on a platform a good ten feet above the stage. He definitely entertained.

Blackout – Because clearly the concert wasn’t awesome enough, after Kottak’s song, the drum set elevated even MORE and the rest of the group ran on from under the raised drum set. I mean, literally ran on stage from UNDER THE DRUM SET. I don’t think anything else needs to be said here.

Six String Sting – This ruled too. Matthias Jabs came out to the ministage and basically played for five minutes, soloing and trying to get different parts of the crowd to respond. It worked very well. Everyone was cheering by the time he was done. But he wasn’t done…

Big City Nights – He transitioned right into this one. It was awesome, although awesome isn’t really a word for it. As soon as he changed from the solo into the first chords of the song, the arena went berserk. EVERYONE sang along. Everyone. Old, young, middle-age, my age. Doesn’t matter. EVERYONE was belting along with this one. I didn’t think the energy could get any higher but it DID. This was insane. Once they finished – with Meine standing on the shoulders of Jabs and Schenker – they ran offstage and the stage was lit only in purple. That alone would have been a great end. But of course, it could not be the end.

Encore:
Wind Of Change – They came back on after a couple tense minutes of waiting for an encore. Again, not a song I particularly know, but it’s very pretty, everyone sang, and it was a very socially important song, since it was played when the Berlin Wall came down. It was a pretty easy one to pick up too. It was great. I was a little sad because I thought they had skipped a song off their previous playlist. However, I was wrong.

No One Like You – This is the one I thought they skipped. They didn’t. Meine yelled into the mic “Thank you Nashville! There is NO ONE LIKE YOU!” which brought about a huge roar from the crowd, me included. The stage was all lit in blue but nobody seemed to even see the color. Everyone sang, everyone rocked, everyone cheers. It was fantastic.

Rock You Like A Hurricane – I mean, what the fuck can I even say? Biggest song of the night by FAR. If there were people not singing Big City Nights, they were sure as shit singing along with this one. Holy God. I still have rockbumps from this one. You cannot ask for a better closer. You can’t. Rock You Like A Hurricane is one of the few songs I would consider perfect in this world. Unbelieveable.

So that’s that. Scorpions basically blew Superfly and me out of the water. Nothing will be better than it. It was literally the best thing I’ve ever seen and I’ve been facefirst in TITS, so you know that means something.

Anyways, I’m going to sign off before Ed bitches at me. Deuces and rock, mothas.


Yes, it’s true. Our Man on the Street, KaosTheory, just happened to position himself – terrible luck and all – right in the middle of a once-in-five hundred years storm in good ol’ Nashville. Thankfully, he managed to make it through high, dry and relatively cleaned up. After giving him a few days of personal time (we figured he had earned it), we were eventually able to squeeze an article out of him. Unfortunately, it’s just his musings about the flood and what happened. He’s…not too creative right now. But hey, it’s something right?

(Just to be clear, everyone, these are HIS thoughts on the flood. Dan Eats Cat Food does not condone or support some of the statements he makes here. Just covering our asses, thanks. – ed.)
———
1 ) Nashville. My town. The town that I am growing to love even though I know very, very few people here. Ca$hville. Music City. Nashvegas. The Athens of the South. Well, I got another nickname for the town. I think it’s apropos and it fits quite well. How about this? Nashville: Mother Nature’s Personal Fuckhole.

(KAOS! – ed.)

What? It is. Mother Nature greased up our little cornhole and raped us with a 13-inch rainy strap-on. We got taken worse than a sixteen-year old around NFL Hall of Famers.

(Okay maybe this was a bad idea to let you do this… – ed.)

2 ) Two days with no power is bullshit. It is. Yes, I am fully aware that the substation that controlled our power was entirely submerged in water and that putting workers into the water might accidentally (probably) trigger full-blown electrocution but that also is ignoring another possibility. Maybe the workers (probably just one) don’t get electrocuted. Maybe one turns into a superhero or even a supervillain. That happens, you know.

