I was perched on my window ledge, over looking Highway 20. I had the 10-96 sticker in my hand, the backing already peeled off. The pole with the traffic signal was about six feet away from my window. Looking now, the top of the signal is about twenty feet high. From my perch, I was looking down at the pole. I figured it to be no problem to jump out, put the sticker on the sign, and land on the roof of the bus. I mean, after drinking a liter of vodka and most of a case of beer, I was feeling like Jackie Fucking Chan. I just had to wait for the bus. The bus stop is right in front of my building, it stops on the quarter of every hour. You've heard of the English pastime of train spotting? Well I bus spot. The bus stops right in front of my building. The bus stops on the quarter of every hour (meaning quarter after the hour, and quarter of the hour). My computer desk is right by the window, so I can't help but to bus-spot.
I'd already tagged most of the block with 10-96 stickers. Some of them, I have no memory or idea how I got them where they are. Like the one on the speed limit sign. That one is up there. But this fucking traffic signal, I see it whenever I look out of the window. It's annoyed me for some time that I haven't been able to tag it. I tried one night, leaning out of window after affixing a sticker to the end of my mop handle with a small piece of duct tape, the backing of the sticker removed, but I couldn't get the sticker to stay on the signal. Maybe the duct tape was stickier than the actual sticker adhesive, maybe I was too drunk. Either way, I couldn't make it happen.
This time, I was determined. I glanced inside at the clock on my wall. It was ten after. Just a few more minutes. I figured if I got the sticker up, people would come over and when they looked out my window, they would ask, "How in the world did you get that sticker on the back of that traffic signal?" and I would just say nothing, feeling cool. That, and my obvious obsessive compulsive desire to tag the entire block with 10-96 stickers. Not to mention I had been pretty depressed lately, my life is a mess and I didn't really care what happened to me. I guess somewhere deep in the back of my mind, I also thought it would be a punk-as-fuck last-great-act if I didn't make it.
"What if the bus doesn't stop?"
"What if I jump too soon and get hit by the bus?"
The bus approached. I heard the air brakes start to slow the bus down. That was a good sign. As soon as the nose of the bus was in front of me, I jumped. It was at that point I realized that I should have wore a pair of shoes. I slipped on the concrete ledge, slick from spray paint over-spray, which was there from an art project I had been working on a few days prior. Instead of going OUT and down in a nice arc, I went straight DOWN. I never even got near the traffic signal pole. I bounced off of the trash receptacle on my left side and slammed into the side of the bus. The look on the faces of the passengers was priceless. I felt one of my ribs crack when I hit the trash can. I landed on the sidewalk with a resounding THUD that I'm sure even Jackie Chan felt, where ever the fuck he was at that precise moment.
I laid there, totally expecting people to rush off of the bus to see if I was okay. To my astonishment, the bus PULLED OFF. I writhed on the sidewalk, holding my side. I found myself crying, not from the physical pain, but from the other kind, the mental pain. Of being sick, of being alone, at the futileness of my ways.
A homeless guy walked by, pushing his make-shift cart full of cans. I screamed "FUCK YOOOUUUUUUU" at him and got up and onto my feet. I saw my 10-96 sticker laying in the street and I stepped out to get it. A car sounded it's horn and I heard the screeching of tires on the pavement. I retrieved the sticker and slapped it on the homeless guy's cart. "LIFE IS A BLINK, MOTHERFUCKER, " I yelled, and ran up the stairs into my building.
I ran into Wendy's apartment, tears streaming down my face. "THAT'S IT, WENDY! TAKE ME IN! I'VE FUCKING HAD IT! I CAN'T STAND IT ANYMORE!"
I don't mind digging myself holes, but after awhile, when I can no longer see daylight, I start to get nervous and tend to freak out. Digging holes for myself and climbing out reminds me that I am alive, that I am still human yet part machine. (Yeah, I probably listened to too much Rollins growing up, so what?) I've gone from middle class to living on the streets and back and forth so many times that I can't tell the difference anymore between a bowl of Ramen or a plate of gourmet Pesto.
At this point I went into black-out mode. A liter of cheap vodka, some good weed and 17 beers will do that sometimes. I guess Chris called Rock and Roll John, who grabbed Sarah's car and came over. In the meantime, I smashed a couple of mirrors in my apartment, yelled at my cats and threw a Van Halen record at Wendy's head. John showed up and we all rode over to St. Mary's hospital. I sort of remember the Cat scan. They had to physically restrain me to a body board. They shot me up with some B-1 and Ativan. The tests and x-rays came back: no physical injury aside from a hairline fracture on a rib. And my blood alcohol level was .493. A new personal record.
They chaptered me. Chapter 51-
I am a law enforcement officer and have cause to believe:
The subject is mentally ill, drug dependent, or devolopmentally disabled.
The subject evidences behavior which constitues a substantial probability of physical harm to self or others, as set forth in 51.15 of Wisconsin statues.
