Boobie Tassels For Buddha

Know your dope fiend. You will not be able to see his eyes because of tea shades, but his knuckles will be white from inner tension and his pants will be crusted with semen from constantly jacking off when he can't find a rape victim... ~Hunter Thompson/Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

May 2nd marks the 8th anniversary of a friend's murder. I can't really explain why I felt the urge to do so, but...

Matt,

I miss you.

I think I gave up on simply "getting over" that fact a long time ago. 8 years later and you're on my mind here and there for a myriad of reasons... This time of year I can't help but think of you... around your birthday, holidays, and even random moments in my day, you're there. Any mention of soccer, you. Can't hear a RHCP song without you popping into my head or P.O.T.U.S.A., for that matter (millions of peaches, peaches for me. millions of peaches, peaches for free). Forget wrestling--can't watch it :) (but, admittedly, I also grew out of that one). Jokes about phone boning, and well, I did it first with you, and I smile. For this reason or that, you show up even now, 8 years after your death. I guess what I mean to say is that I carry you in my heart. Always have.

I'm sorry you didn't get the chance to walk into a bar and buy a drink--legally. I'm sorry you never had the chance to grow out of things, to know the joy that comes from having a child (even an unexpected one) and hearing your little one's first 'wuv you' directed your way, to feel the accomplishment of getting your degree....there's so many things you still had left to do. I hate so much that your mom lost her husband and her child so unexpectedly just a few years apart and I wish like hell you could have been the cool uncle to your nephews. You would have been, I'm sure. I wish life hadn't been ripped away from you so young, that you didn't have to die alone in that doorway, and I still hold out hope that you weren't aware of what was happening to you. If you had to go, let it have been as peaceful as possible.

I also regret the many things I never said, realizing much too late how fleeting life can be...

8 years later and there are times your memory still makes me grin, often devilishly. There are times I miss you to the point of tears and sometimes in the quiet of the night you appear in dreams so vivid I swear I could reach out and touch your face...

I love you.

always have

j

It all started with a dead bird.

I'd never been superstitious in any way until that year, my 21st, and that bird. Now, however, hitting a bird with my car is almost certain death--an event which makes me run for the covers and stay there for approximately 3 days. After that amount of time, I know from experience, it's likely safe to come out and play. Maybe. But, it's still tentative.

I never could decide if this particular bird had a death wish--avian depression with suicidal tendencies, or if my speeding to make it to work on time put me in just the right position, but the little fucker certainly flew in the direct path of my car, a tan 1986 VW Jetta complete with crank sunroof which resembled a cardboard box more than a vehicle. Either way, dead on impact was really an understatement. I hate hitting living, breathing things and felt genuinely sorrowful for the bird's passing but continued on to work anyway. No funerals this day. Little did I know that karma had quite a downward spiral in store for me over the next 3 days.

This was Wednesday, mid-morning. By Wednesday night everything that could go wrong did go wrong. Work, a Winn-Dixie pharmacy at the time, was awful. Ill customers, a bitch of a boss, and an argument with a jealous, petty, and obtuse coworker can easily ruin anyone's day. It wasn't anything atypical just yet. That evening, I had to clean some offices with friends for their parents' business. The offices were in Quincy, FL--a place where many of a new circle of friends resided. The girl and I drove down in the work van; her brother and another friend rode in his truck. This was purposeful, of course. They cut out early leaving us to do the work and cover for them while they went to score some weed. Fine. No one would know when exactly we left, so we decided to take the van over to hang out with some of these friends when we finished. The girl still lived at home and her parents were strict (and also Jehovah's Witnesses), so this was definitely not an approved course of action. They thought I was an angel...don't ask me why. In retrospect, compared to their kids, I probably was (When you watch your friends smoking meth out of a lightbulb, you realize things aren't exactly kosher). We hung out for a minute but nothing much was going on so we decided to head back. Between the friends' house and the road home, the power steering on the van went out. We pulled over and called her brother. He didn't answer. Of course, he didn't. He was high and probably laughing loud enough that he missed the phone or was laughing at the phone as it rang. He was like that a lot when he was high. He was also a really good lay when he was high but that's a different blog about Halloween candy and homemade pipes...Rather than deal with her parents, she decided to drive it back anyway and hope for the best. It wouldn't crank back up. The evening didn't end pleasantly and needless to say, my angelic reputation was greatly diminished.

The next day, I killed a turtle on the way home from another miserable day at work. I hadn't killed anything before that bird and it was starting to really bother me.