(No. It doesn’t. – ed.)

Well, it still sucks. No air conditioner. No fridge. No fans. No computer. No Xbox. No lights. It’s like living in the fucking Stone Age.

3 ) Having no cell phones sucks as well. Apparently the floodwaters shut down the cell towers as well so for all intents and purposes, we were completely and totally cut off from the outside world. My friends thought I was dead and were excited to hear I wasn’t. Far be it from me to actually like this thing happening, but it WAS a nice little ego boost nonetheless. All the same, it’s a very odd situation to be in where you literally have no way of communicating with the outside world. It’s kind of like that “trapped in” syndrome except I was less inclined to go insane (although a day or two more without power and it would have been about even).

4 ) What, then, is there to do as you sit and wait for the end of the world to come? Well, drinking, for one. A lot of drinking. It’s a well-known and widely-accepted fact (No, it is not. – ed.) that the earliest settlers were drunken hicks not because liquor was cheaper than water and more sanitary but because there was nothing fun to do except get slammed, fuck your wife and fight wolves with your bare hands. Come to think of it, that sounds like a pretty awesome Friday night to me. But I digress. Beer passes the time and then you pass the beer as time passes you. It’s like rock-paper-scissors except with more liver abuse.

5 ) Why is the drinking such an integral part of that? Candlelight. Crossword puzzles. Don’t get me wrong. Crossword puzzles are fairly fun, especially when you really get cracking on them. But two days of doing ONLY them is not so much fun, even less so when you have to do the fucking things by candlelight. Let me tell you that candlelight doesn’t work for SHIT in keeping anything more than the barest margin of light available and especially not in helping you read 6 point typeface. All it does is offer cursory glow to pierce the sheer blackness of night. Eff that.

6 ) Okay, now that we’ve dealt with my personal experience, let’s take a look at what happened outside as we sat, languishing at the mercy of the rotation of the world. First off, kayaking or rafting down floodwaters? Really? You were REALLY going and doing something like that, even though the most basic, repeated warning was to stay inside and not go try to do anything? So instead of listening to that, you went out and did the DUMBEST SHIT you could possibly do? Oh, you stupid fucks. I feel bad for your families that your dumb asses drowned but you fucking earned that death. Retards.

7 ) Also, a note on that. As of the time of this writing, somewhere around thirty-one people are confirmed dead. Not one of them is Ke$ha. This world isn’t fair.

8 ) One of the coolest stories has been, unfortunately, confirmed to be false. I’m disappointed. See, apparently piranhas had gotten loose in Opry Mills, making it a Southern version of the Amazon rainforest. Hell, I’d have been willing to be the guy in charge of testing to see if they were there. Grab a poor drowned deer carcass and toss it in. Either they weren’t there or they WERE and they shredded the deer in a matter of moments. That would have been so awesome. I mean, they are ugly little bastards and I don’t particularly want to feel their nasty bite…but the concept of seeing something stripped to the bone quickly is just so viscerally BITCHIN’.

9 ) A telethon went on TV last night to try to raise money to help with the rebuilding process due to there being a BILLION DOLLARS worth of damage in the city. Well, once we hit a million, Taylor Swift donated $500,000 to help out. That means that, at least to me, Taylor Swift is even hotter now. And that’s hard to do. No lie. She was already ball-sizzling hot to begin with but actually being generous and caring means that my sperm are telling me to wreck that before that Twilight latent homo does. Stupid biological clock.

10 ) Things are finally starting to pick up but Nashville got FUCKED by the national media for a while there. The lack of coverage about the event was frankly appalling. They were more concerned with the precious Times Square in New York and the Gulf of Mexico being all oily. Not the loss of lives from a natural disaster. Nah, that wasn’t important because it wasn’t all political and timely. Well, seriously, fuck you media. Let me be perfectly clear here. I don’t give two shits about New York OR the oil spill. At least not now anyways. Yes, they were important. But they were already being resolved when we got raped. You bastards.