My belief is based on specific and recent dangerous acts, attempts, threats or omissions by the subject as observed by me or reliably reported to me as stated below:
Dangerous behavior-
When: 11-3-08
Where: SMMC (St Mary's Medical Center)
Describe Behavior: "On 11-3-08 I responded to SMMC. Upon arrival I spoke with Kenneth. Kenneth stated that he jumped out of a 2nd srory window in attempt to kill himself. Kenneth then uttered the words, "suicide, I want to kill myself." upon this admission, I believe Kenneth should be booked for pysch treatment under chapter 51." (sic)
-Officer J Koepnick 1334
Which I believe to be total bullshit. I mean, if I had really wanted to kill myself, I would have gotten really bloody and gory about it, or at least tried to overdose on some good drugs. But then again, I was still in the midst of a blackout.
The next thing I remember is them wheeling me into a private room at St. Mary's. St. Luke's, where the mental ward is, didn't want me yet, in fear of me detoxing too hard and dying. The nurse I was assigned to was actually pretty cool. She asked me, "You aren't going to give me any shit are you? I am on a double shift and do NOT have any patience for you acting like an asshole. If you behave, I'll give you some ice cream."
I laughed and said I'd rather have a Budweiser. She looked at me like I was going to act like an asshole, with a furled brow and stern look so I quickly added, "No, no, I'll be cool......"
She says, "Okay then. I'm going to give you four milligrams(!) of Ativan and whenever you start feeling shakey let me know and I'll give you another four." She injected the shit into my IV and I instantly felt better. I complained about the location of my IV (right in the crook of my elbow, again!) and she berated the ER nurses for their choice of location of the IV. ("Stupid bitches"). Beacuse of her Rock and Roll Nurse attitude, I decided right then not to cause any trouble. She relocated the IV to my forearm. She ordered me ice cream (it's important to keep the blood-sugar up when hardcore-detoxing) and even asked me whether I wanted Chocolate or Vanilla. She was the coolest nurse ever. She asked, "Wow, she must have been a really nice piece off ass, huh?" I laughed and told her I was a virgin.
As I was on suicide watch, they had to have someone in the room with me at all times. Most of the time (that I was awake anyways) it was this funny old black dude, Charles. We discovered a shared love of Bukowski and told each other bad white/black pussy jokes. I told him that he was in charge of the TV as long as he watched old westerns and/or Clint Eastwood movies. He tried to put a Jackie Chan movie on and I told him to change it.
Since I was behaving so well for a suicidal alcoholic nut job, the nurse even slipped me some Percosets, which is a big no-no for a detoxing alcoholic lying in St. Marys under chapter 51. My rib hurt a lot.
I floated in and out of consciousness for the next three days. They pumped so much Ativan into me I'm sure the manufacturer's stock went up a few points. I finally got to the point where I was well enough to get sent over to St. Luke's mental ward.
Monday, July 4, 2011
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Good Morning Vietnam?
Vietnam? WTF? I'm sitting in room 523 at McClaren Hospital. I had my left hip replaced yesterday. Oh, nevermind, I'm just looking at trees on Mott Golf Course an can see a few local hoodrats sauntering up Sunset Drive, the strange reddish glow from the streetlights remind of the light flairs they used in the big battle scene that was at the end of the movie "Platoon..."
Weird dreams indeed from Ketamine, Morphone, Dilaudid and the other opiate-
You know that guy for Geico who's all like "Does using Geico to save money as smart as having an ex-Drill Seargant? for a therapist?" Well, He and the Drill Seargant were tag-teaming Flo from the Progressive commercials hardcore-style in the bathroom of a coffee shop/ desert tourist store that was built to resemble a Tee-Pee, while the gecco from Geico was kocking boots with the Aflac duck a few miles away, in the middle of the section of US-10 from the "Fear And Loathing" movie until Iggy Pop and Henry Rollins ran them over while Henry was receiting his piece "Hey Henriettta," and right where he gets to the part about "Why Did The Chicken Cross The Road? BECAUSE I SHOT HIM!" Iggy cranked the throttle down (they were riding on a Vincent Black Shadow (Henry was riding bitch, and Iggy of course was shirtless)) and they flattened the duck and the gecco went flying and got impaled on a cactus. Iggy deftly yelled back at Henry, "Chickens? FUCK CHICKENS! We can't stop here, this is DUCK COUNTRY!"
Iggy and Henry continued to drive on and stopped at the diner for coffee and the dream turned into the scene from "Coffee and Cigarettes" but with the addition of Henry Rollins. Henry was at the jukebox and laughing at both Tom Waits and Iggy because their songs weren't on the juke box, but "TV Party" was and instead of shouting out the names of TV shows during the bridges, the names of the insurance companies were barked out. Iggy got upset and excused himself to the restroom where he found William S. Burroughs and Jim Carrol were chopping up and fixing the gecco and asked him if he wanted a hit and Iggy told them that that shit had killed Sid Vicious, as he rolled up his sleeve (he was suddenly wearimg a shirt somehow). The drill seargant came out of the stall in which he was banging the Geico insurance guy with a gun an stated that NO ONE WAS TO KNOW that he was queer, and shot them all; the bathroom was the bathroom that they shot Henry Rollins in on "The Sons Of Anarchy."