That evening, the same girl borrowed her grandfather's truck so she could drive us back down to Quincy. She made up some lie, I guess, about getting food or catching a movie...I can't remember. We didn't do either of those things. Instead, we were with a big group of our friends. Everyone but me was pretty fucked up. I didn't get high when I had to work the next day. I was often ridiculed for not being a 'true smoker' in those days like that would change my mind on the whole issue. I'm a leader not a follower unless I'm strapped down--then the tables are pleasantly turned. Did the police show up that night? Yes. Yes, they did. Was my life almost shredded to pieces by a misdemeanor drug charge? Very close. Luckily, after a good pat down and questioning in the flash and spin of the lights, someone admitted to owning the drugs. He was already on probation for something similar and figured he might as well. The police confiscated the drugs for their own personal use and left us alone.Perhaps karma has a little empathy. A smidge...considering I wasn't arrested. However, we did hit a deer on the way home and totaled her grandfather's truck. We were fine. The deer? Not so much. I cried about the deer. She cried about the truck. We fought over each other's ridiculousness and things ended pretty ugly.

Friday wasn't any more pleasant and that night was really the culmination of events, in a way. I had huge plans for the evening--a Pivotal/Core concert down in Tallahassee. People were depending on me for a ride, and after the last two days, I knew live music would be a much needed dose of happy for my soul. but, I was a 3 time wildlife murderer now. I should have known things wouldn't be so easy. I got myself ready after work and headed down way early to round everyone up. We stopped for drinks and candy. My car wouldn't start. Experiments with jumper cables, a battery, and a eclectic assortment of volunteer mechanics led to nothing. Not a spark of hope...the time of music was drawing nearer and I was desperate. Sitting there at that moment trying to turn the key at the latest helper's instruction with no result, everything just clicked into place...

That fucking kamikaze bird!!

Everything had gone downhill from that moment bottoming out with this. I had now been party to 3 fucked up vehicles and 3 dead animals in 3 days not to mention all the other--the guy I liked fucking one of my friends, for instance. Fuck that bird, man. I felt incredibly guilty for killing it and by sheer force of will, my ass was going to see Pivotal. Right about that moment, a random guy walked up, peered under the hood, wiggled a wire, and the car worked. We took off...it tried to run hot several times. We all had our fingers crossed. We would make it. At this point, I would have hitchhiked. Possibly. Considering we were almost there, walking was an option. A red light stopped us--one more obstacle on our journey to heaven a.k.a. Floyd's Music Store. The temp was about to redline and I said, "Come on, baby...just 2 traffic lights and a parking space away from happiness."

From the back seat, a voice piped up, "Don't forget the hooker."

"What?!" I said glancing into the rearview mirror.

With a wiley grin, he replied, "Two traffic lights, a parking space, and a hooker away from happiness."

We made it, and all it cost me was my sanity and five bucks.

I think, for some of us, life becomes anticipation of the curveball. We become pros, able to recognize the signs of the coming curve, the last minute turn...to know the difference between, say, a fast pitch straight down the strike zone and the slightly trickier turn of a curve pitch. We see its possibility long before the twist occurs.

It's the idea that nothing is ever really as it seems, that things never actually go according to plan. We have to keep sharp, be constantly aware and know deep down that even when it seems life is headed on a straight arrow path hurtling towards the arc of the bat when it seems all you have to do is whack the pitch, your golden opportunity, right over the fence or at least straight into right field for a double baser, a twist is possible. Those of us living for the curve, are, indeed, aware. We look for it. Encourage it. Taunt it. Bring it, we say...because we are fucking ready.

We don't start that way. We, the Hank Aarons of life...just as Hank, himself, wasn't lobbing balls over the fence at 3. We grow into it perhaps after enough hard knocks, heartbreaks, or fuckups. We do learn from our experiences but we also work off natural ability. It seems, just as with sports, that some of us are just better equipped. Just as Dennis Rodman worked with raw talent to become the NBA's rebound allstar 7 years consecutively, some of us are born with an instinct, an innate ability to anticipate the curve...a raw talent we hone, like Rodman, to become the best at it. We read the pitch, the pitcher looking for positioning and waiting for the hammer motion, the abrupt force that causes the turn of events to begin.

Anticipating the curve definitely comes with pros. We prepare, always, for the worst. We recognize that everyone is flawed and that conflict, even when unintentional, is inevitable. And, we realize, without denial, that humans, at their very core, are animals whose choices will ultimately reflect their own self interests and that altruism is the rarest bird. We live in the moment enjoying life for what it is because it can go sour in a second.