(H’okay, let’s turn down the bitter level a notch. – ed.)

11 ) Finally, things look a lot different around here now. Devastated, mud-smeared buildings and cars. Broken roads and cracked concrete. Pools of filthy water. Power here and there. A moratorium on water usage. This is like damn Fallout 3 here. At least there are no Supermutants here, thank God. I mean, not yet anyways. Maybe in Antioch but who the hell knows?
———
(Thanks for that…enlightening commentary, KT. In all seriousness though, if you want to donate to help Nashville, there are dozens of worthy places out there just waiting for that money. It would be very appreciated.)

Also if you can get me Taylor Swift, that would be very much appreciated too. Just saying. Deuces.

(I give up. – ed.)

How I Spent My Weekend

Posted: April 27, 2010 by kaostheory in Slice of Life
Tags: , , , , ,

Sometimes all you need is just a nice weekend away from everything. Or rather, a nice weekend away from ANYONE which leaves you free and clear to do whatever it is your black, cold heart desires. That’s what our Eye in the Sky, KaosTheory, had this past weekend. For his (late) article, he chose to let us in on a bit of his personal life. We hope you…

(No. No. Absolutely not. I am not going to allow this. – ed.)

What’s wrong, Ed?

(I don’t particularly feel any journalistic responsibility to let this psycho report on what he does in his spare time. It’s bad enough having to listen to his stories in the office. I don’t think that our readers have any desire to learn of his actions either. – ed.)

Well, it’s either this or nothing.

(And I can’t choose nothing, right? – ed.)

Right.

(Damn it. Fine. – ed.)
——–
Sometimes all you need is just a nice weekend away from everything. Or rather, a nice weekend away…

(We did that part already. Just…ugh…tell us what you did. – ed.)

Ah. Good to know. Anywho.

Masturbated to “We Are Stars” while dancing around in the kitchen: This was the first, last and repeated many times over action that I took. There’s just something magical about taking care of business in places OTHER than the bedroom or the bathroom. For instance, the kitchen. Or the hallway. Or even on the stairs. And with having a mass confluence of 80s metal stars singing about how they are awesome, well…it just completes the mood. A+ work, I must say.

Doubled Down: This was probably the least healthy thing that happened. Look, sometimes a man just has to do something he knows is terrible for him. Enter an amateur MMA tournament. Attempt to juggle running power tools. And eat something that can only marginally be considered food. That is KFC’s Double Down. To start with, you have to go through a mental process to actually justify ordering and paying for the damn thing. Most people turn back before laying down eight fucking dollars for a chunk of food. And it IS a chunk. It’s not really a sandwich because a sandwich has some reason to exist. The Double Down is more like they bred some hellish abortion of genetic engineering and just sawed off a chunk of its body, a chunk consisting of two chicken breasts, bacon, two kinds of what can only generously be called “cheese” and the Colonel’s Sauce which I’m relatively sure is like…79% semen. The concept is more the problem than the actual consumption, although this bastard doesn’t sit well. Oh no. It doesn’t make you SICK but it likes to remind you constantly that you did in fact eat the nutritional equivalent of a cinder block. I blame this fully for whatever madness occurred later.

Drank a full bottle of wine: Okay, this probably added to the madness too.

Got into a combative Internet fight: It’s like this. Sometimes a dickhead says something inflammatory, something insulting, something self-righteous that you just can’t abide. Sometimes you’re drunk enough and bored enough that you can’t sit by anymore. Sometimes you start throwing verbal punches without worrying about the consequences. Sometimes the fight gets beyond a simple disagreement and into a legitimate nasty fight. Sometimes you get so offended that you see red (okay, so maybe the red was partially wine in my eyes) and throw down. Sometimes you walk away. And sometimes some self-righteous religious “scholar” cockbite named Drew Frazier wins a fight because you chose to be the bigger man and not engage in the fight anymore. Sometimes it happens. Sometimes. Not often, but sometimes.