The Drill Seargent walked out into the dining room, set his gun (a 9mm Glock) on the table in front of Tom and grabbed Henry, threw him against the wall and asked him how tall he was, that he didn't know that they could stack shit that high.
This dream has A+++++ feedback, would watch again......
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
So it's been awhile since I've graced you all with a new blog. There are a lot of reasons behind that. I could go into them all, but to have to consider them all and then write about them would be akin to tying an anchor around my neck at this point, and for the first time in a long time, I feel like my head is actually above water.
One reason is that I've been spending most of my "Gheyspace Time" over on Facebook. I finally caved in and started an account, with my real name. Found my high school class and joined their group. I hooked back up with many people I haven't talked to in twenty years. And then I found my college crew. And others. It's strange, I assumed I would never talk any of these people ever again, a lot of them were no more than a faded memory. It's great to see so many people doing well, it makes me wonder what's become of the ones that I haven't reconnected with. I take it all with a grain of salt, though, as several of these people wouldn't have given me the time of day back then. Older and wiser, I am, as are they.
I was very happy, though, to find my best friend from high school. I had abandoned our friendship a few years back, for selfish reasons. It made me so happy to find that she is doing well and is happy and even has a few kids.
----
I've also been doing a lot of soul searching regarding this retirement-thing. When you do something for twenty-some-odd years, when your heart and soul were in it, it's hard to decide to walk away, even when it appears to be the logical choice. When my gear got ripped off, though, it was easy to say "Fuck it, I'm DONE." Two years ago, an incident like that would have made me come back and try twice as hard. Now, though, it just made it easier to sell everything else off. It's all gone- The amps, the mics, the pedals, the PA, all of it. The only thing left is my bass and my magic distortion pedal. Even all of the recording gear is gone.
----
I've also been very busy working on the book. I could have been done by now, but I have been working my ass off on it. I am ensuring that it will be the very best thing I can possibly produce. For fun, to cool off from the 'work' aspect of writing, I have been composing short stories to go into my memoirs. Sort of a Fear-And-Loathing approach with those. The book should be ready for press by late summer, by time I get done with yelling at my editor and the proof-readers to CHANGE MY FUCKING COPY BACK TO THE WAY I WROTE IT.
-----
Then there is this sickness in me, and the poison they give me to fight it. I am sitting in the waiting room.
----
I take it day by day. I even have no idea what state I'll be living in two weeks from now.
Selah.
One reason is that I've been spending most of my "Gheyspace Time" over on Facebook. I finally caved in and started an account, with my real name. Found my high school class and joined their group. I hooked back up with many people I haven't talked to in twenty years. And then I found my college crew. And others. It's strange, I assumed I would never talk any of these people ever again, a lot of them were no more than a faded memory. It's great to see so many people doing well, it makes me wonder what's become of the ones that I haven't reconnected with. I take it all with a grain of salt, though, as several of these people wouldn't have given me the time of day back then. Older and wiser, I am, as are they.
I was very happy, though, to find my best friend from high school. I had abandoned our friendship a few years back, for selfish reasons. It made me so happy to find that she is doing well and is happy and even has a few kids.
----
I've also been doing a lot of soul searching regarding this retirement-thing. When you do something for twenty-some-odd years, when your heart and soul were in it, it's hard to decide to walk away, even when it appears to be the logical choice. When my gear got ripped off, though, it was easy to say "Fuck it, I'm DONE." Two years ago, an incident like that would have made me come back and try twice as hard. Now, though, it just made it easier to sell everything else off. It's all gone- The amps, the mics, the pedals, the PA, all of it. The only thing left is my bass and my magic distortion pedal. Even all of the recording gear is gone.
----
I've also been very busy working on the book. I could have been done by now, but I have been working my ass off on it. I am ensuring that it will be the very best thing I can possibly produce. For fun, to cool off from the 'work' aspect of writing, I have been composing short stories to go into my memoirs. Sort of a Fear-And-Loathing approach with those. The book should be ready for press by late summer, by time I get done with yelling at my editor and the proof-readers to CHANGE MY FUCKING COPY BACK TO THE WAY I WROTE IT.
-----
Then there is this sickness in me, and the poison they give me to fight it. I am sitting in the waiting room.
----
I take it day by day. I even have no idea what state I'll be living in two weeks from now.
Selah.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Space Junk
Space crash called "catastrophic," lots of debris
By VLADIMIR ISACHENKOV
story source (AP)
MOSCOW (AP) — The crash of two satellites has generated an estimated tens of thousands of pieces of space junk that could circle Earth and threaten other satellites for the next 10,000 years, space experts said Friday.
One expert called the collision "a catastrophic event" that he hoped would force President Barack Obama's administration to address the long-ignored issue of debris in space.
Russian Mission Control chief Vladimir Solovyov said Tuesday's smashup of a derelict Russian military satellite and a working U.S. Iridium commercial satellite occurred in the busiest part of near-Earth space — some 500 miles (800 kilometers) above Earth.
"800 kilometers is a very popular orbit which is used by Earth-tracking and communications satellites," Solovyov told reporters Friday. "The clouds of debris pose a serious danger to them."