But, for every action there is reaction and for every pro there is a con...and so it is with this as well. Living with doom just around the bend, to always be bracing for the worst diminishes your hope, a vital part of the essence of every individual. Your hope in the world, in your fellow man...fuck, even your best friends tends to dissipate like lingering scent of a lover on your pillows... We take, I think, fewer risks on opportunities and ultimately, each other. Knowing that eventually each person will turn on you, hurt you to preserve their own wants, needs, or desires, you put up more walls and keep people locked out more and more. I personally can't name one individual who has even come close to reaching my inner workings in a number of years. I let people in just enough to fool them into believing I'm being open. I talk about where I'm headed, music I like, movies I like even the embarrassing ones, things that have happened to me, books I've read or want to read...I talk. A lot. But, if you really dissect what I've disclosed, it's a partial view at who I am at best. I don't tell you how I feel about most things or what scares me most. I hold back in emotional exchanges and rarely let anyone know that I'm capable of crying much less see me cry. In fact, on a facebook application that asks questions about people on your friends' list, someone answered that they do not think I cried at the movie Titanic...oh what a skewed view I give people. I can't even watch Dumbo, motherfuckers. I absolutely cannot. Because...I cry too much, too hard for my own comfort. I don't talk to people, fully, about my problems or at least how I feel about them and I don't ask others for help. It all happens on a base level without premeditation, for the most part, and it's lonely on this island. It's an existence of full solitude without even the trusty Wilson to keep us sane.

I had a problem, a complication several weeks ago. It's ongoing actually and it really scares the piss out of me to know that it's a situation out of my control and in the very in dept hands of others. I lay in my bed the night I found out crying alone. I needed to reach out to someone. I needed to be held and reassured. I needed, quite simply, someone I knew would be there to hold my hand and promise to stay even if the darkest hours of the night. I've built this image of someone who doesn't need that sort of consoling. But I do. And I had no one to turn to...no one that knew me well enough to be any comfort or that knew I needed just that sort of comfort. So, I cried in my bed curled into the well known spots of my island and pulled myself together on my own once again.

There are benefits to taking risks...even on people. And being hurt is necessary to growth, to learning and advancing. In an effort to prepare for all life's twists and turns, it seems I have, effectively and ironically, shut myself off from some of the greatest aspects of truly living. I suppose the first step is complete--recognizing the flaw. Now it's time to let go of the stance...to quit trying so hard to ride the wave and simply let it take me for a ride.

No, the coconuts here aren't big enough to fashion a bra for myself. I'm topless on the island of me.

{facing the camera}

Hi ya'll! My name's Jenniy and I'm here at Sober House Atlanta because I'm an addict. I'm addicted to candy. Twizzlers...Runts..Charleston Chews...Airheads...gummy worms. Last week, I melted down an entire box of Nerds and injected every last drop between my toes over a 4 hour span with an 18 gauge needle. I can't get enough...

{jumps up}

Hey...wait! camera guy!! camera guy!! yeah, you... Is that a bag of Sour Patch Kids? No, man...I'm serious. Is that a bag of SPK's? oh god. you're holding out on me. I will totally suck your *beep* for those, daddy...

{camera falls, turns off}

{Dr. Drew and Jenniy in his office}

Ms. French...why did you come here?

I need help. I want help, Dr.

You're drooling, for god's sake. Look at you! You're an absolute disgusting mess. 

Oh, um wait, no, Dr. D....that's not drool. {blows a kiss at the cameraman as her eyes roll back in her head}

What's going on here?

Oh...I sucked his dick for half a bag of SPK's. Cheap bastard. 

What?!?!

{camera shuts off}



{group therapy session on the back deck with dr. drew, jenniy, brandon, and michelle}


My lowest point was a few weeks ago... Michelle, Brandon, and I hit our dealer, Wal Green, and got quite a selection of goodies. Nerds, runts, junior mints, sweetart gummies, twizzlers, reese's pieces, chocolate bars, haribo gummy colas, sugar babies, charleston chews...you name it. All of this just for one movie and we'd already had a few hits of the stuff we'd bought earlier. Somewhere between the sugar babies and runts, I lost it. I ended up overdosing in Michelle's bathroom with vomit breath that still tasted like chewy nougat centers...I lost like 6 hours. When I woke up, I knew it was time to get help or this time next year, I'll be a diabetic amputee {cries}

{scene fades}


{Jenniy in the living room crying on the sofa, looks up}

Hey, you...cameraguy...come here for a second. it's ok. come here...come on... I'll do anything. Please. Don't you have just one sour gummy worm? My head hurts and I'm shaking. See? Please, man. I'm begging. I swear I'll do anything for it. Wanna see my tits? Touch them?