Pretended I was Snake Plissken: This was a fun one. I went all out. Jeans and a black muscle t-shirt. Eyepatch. Cigarette. Charges placed in my arteries in my neck. Silenced Uzi. New York at night. Killed crazies who were trying to kill me. Rode in a cab with Ernest Borgnine. Stared at Adrienne Barbeau’s phenomenal breasts. Fought a giant pro wrestler and killed him with a spiked bat. Got into a fight with Isaac Hayes. Made it out in the nick of time. Destroyed the security of America by stealing a valuable intelligence tape and breaking it. I went all out. It was pretty awesome, not going to lie. Especially the breasts thing. They really were excellent.

Iron Maidened it up: Yes, I am making that a verb. It was pretty awesome. It’s been a little while since I’ve had my voice up to the range it deserves to be at, so when I can sing Hallowed Be Thy Name full force and full range, well…rocking out and singing into a telephone is not only suggested but absolutely necessary. Fact.

Cried to Jurassic Bark: Fuck you, Futurama. Seriously. You were going to have it be the mom and thought it would be LESS upsetting to be a fucking dog? Really? As I’ve said, a man is allowed to cry at three things in his life: his child’s wedding, his wife’s funeral and this fucking episode. Jesus. Now I have great big MIR-sized balls, but this isn’t damn fair. I am not ashamed.

Shot a rifle at passing cars: I hit a Mercedes. It crashed. I think I should probably go into hiding at this point.

“Liked” something on Facebook: Because I’m apparently a 13-year old girl just begging for acceptance from her peers because she feels lonely and unwanted because her boyfriend of two weeks left her for another girl he’s going to dump in two weeks and boys are stupid and gross and her periods are finally starting and it’s still scary to bleed every month and breasts are coming in and now boys are going to pay attention to her but they don’t deserve her because they treated her so bad before and her friends are friends she’ll have her entire life and now she hates her friends and they are all just horrible people and now her friends are the best again and Twilight and Justin Bieber and fucking hell, I just made myself sick.

Decided to just be awesome: It was a reasonable choice.
——–
(You SHOT a CAR? – ed.)

Oh sure, focus on the one illegal thing I did. You didn’t comment on being awesome, did you?

(But you SHOT a CAR! – ed.)

Well, sure, everything sounds bad if you use words.

(I…see you next time, ladies and gents. Damn it. – ed.)


Alright. Let’s get this shizzy knocked out for good!
——–
Monday:
Monday morning came. Oh God did it come. It came with the force of a thousand years of built-up karmic semen. We woke up at 10:00Am. The room was spinning and heavy. Further sleep was needed. The next time we woke up was 2:00 PM. It was, to say the least, miserable. The only comfort I was able to take was that Superfly, who had previously laughed at me for my all-day hangovers, finally was able to experience my pain. There honestly is not a whole lot to speak of for this day. We sat around, hungover to shit, all day. Wholly unpleasant. The only fun thing – aside from watching Anthony Bourdain who Superfly said reminds him a lot of me and I will concur on that – we could make ourselves do was to keep our appointment at L’Atelier de Joel Robuchon at MGM Grand. It was pretty amazing. The hostess – per usual – was beautiful, the restaurant was beautiful, hell, even we managed to look presentable. Superfly got lobster in a spicy broth and I got foie gras-stuffed quail with truffle mashed potatoes. It was off the tasting menu so it was very small but totally wonderful. Aside from that meal and Bourdain? We slept. Monday sucked dick.