Solovyov said debris from the collision could stay in orbit for up to 10,000 years and even tiny fragments threaten spacecraft because both travel at such a high orbiting speed.
James Oberg, an experienced aerospace engineer who worked on NASA's space shuttle program and is now a space consultant, described the crash over northern Siberia as "catastrophic event." NASA said it was the first-ever high-speed impact between two intact spacecraft — with the Iridium craft weighing 1,235 pounds (560 kilograms) and the Russian craft nearly a ton.
"At physical contact at orbital speeds, a hypersonic shock wave bursts outwards through the structures," Oberg said in e-mailed comments. "It literally shreds the material into confetti and detonates any fuels."
Most fragments are concentrated near the collision course, but Maj.-Gen. Alexander Yakushin, chief of staff of the Russian military's Space Forces, said some debris was thrown into other orbits, ranging from 300 to 800 miles (500-1,300 kilometers) above Earth.
David Wright at the Union of Concerned Scientists' Global Security said the collision had possibly generated tens of thousands of particles larger than 1 centimeter (half an inch), any of which could significantly damage or even destroy a satellite.
Wright, in a posting on the group's Web site, said the two large debris clouds from Tuesday's crash will spread over time, forming a shell around Earth. He likened the debris to "a shotgun blast that threatens other satellites in the region."
Meanwhile, there's no global air traffic control system that tracks the position of all satellites.
The U.S. military tracks some 17,000 pieces of space debris larger than 2 to 4 inches (5 to 10 centimeters), along with some 900 active satellites. But its main job is protecting the international space station and other manned spacecraft, and it lacks the resources to warn all satellite operators of every possible close call.
"With the amount of spacecraft and debris in orbit, the probability of collisions is going up more rapidly," said John Higginbotham, chief executive of Integral Systems Inc., a Lanham, Maryland-based company that runs ground support systems for satellites.
Oberg said the limited accuracy of tracking data and computer calculations makes it impossible to predict collisions, only their probability. He said most satellites also have little fuel to escape what most likely would be a false alarm.
"The collision offers a literally heaven-sent opportunity for the Obama administration to take forceful, visible and long-overdue measures to address a long-ignored issue of 'space debris,'" Oberg said.
In January 2007, China destroyed one of its own defunct satellites with a ballistic missile at an altitude close to that of Tuesday's collision, creating thousands of pieces of debris which threatened other spacecraft.
Both NASA and Russia's Roscosmos agencies said there was little risk to the international space station, which orbits 230 miles (370 kilometers) above Earth, far below the collision point. An unmanned Russian cargo ship docked smoothly Friday at the station, delivering water, food, fuel, oxygen and other supplies as well as a new Russian space suit for space walks.
American astronauts Michael Fincke and Sandra Magnus are aboard the station along with Russian Yuri Lonchakov. The crew size will be doubled to six members later this year.
AP Technology Writer Peter Svensson in New York and AP Science Writer Seth Borenstein in Washington contributed to this report.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
I was perched on my window ledge, over looking Highway 20. I had the 10-96 sticker in my hand, the backing already peeled off. The pole with the traffic signal was about six feet away from my window. Looking now, the top of the signal is about twenty feet high. From my perch, I was looking down at the pole. I figured it to be no problem to jump out, put the sticker on the sign, and land on the roof of the bus. I mean, after drinking a liter of vodka and most of a case of beer, I was feeling like Jackie Fucking Chan. I just had to wait for the bus. The bus stop is right in front of my building, it stops on the quarter of every hour. You've heard of the English pastime of train spotting? Well I bus spot. The bus stops right in front of my building. The bus stops on the quarter of every hour (meaning quarter after the hour, and quarter of the hour). My computer desk is right by the window, so I can't help but to bus-spot.
I'd already tagged most of the block with 10-96 stickers. Some of them, I have no memory or idea how I got them where they are. Like the one on the speed limit sign. That one is up there. But this fucking traffic signal, I see it whenever I look out of the window. It's annoyed me for some time that I haven't been able to tag it. I tried one night, leaning out of window after affixing a sticker to the end of my mop handle with a small piece of duct tape, the backing of the sticker removed, but I couldn't get the sticker to stay on the signal. Maybe the duct tape was stickier than the actual sticker adhesive, maybe I was too drunk. Either way, I couldn't make it happen.
This time, I was determined. I glanced inside at the clock on my wall. It was ten after. Just a few more minutes. I figured if I got the sticker up, people would come over and when they looked out my window, they would ask, "How in the world did you get that sticker on the back of that traffic signal?" and I would just say nothing, feeling cool. That, and my obvious obsessive compulsive desire to tag the entire block with 10-96 stickers. Not to mention I had been pretty depressed lately, my life is a mess and I didn't really care what happened to me. I guess somewhere deep in the back of my mind, I also thought it would be a punk-as-fuck last-great-act if I didn't make it.
"What if the bus doesn't stop?"
"What if I jump too soon and get hit by the bus?"