{her face changes after the cameraman's muffled voice is heard in the background}

*beep* you then, *beep*ot! What? You wanna go? Huh? you *beep*y...you can't handle me, that's all it is, you tiny *beep*ed mother*beep*er...

{she charges and punches toward the camera which immediately shuts off}


{in dr. drew's office}

Ms. French, we can't allow violent behavior here at Sober House. I'm going to have to ask you to leave. 

What? Why? Why?!! It's a lie, man. I did nothin' wrong. 

We have you on camera offering to let one of the cameramen touch your breasts for a gummy worm and when he refused, you punched him. You need more serious treatment than we can provide here. 

That's bull*beep*. I was playing around with him! Joking! I'm a joker. Haven't you read my blog? Oh my god. {crying} I can only take so much verbal abuse. I came here for help and you're telling me I'm too *beep*ed up to be fixed. I need to get off this *beep*. Please? Please? {mascara's running all down her face}

Fine but we'll have to set up some very strict rules. {drew counts off each on his fingers}

1. You will ween yourself off slowly with peppermints. Peppermints only. 3 a day this week, 2 the next, one each day for 2 weeks, then you're done. 


2. No caffeine. 


3. No aspartame or splenda.


4. If you have any more violent episodes, you're out. 


5. if you offer any sexual favors to anyone in trade for more candy, you're out. 

ok. ok. {sighs} I can do all that. I can do this.

Wait...there's one more thing. I don't want you trading one feel good habit for another so no sex or masturbation until you're off the peppermints. None. 

What? I can't even masturbate? Forget it. I'm out of here. 

I'd debated with myself for a bit while the bands played about whether or not to buy an ASG shirt. I like coming home with souvenirs other than bruises on the tops of my feet and on my boobs from getting stomped on and elbowed...I didn't really want to spend the money though because of issues here at home. Still... I fucking cherish my baroness and kylesa shirts bought in the afterglow of seeing them live, so I really couldn't talk myself out of it. After weedeater finished up and torche was setting up, I made my way over to the booth to see what I could get for myself. I stopped to see some Caltrop merchandise even though I already have a tshirt and their full length album. Just as I paused to look a bit, Sam (guitar and vocals) put out one of their EPs. I had it downloaded but didn't actually own it which is somehow better so I asked him what all was on it. He promised it had some good stuff...I sorta knew it did already but I didn't let on and told him I wanted one. I told him, too, that I'd seen them play at the jinx and loved their stuff and had their album and listened to it all the time and told everyone I know how awesome they are....basically, i gushed like a schoolgirl meeting a celebrity which is only sorta embarrassing. He actually remembered me vaguely from myspace messages I'd sent and whatnot which was alright by me. He didn't have any change or enough change for my twenty so he just handed me the cd and told me he'd catch up to me when he found change and took off, I assume, in search of money. Meanwhile I purchased my shirt, got a 5 dollar bill back and took off looking for him. This made things much easier. All the while, in the back of my mind, I'm thinking I better hurry up if I'm going to get a good spot for torche. It's important to do your business and get back or you lose your spot. that's the awful part about going to shows alone. Anyway, I found him or he found me or something to that effect when I made my way back towards the nonstage. I talked to him for a minute about starting a hippie commune to avoid the complication of money...growing vegetables and raising chickens and weaving hemp rugs to sell at roadside stands and flea markets.... Fuck. ok. I even hugged him. and thanked him for the music. It sounds gay, I know...but it's all I know to do to show my appreciation--saying thank you. And I really am appreciative. It's not a lie or some sort of bullshit slutastic come on. I meant it. I still get embarrassed and so I walked away rather quickly to get back up front for torche.