Tuesday:
Tuesday morning was much better. Any hangovers we had were gone. Our first course of action was to hit our favorite slot machines. They weren’t too hot so we went about our day for now. Down to Planet Hollywood we went. Along the way, we saw the Paris hotel (forgot the name) which led to a great hypothetical exchange. “Hey…hey bro…I’m drunk and I’m at the top of the Eiffel Tower…not the one in Vegas.” As we walked around the surprisingly large mall attached, we found ourselves hungering and thirsting. P.F. Chang’s it was! There was a very big difference from L’Atelier. The latter gives small portions to force to eat slow and savor it. The former just overloads you with a bowl of food bigger than your head. Not that it was bad, mind you. The hunger we had was well-sated. This was also the moment where Superfly made the assertion that steam is not real but in fact just a noxious gas. Yeah. From there, we hit Sin City Brewing Company for a beer, chatting with a cool bartender, ogling cheerleaders and buying awesome shirts and pint glasses. After that, a sports memorabilia store that about made us shit ourselves in awesome. We had to leave quickly. Next up it was going to Cabo Wabo for cheap (2 for 1 margaritas) and nachos. While those were awesome, so was the waitress. Jacqueline was her name. Of course it was. She may not have been the absolute peak of hot waitresses (still very hot) but holy God, did I want her. She had that low, throaty alto voice that just gets my balls humming. Too soon, though, we had to leave. Too many things to do.

Next was Treasure Island. The slots were…not in our favor. After wasting a bit of money quickly, we went back to The Mirage to try our luck at our favorite slots again. This time it was much different. While we didn’t make a LOT of money – certainly not even enough to cover our losses – we did make an effor. I made 60 off of a 20 and Superfly made 80 off a 20. That was pretty fun. However, after the machines went cold as they do, we got up and the seats were immediately filled by old bitches who watched us intently. Fucking scavengers. I was a bit pissed but seeing the crone lose a hundred bucks without one win made me smile. I’m nasty. So sue me. After just bumming around for a while, we decided to suit up one more time and head to The Palms for dinner and clubbing. Apparently, we have the memory of goldfish when it comes to remembering the pain we had going on the day before. Before I go any further, though, I have to talk about The Palms. Some casinos (The Mirage) are loud and flashy. Some (Caesars Palace) are bright and triumphant. Some (The Bellagio and The Wynn) are swanky and understated while still reeking of wealth. Then there are some like The Palms and New York, New York. They are still somewhat pretty but have this feeling of sad desperation about them. Instead of stupid-ass kids, you see old folks on oxygen blowing their pensions faster than a hooker on speed. You just want to usher them out, hoping they can survive. Not the best atmosphere, certainly not for us.

What DID have the best atmosphere was where we had dinner – N9ne Steakhouse. Holy shit. I mean, just to begin with, we had two hostesses ask if we were twins and flirting with us. Let me be blunt: I don’t believe that I have ever seen hotter women. Ever. I mean, it literally pained my penis to not be inside them. I didn’t think it was possible to be hurt by the ABSENCE of something, but there you go. This was also the point that we realized we had not only achieved the Seven Deadly Sins but had cycled through them. Repeatedly. We high-fived over some very good cab sav. Then they brought the bread. At some places, bread is just there. Not here. The three different breads were amazing. As we gorged ourselves like dumbasses, one of the coolest moments happened. A waiter dropped off some phenomenal chicken empanadas with pico di gallo and guacamole “compliments of the house”. Gotta say that having a top-scale place GIVE you food makes you feel like Top Shit. My stomach was already orgasming constantly. I felt like it was like a pig and kudos if you get that joke. That’s when the meat came. God Almighty. We split a 40 oz steak to save money but it was unreal. It was like N9ne hunted down the Cattle of Geryon and cut them up. After about 10 oz each, we were stuffed but resolute. This damn steak would not beat us. Though literally all I could smell by the end was meat, we emerged victorious. Oh yes. And with the steak was a twice-baked truffle-infused baked potato the size of a baby’s arm. Even Dionysus would say that we may have overindulged a bit.