The bus approached. I heard the air brakes start to slow the bus down. That was a good sign. As soon as the nose of the bus was in front of me, I leapt. It was at that point I realized that I should have wore a pair of shoes. I slipped on the concrete ledge, slick from spray paint over-spray, which was there from an art project I had been working on a few days prior. Instead of going OUT and down in a nice arc, I went straight DOWN. I never even got near the traffic signal pole. I bounced off of the trash receptacle on my left side and slammed into the side of the bus. The look on the faces of the passengers was priceless. I felt one of my ribs crack when I hit the trash can. I landed on the sidewalk with a resounding THUD that I'm sure even Jackie Chan felt, where ever the fuck he was at that precise moment.
I laid there, totally expecting people to rush off of the bus to see if I was okay. To my astonishment, the bus PULLED OFF. I writhed on the sidewalk, holding my side. I found myself crying, not from the physical pain, but from the other kind, the mental pain. Of being sick, of being alone, at the futileness of my ways.
A homeless guy walked by, pushing his make-shift cart full of cans. I screamed "FUCK YOOOUUUUUUU" at him and got up and onto my feet. I saw my 10-96 sticker laying in the street and I stepped out to get it. A car sounded it's horn and I heard the screeching of tires on the pavement. I retrieved the sticker and slapped it on the homeless guy's cart. "LIFE IS A BLINK, MOTHERFUCKER, " I yelled, and ran up the stairs into my building.
I ran into Wendy's apartment, tears streaming down my face. "THAT'S IT, WENDY! TAKE ME IN! I'VE FUCKING HAD IT! I CAN'T STAND IT ANYMORE!"
I don't mind digging myself holes, but after awhile, when I can no longer see daylight, I start to get nervous and tend to freak out. Digging holes for myself and climbing out reminds me that I am alive, that I am still human yet part machine. (Yeah, I probably listened to too much Rollins growing up, so what?) I've gone from middle class to living on the streets and back and forth so many times that I can't tell the difference anymore between a bowl of Ramen or a plate of gourmet Pesto.
At this point I went into black-out mode. A liter of cheap vodka and 17 beers will do that sometimes. I guess Chris called Rock and Roll John, who grabbed Sarah's car and came over. In the meantime, I smashed a couple of mirrors in my apartment, yelled at my cats and threw a Van Halen record at Wendy's head. John showed up and we all rode over to St. Mary's hospital. I sort of remember the Cat scan. They had to physically restrain me to a body board. They shot me up with some B-1 and Ativan. The tests and x-rays came back: no physical injury aside from a hairline fracture on a rib. And my blood alcohol level was .493. A new presonal record.
They chaptered me. Chapter 51-
I am a law enforcement officer and have cause to believe:
The subject is mentally ill, drug dependent, or devolopmentally disabled.
The subject evidences behavior which constitues a substantial probability of physical harm to self or others, as set forth in 51.15 of Wisconsin statues.
My belief is based on specific and recent dangerous acts, attempts, threats or omissions by the subject as observed by me or reliably reported to me as stated below:
Dangerous behavior-
When: 11-3-08
Where: SMMC (St Mary's Medical Center)
Describe Behavior: "On 11-3-08 I responded to SMMC. Upon arrival I spoke with Kenneth. Kenneth stated that he jumped out of a 2nd srory window in attempt to kill himself. Kenneth then uttered the words, "suicide, I want to kill myself." upon this admission, I believe Kenneth should be booked for pysch treatment under chapter 51." (sic)
-Officer J Koepnick 1334
Which I believe to be total bullshit. I mean, if I had really wanted to kill myself, I would have gotten really bloody and gory about it, or at least tried to overdose on some good drugs. But then again, I was still in the midst of a blackout.
The next thing I remember is them wheeling me into a private room at St. Mary's. St. Lukes, where the mental ward is, didn't want me yet, in fear of me detoxing too hard and dying. The nurse I was assigned to was actually pretty cool. She asked me, "You aren't going to give me any shit are you? I am on a double shift and do NOT have any patience for you acting like an asshole. If you behave, I'll give you some ice cream."
I laughed and said I'd rather have a Budweiser. She looked at me like I was going to act like an asshole, with a furled brow and stern look so I quickly added, "No, no, I'll be cool......"
She says, "Okay then. I'm going to give you four milligrams(!) of Ativan and whenever you start feeling shakey let me know and I'll give you another four." She injected the shit into my IV and I instantly felt better. I complained about the location of my IV (right in the crook of my elbow, again!) and she berated the ER nurses for their choice of location of the IV. ("Stupid bitches"). Beacuse of her Rock and Roll Nurse attitude, I decided right then not to cause any trouble. She relocated the IV to my forearm. She ordered me ice cream (it's important to keep the blood-sugar up when hardcore-detoxing) and even asked me whether I wanted Chocolate or Vanilla. She was the coolest nurse ever. She asked, "Wow, she must have been a really nice piece off ass, huh?" I laughed and told her I was a virgin.
As I was on suicide watch, they had to have someone in the room with me at all times. Most of the time (that I was awake anyways) it was this funny old black dude, Charles. We discovered a shared love of Bukowski and told each other bad white/black pussy jokes. I told him that he was in charge of the TV as long as he watched old westerns and/or Clint Eastwood movies. He tried to put a Jackie Chan movie on and I told him to change it.