Torche formed in 2004 from some ex members of Floor and some guys from other bands. Some are from Atlanta and some from Miami. There used to be 4 and because of musical differences there are now just 3 and on this night there was a fill in they kept calling Andy. I'm not huge on this band. I like them but it's not like they hit my playlist all the time. I found out pretty quickly that it's just because the production on meanderthal fucking blows or it must blow. i'm not well versed on anything related to anything in the production world but i do know that they sound nothing in person like they do on the album i have downloaded. I'd been down there for about 5 hours at this point or getting close to it. I'd had a good view the entire time and I guess, for that, I'm fortunate. Let me say here that I'm only 5'4, so my visibility is very easily blocked. Just before the band finished setting up, a guy at least a foot taller than me stepped from just beside me to directly in front. directly. in. front. I couldn't see a fucking thing even rising up to the tips of my toes. You can see above that I just barely got this shot extending my arm above his shoulder on my tippy toes to do so. How fucking rude is it to just step in front of the short girl and block her view just because you have a penis and somehow feel you have more rights to be there than she does? Where the fuck is chivalry these days? It doesn't exist in Tallahassee, Florida....not a bit. I let it roll anyway and when the band kicked in, I let the music take me. They started out with a song from Meanderthal, of course, but I couldn't tell you which one because just moments after it started, that enormous fuck in front of me stomped on my foot. I've had a child by emergency cesarean and I've had gallstones and I have 8 tattoos and I know that I have a pretty decent pain threshhold. Okay and well, let's just say I know. This foot stomp brought tears to my eyes and totally fucked up any sort of letting go I had been attempting thus far. I came hurtling back to the world at breakneck speeds. And because this guy and several others get into music in a totally different way than I do....they just kept ruining my whole experience. When they said their last song was coming up and possibly an encore or something, I just walked out. My foot was already swelling and I couldn't do anything but watch the people in front of me to make sure I wouldn't get run into or stomped on or whipped in the face with ratty, sweat soaked hair or elbowed and all that. I don't even care if I missed some awe inspiring, never to be forgotten moment like the Baroness encore I saw back in October. Fuck it. Does this mean I'm getting old?

Maybe you shouldn't answer that question.

Here's some albums. Enjoy.

Not that I know, really, what a shot of heroin feels like. In my imagination though, it's not nearly as good as an epic show. Epic is not exactly the right descriptor here but it's the closest. And it will work.

I left here late, but that's typical and by the time I walked in the front door of the bar, Big Daddy's (what a ridiculous name for the smallest bar I've ever been in), the first band was already playing. I knew them as soon as my eyes adjusted to the dim, just
before dusk light filtering in through the grimy door, the open back door and the smoke...caltrop. my heart surged. i fucking love this band and i had no clue, no idea they were even playing. they hadn't been listed on the bill for the show. this was the best of surprises because truth be told, i'd have been just as excited to see this band if they were the ONLY ones playing as I was about seeing torche, asg, and weedeater all put together. these guys are amazing musicians and they fully love the unique sounds they put out. that's the best isn't it? when the band still loves what they do and it isn't yet about doing it for money? i saw them play in june or july of last year at the jinx in savannah. they left such an impression on me that i've done nothing but talk them up during every music conversation i have had with anyone ever since...so walking into that bar and seeing them on the nonexistent stage, was an incredible moment. i couldn't give my money to the guy at the door fast enough and ended up walking away as soon as he gave me my change...he had to pull me back to put my arm band on while i looked towards the band in awe doing some motions in similar grain to the i have to pee and can't hold it anymore so bouncing from one foot to the other makes me feel better dance. the crowd was sparse at this point because most people think they're too cool to come in early and see the opening bands. (well, fuckers, you miss the good stuff when you do that, just so you know and if you happen to read this blog and were at this show, you probably missed some of the best talent displayed all evening because you're too concerned with how uncool it might be to show up when the shit started. yeah...i'm talking to you, guy who wears too tight pants and flannel and drinks a pbr with the label turned out for everyone to see that you drink shit beer just because every other scene kid in the place drinks shit beer.) I made my way right up the front of the crowd with relative ease and let the music wash over me. this may only be the second time i've seen this band, but both times i've spent with my head upturned, my eyes mostly closed, my hips moving, and a smile on my face taking a moment, occasionally just to watch them do their thing. i can't say enough that if you ever, ever have the chance to see this band live, you should do so. and i will also say that you should buy their album and the next one when it comes out in just a little bit. it doesn't do their live performance justice at all because technology doesn't capture the essence of good music perfectly by any means, but get it anyway. show some love. or buy a shirt. or tell me you can't afford a shirt and i'll buy one for you. truthfully, i'd make these guys apple pie in a june cleaver dress if it made them smile. so yeah, they're from north carolina and there's some other stuff about them i could say but then you might not look them up yourself and i'd get mad about it.