After a while of walking around to digest enough to not feel like whales, Ghostbar was our next step. Ghostbar is in fact on TOP of The Palms, complete with open air viewing deck. Though the crowd was sparse (we went near the opening), the view was SPECTACULAR. From up there, chilly as it was, you can see almost all of Vegas. It honestly does not look like the city ever ends. The expanse of lights is awe-inspiring. Truly an unbelieveable sight. To top it off, since it was fairly quiet, we got a table gratis without having to buy bottle service, which is a very rare thing in the town. However, the place soon lost its luster and it was off to Blush at The Wynn. Blush was…something. It was definitely the swankiest of all the clubs and it filled up quite quickly after opening but it was honestly not a great time. Sure, some parts were great. Stainless steel bathroom appliances and mirrored walls. Kevin Rudolf running a DJ set later in the night. One of the Klitschko boxer brothers (not the one banging Hayden Panetierre) was there and nobody even noticed. But a lot just didn’t sit right with me. First off, my feet were in agony again. Those damn dress shoes are like standing on concrete so standing up was hell. Since I couldn’t SIT due to all tables being reserved, we were stuck standing by the edge of a table. Also, a message for the ladies, older in particular. I’m sure you were beautiful and hot and the life of the party in your younger days. But BITCH, you are on the wrong side of thirty-five, have gray hair and pince-nez glasses. Your “party girl” days are fucking OVER. Have some damn dignity. Finally, there’s one main reason I wasn’t happy. I was sober. See, it was a packed club filled with gorgeous women…and I couldn’t have gotten a smile from them with a damn 20 stapled to my face. Throwing a sober, average guy with pretty major confidence issues into a club with women light-years beyond his level and fucking douchebag rich boys with no value to society is like showing a mutt a prime rib, slapping him in the face and giving it to a poodle already throwing up from eating too much meat. It is wholly upsetting and with no booze to mentally smooth it out, it was like my sense of masculinity was being sandpapered and having salt ground into the wound. Eventually, my feet and ego couldn’t take it so we left. Superfly was understandably upset, to be honest. I won’t go into the spat. Not yo’ biness and we cool now. But things were chilly for the night. Back to the hotel, quick late dinner, some TV and Tuesday was soon over.

Wednesday/Thursday Morning:
Since we had to check out of our room by 1:30 PM, we woke up earlier, got dressed and packed up and checked out of the room, leaving our bags at the front for later. One problem. Our flight didn’t leave till 1:45. AM. On Thursday. Our RIDE didn’t get there until 10:10 that night. We had a LONG day ahead of us. It was…fairly uneventful. It was cold and fucking raining out so we had to walk around in misery whenever we were outside, although we did see a beggar saying she had lupus. We didn’t give her anything but that was creative enough to warrant a little discussion about it. Madame Tussaud’s by The Venetian was a lot of fun. I put my face between the legs of a wax Jenna Jameson. The glares I got from a couple mothers were awesome. After a quick lunch at Johnny Rocket’s, we just headed back to The Mirage to sit and hang in the sportsbook. For NINE. DAMN. HOURS. I did learn how to bet the line and all that, which was fun. It was nervewracking waiting for Denver to cover the spread against Minnesota, that’s for sure. But they did and I made about ten bucks or so. We had some free drinks and finally managed to make it to the airport. It’s…kind of a depressing airport. The gambling there is horrible and people were STILL DOING IT. Oh and we saw a three-hundred pound woman wearing a shirt designed for one in her upper 100s. Her gut was pouring out. I about heaved. The only other thing happened in Memphis where they said something along the lines of “This gate change is only X and X only.” That redundacy made me so mad that, coupled with my exhaustion and general pissiness, I had to sleep a little while. Soon enough, we were back home and our trip was over. We had survived. We beat Vegas, fuckers.
——-
Whew. That was harrowing, wasn’t it? We’ll get back to more funny and less detailed entries soon. Promises.