Since I was behaving so well for a suicidal alcoholic nut job, the nurse even slipped me some Percosets, which is a big no-no for a detoxing alcoholic lying in St. Marys under chapter 51. My rib hurt a lot.
I floated in and out of consciosness for the next three days. They pumped so much Ativan into me I'm sure the manufacturer's stock went up a few points. I finally got to the point where I was well enough to get sent over to St. Luke's mental ward.
Selah.
I'd already tagged most of the block with 10-96 stickers. Some of them, I have no memory or idea how I got them where they are. Like the one on the speed limit sign. That one is up there. But this fucking traffic signal, I see it whenever I look out of the window. It's annoyed me for some time that I haven't been able to tag it. I tried one night, leaning out of window after affixing a sticker to the end of my mop handle with a small piece of duct tape, the backing of the sticker removed, but I couldn't get the sticker to stay on the signal. Maybe the duct tape was stickier than the actual sticker adhesive, maybe I was too drunk. Either way, I couldn't make it happen.
This time, I was determined. I glanced inside at the clock on my wall. It was ten after. Just a few more minutes. I figured if I got the sticker up, people would come over and when they looked out my window, they would ask, "How in the world did you get that sticker on the back of that traffic signal?" and I would just say nothing, feeling cool. That, and my obvious obsessive compulsive desire to tag the entire block with 10-96 stickers. Not to mention I had been pretty depressed lately, my life is a mess and I didn't really care what happened to me. I guess somewhere deep in the back of my mind, I also thought it would be a punk-as-fuck last-great-act if I didn't make it.
"What if the bus doesn't stop?"
"What if I jump too soon and get hit by the bus?"
The bus approached. I heard the air brakes start to slow the bus down. That was a good sign. As soon as the nose of the bus was in front of me, I leapt. It was at that point I realized that I should have wore a pair of shoes. I slipped on the concrete ledge, slick from spray paint over-spray, which was there from an art project I had been working on a few days prior. Instead of going OUT and down in a nice arc, I went straight DOWN. I never even got near the traffic signal pole. I bounced off of the trash receptacle on my left side and slammed into the side of the bus. The look on the faces of the passengers was priceless. I felt one of my ribs crack when I hit the trash can. I landed on the sidewalk with a resounding THUD that I'm sure even Jackie Chan felt, where ever the fuck he was at that precise moment.
I laid there, totally expecting people to rush off of the bus to see if I was okay. To my astonishment, the bus PULLED OFF. I writhed on the sidewalk, holding my side. I found myself crying, not from the physical pain, but from the other kind, the mental pain. Of being sick, of being alone, at the futileness of my ways.
A homeless guy walked by, pushing his make-shift cart full of cans. I screamed "FUCK YOOOUUUUUUU" at him and got up and onto my feet. I saw my 10-96 sticker laying in the street and I stepped out to get it. A car sounded it's horn and I heard the screeching of tires on the pavement. I retrieved the sticker and slapped it on the homeless guy's cart. "LIFE IS A BLINK, MOTHERFUCKER, " I yelled, and ran up the stairs into my building.
I ran into Wendy's apartment, tears streaming down my face. "THAT'S IT, WENDY! TAKE ME IN! I'VE FUCKING HAD IT! I CAN'T STAND IT ANYMORE!"
I don't mind digging myself holes, but after awhile, when I can no longer see daylight, I start to get nervous and tend to freak out. Digging holes for myself and climbing out reminds me that I am alive, that I am still human yet part machine. (Yeah, I probably listened to too much Rollins growing up, so what?) I've gone from middle class to living on the streets and back and forth so many times that I can't tell the difference anymore between a bowl of Ramen or a plate of gourmet Pesto.
At this point I went into black-out mode. A liter of cheap vodka and 17 beers will do that sometimes. I guess Chris called Rock and Roll John, who grabbed Sarah's car and came over. In the meantime, I smashed a couple of mirrors in my apartment, yelled at my cats and threw a Van Halen record at Wendy's head. John showed up and we all rode over to St. Mary's hospital. I sort of remember the Cat scan. They had to physically restrain me to a body board. They shot me up with some B-1 and Ativan. The tests and x-rays came back: no physical injury aside from a hairline fracture on a rib. And my blood alcohol level was .493. A new presonal record.
They chaptered me. Chapter 51-
I am a law enforcement officer and have cause to believe:
The subject is mentally ill, drug dependent, or devolopmentally disabled.
The subject evidences behavior which constitues a substantial probability of physical harm to self or others, as set forth in 51.15 of Wisconsin statues.
My belief is based on specific and recent dangerous acts, attempts, threats or omissions by the subject as observed by me or reliably reported to me as stated below:
Dangerous behavior-
When: 11-3-08
Where: SMMC (St Mary's Medical Center)
Describe Behavior: "On 11-3-08 I responded to SMMC. Upon arrival I spoke with Kenneth. Kenneth stated that he jumped out of a 2nd srory window in attempt to kill himself. Kenneth then uttered the words, "suicide, I want to kill myself." upon this admission, I believe Kenneth should be booked for pysch treatment under chapter 51." (sic)
-Officer J Koepnick 1334
Which I believe to be total bullshit. I mean, if I had really wanted to kill myself, I would have gotten really bloody and gory about it, or at least tried to overdose on some good drugs. But then again, I was still in the midst of a blackout.