the second band to play was us christmas. i had no idea what to expect really...i youtubed them a couple days before the show, but i'd never listened to any albums or any of that good stuff. when they started setting up, i was kind of confused, i must admit. there were too many drum pieces for just one set, to begin with. and they just kept stacking them up. all in all, there were way too many of them to fit inside the designated 'stage' area. there are two drummers, a violinist, two guitar players--one of whom does vocals, a bass player, and a guy who looked really wasted and played things like bongos and tamborines and some other shit i don't know the name of...that guy in the picture in the front with the weird jacket and that odd almost kokopelli like tattoo on his face that he'll really regret having one day when he runs out of drugs...but even with the oddities, i really liked the band. the music had its own flavor which is rare in any style and especially hard to pick out in small venue like this. i guess that's the only thing that really stands out though...the band's unique sound which really comes mostly from the added elements. in this kind of venue, it was hard to really tell if the two drummer thing added something that couldn't have been achieved with a really balls to the wall highly skilled drummer or if it just looked badass to have two guys sitting up there on drums. You can't really find much about these guys except that they've been together since 2002, are all from North Carolina, and pretty much feel like they do their own thing. Everyone does, but these guys (and girl) succeed.

ASG played next. I really like asg a good bit so this was a great moment. The first song they played was Mourning of the Earth on Low Country, the 2009 split with Black Tusk. If you don't have that album, you should (you can download it on this really badass blog a friend of mine runs...Doomgrinder. you can download a lot of great stuff from his site. comprehensive is an understatement). After that, everything is pretty much a sludgy blur. I leaned against the wall, grinning, and enjoying every screamed word, every distorted riff. My eyes close and I just ride the songs. It's the way music is meant to be enjoyed...to me. I never did get the intense urge some people get to thrash about and run into each other while wearing ear plugs and whipping their hair about in other people's faces. In fact, having to deal with that sort of ruins the experience for me somewhat since I have to come out of my daze and watch out for galloping fat fucks hellbent on elbowing somebody, anybody in the tit. And...with mine usually being the biggest in the room and certainly the biggest near the stage, I am the immediate target. You can buy any album ASG puts out and it's never going to be like seeing them live 5 feet from where you're standing, I can promise that without any sort of misgivings that I'm wrong. If you're into this style of metal, then you live for seeing a band in person...sludge, doom, and stoner metal cannot be captured well on any sort of media source. This isn't pop music we're talking about here... And, if you aren't a fan of this style, you'll leave a show like this with a new addiction if you have a taste for metal at all. Bands like ASG are unstoppable when it comes to reeling you in and making you feel every note played, every drumbeat, every gutteral vocal slice. So, yeah...ASG put out their first album in 2002 and are also from North Carolina.

Weedeater. Fuck. There is a lot that can be said about Weedeater. First things first, they put on a very lively show or did on Sunday. Dixie Dave threw firecrackers into the crowd before they even finished setting up. This did not go well with the natives. By natives, I mean the guy who took money at the back door who obviously thought he was the greatest thing since sliced bread since there were girls flirting with him nonstop. Ugly fucker. I'm still not sure why it never occurred to him that said girls were flirting their way into saving that $12 cover for more pbr talls they really didn't need to pound. Just as the door boy made his way over to say something about the firecrackers, dave growls into the microphone, the beginning of god luck and good speed. the guy made his way off in a hurry and i giggled for a good solid 30 seconds over it. i was standing just a few feet from dave in his lovely D.A.R.E. shirt. He crosses his eyes when he growls lyrics into the microphone. He loves that microphone, too...he kinda made out with it. He also blew snot onto the 'stage' barrier at one point which was just odd, but you know...whatever floats your boat. I will say, musically speaking, Weedeater is sludge at it's finest. Heavily distorted and abrasive sounds slowed down in true stoner fashion with southern rock influences that can't be denied...for fuck's sake the band even does a cover of skynard's gimme back my bullets. They're signed to Southern Lord records which carries great names like black cobra and earthride...om and goatsnake. They've been together since 1997 and such. You should maybe check them out. The vocals aren't for everyone but I can't say how many times I've complained about a band's vocals just to have some guy tell me they never listen to a band for the vocals anyway. Just the music. whatever. why not just listen to instrumental bands then? i guess this may be one of those times when having a vagina interferes with my understanding of the issue at hand. damn you, vagina....damn you.

to be continued...i have one band to go and some album downloads for you. check back tomorrow. please.