The next thing I remember is them wheeling me into a private room at St. Mary's. St. Lukes, where the mental ward is, didn't want me yet, in fear of me detoxing too hard and dying. The nurse I was assigned to was actually pretty cool. She asked me, "You aren't going to give me any shit are you? I am on a double shift and do NOT have any patience for you acting like an asshole. If you behave, I'll give you some ice cream."
I laughed and said I'd rather have a Budweiser. She looked at me like I was going to act like an asshole, with a furled brow and stern look so I quickly added, "No, no, I'll be cool......"
She says, "Okay then. I'm going to give you four milligrams(!) of Ativan and whenever you start feeling shakey let me know and I'll give you another four." She injected the shit into my IV and I instantly felt better. I complained about the location of my IV (right in the crook of my elbow, again!) and she berated the ER nurses for their choice of location of the IV. ("Stupid bitches"). Beacuse of her Rock and Roll Nurse attitude, I decided right then not to cause any trouble. She relocated the IV to my forearm. She ordered me ice cream (it's important to keep the blood-sugar up when hardcore-detoxing) and even asked me whether I wanted Chocolate or Vanilla. She was the coolest nurse ever. She asked, "Wow, she must have been a really nice piece off ass, huh?" I laughed and told her I was a virgin.
As I was on suicide watch, they had to have someone in the room with me at all times. Most of the time (that I was awake anyways) it was this funny old black dude, Charles. We discovered a shared love of Bukowski and told each other bad white/black pussy jokes. I told him that he was in charge of the TV as long as he watched old westerns and/or Clint Eastwood movies. He tried to put a Jackie Chan movie on and I told him to change it.
Since I was behaving so well for a suicidal alcoholic nut job, the nurse even slipped me some Percosets, which is a big no-no for a detoxing alcoholic lying in St. Marys under chapter 51. My rib hurt a lot.
I floated in and out of consciosness for the next three days. They pumped so much Ativan into me I'm sure the manufacturer's stock went up a few points. I finally got to the point where I was well enough to get sent over to St. Luke's mental ward.
Selah.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
I almost lost my elbow
So Thursday night I noticed this red line running from my bad elbow up my arm into my armpit. Not a good thing. I got up Friday and went into the ER.
As soon as the doctor saw my elbow, he called the Orthopedic surgeon and told him to HURRY UP AND GET DOWN THERE. Not a good sign.
Suddenly I had two doctors, the Orthopedic surgeon and several nurses fussing over me. The surgeon produced a HUGE FUCKING SYRINGE and proceeded to jab it into the elbow joint which almost got him punched the fuck out. The joint was dry, but he looked at me and told me that I wasn't going anywhere for at least a few days. He said I would be lucky if I didn't require an artificial elbow. Not a good sign.
They smelled beer on me, so they made me blow a breathalizer. I had been drinking eight hours prior, but somehow managed to blow a 0.00.
They bagged me and transported me up to the fourth floor, the surgery floor. After the insertion of that HUGE FUCKING SYRINGE, my elbow was hurting quite a bit. "On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst, how would you rate your pain?" (A question I have been asked about every two hours for the past fifty-six hours). They gave me a couple of Vicodin, which I swallowed with great doubt in my mind.
They started me on some hardcore anti-biotics via my IV. I should mention that the ER nurse put the IV right in the crook of my right arm, so that it hurt like hell to bend my arm at all. So then I couldn't use either arm. Fucking great.
After a few hours of lying there, helpless, the doctor okayed some Percosets, and said if they didn't do the trick, that if the pain was that bad, that he was taking me into surgery immediately, because that would mean that there were other issues other than the infection. Thankfully, they did the trick. So I stayed stoned the whole time, two Percosets every four hours until I was discharged.
The surgeon came in every few hours and jabbed the HUGE FUCKING SYRINGE into my elbow joint to see if any fluid was accumilating from the previous invasive entry of the HUGE FUCKING SYRINGE. Finally, Friday night he said enough, and wanted to see how my elbow healed from the inflammation of having a HUGE FUCKING SYRINGE jabbed into it several times.
They had my elbow in traction and elevated the whole time I was in, so I maybe got like three hours of sleep total the whole weekend. Bag after bag of anti-biotics. Friday night, everytime I fell asleep, I would bend my right arm, pinching off the IV tube in my vein, thus setting the alarm on the IV machine off, and a nurse would come in and would tell me to straighten my arm out and reset the machine.
After bitching and yelling at one nurse, I finally got them to put another IV in on the back of my hand, which was way more tolerable. None of the nurses knew what to make of me. I seemed impervious to the pain, but whenever they asked me to rate my pain on the 1-10 scale, I always answered "six" and kept close track of every four hours, when I knew I could get a couple more Percoset. That and they found my tattoos fascinating. And the lab techs were in awe at my unflinching attitude to getting blood drawn, even when they couldn't find a vein. It was just that HUGE FUCKING SYRINGE that I had the problem with.
The surgeon came in Saturday, took one quick glance at my elbow and told me that I had to stay at the very least another day. He said that if the infection didn't start clearing up, he would have to open up my elbow and clean it out with a scalpel. Not cool.
So I just layed there and watched cable TV the whole time, stoned on Percosets. The food wasn't too bad, though it was hard to eat with one hand (even harder before they relocated my IV, I just didn't eat). The nurses were pretty nice, they would get me whatever I asked for (water, Pepsi, Percosets, Nicotine patches, crackers).
Since I was in traction, I had to piss into a jug (at least they didn't give a catheter) and then they would have to empty it out. That was sort of weird, a few of the nurses were young and cute and the idea of them having to dump my piss out kind of gave me a dominatrix complex).
I watched a bunch of movies on cable TV. Napolean Dynamite was actually pretty funny. I watched a few Clint Eastwood movies, and The Road Warrior. When I watched the Road Warrior at three o'clock Saturday morning, the nurse came in and said I had to turn it down, which I found funny, but then again I was stoned on Percosets.
Wendy and Chris and Sarah came and visisted me on Friday afternoon, and Whalen and Crystal and the kids came and visited me on Saturday. They brought me a balloon that they wrote on that said "Sorry to hear about your Genital Herpes" which the nurses found quite amusing. Thanks, guys.
I started getting pretty depressed Saturday night, because my girl didn't come visit me and I knew she was out partying. "So just how many guys did you fuck while I was lying in the hospital?"
Today I got up, and was bummed out because my pain level was the same as Friday night and I figured that was going to mean surgery. The surgeon had said that as the infection went away, if I still had a lot of pain, then it was likely that there were other issues and that he would have to open my elbow up and see what was going on in there.
He came this morning, took one look at it and told me another day of the hardcore antibiotics. At least he didn't probe me with that HUGE FUCKING SYRINGE. Then he looked at it again, grabbed the sides of it and squeezed and asked me if that had hurt. Amazingly, it did not. He told me that he was releasing me today and putting me on oral antibiotics and Vicodin. Sweet.
So I Whalen and Crystal picked me up at noon and brought me home, after I complained enough to get one last dose of Percosets an hour before I was supposed to. My elbow is really really tender and sore, and I still can't extend my arm all of the way out, but the redness is all gone and it doesn't constantly throb in pain. As long as I don't bump it on anything, I am all good. They gave me my sling and ice pack to bring home, but I don't have any ice, and the sling is sort of funky so I am eschewing not to use them right now.
I have a script for my meds, but have no money to fill them, so I don't know what I'll do about that.
I have to go back Thursday for a follow-up, and if my shit ain't healing, back in I go to have surgery.
I am in a surreal state right now, after being stoned all weekend, in the same bed, and from all of the hardcore antibiotics. And no cigarrettes. They gave me the patch, but as much as I smoke, they should have given me three at once.
I am broke today, which sucks. I could use my meds, some smokes and a shower. (I stank like a fucking bum when I went in, and sweating all weekend in the same bed from alchohol withdraw and pain pills didn't help).
Now I get to go see what kind of mess my girl has her head in. At the very least, grab my backpack from her house and try and procure some tobacco and maybe some cash for my meds before that last dose of Percoset wears off.
I'll just have to take it easy this week, let my shit heal and see what the surgeon says on Thursday. Fun stuff.
How was your weekend?
As soon as the doctor saw my elbow, he called the Orthopedic surgeon and told him to HURRY UP AND GET DOWN THERE. Not a good sign.
Suddenly I had two doctors, the Orthopedic surgeon and several nurses fussing over me. The surgeon produced a HUGE FUCKING SYRINGE and proceeded to jab it into the elbow joint which almost got him punched the fuck out. The joint was dry, but he looked at me and told me that I wasn't going anywhere for at least a few days. He said I would be lucky if I didn't require an artificial elbow. Not a good sign.
They smelled beer on me, so they made me blow a breathalizer. I had been drinking eight hours prior, but somehow managed to blow a 0.00.
They bagged me and transported me up to the fourth floor, the surgery floor. After the insertion of that HUGE FUCKING SYRINGE, my elbow was hurting quite a bit. "On a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst, how would you rate your pain?" (A question I have been asked about every two hours for the past fifty-six hours). They gave me a couple of Vicodin, which I swallowed with great doubt in my mind.
They started me on some hardcore anti-biotics via my IV. I should mention that the ER nurse put the IV right in the crook of my right arm, so that it hurt like hell to bend my arm at all. So then I couldn't use either arm. Fucking great.
After a few hours of lying there, helpless, the doctor okayed some Percosets, and said if they didn't do the trick, that if the pain was that bad, that he was taking me into surgery immediately, because that would mean that there were other issues other than the infection. Thankfully, they did the trick. So I stayed stoned the whole time, two Percosets every four hours until I was discharged.
The surgeon came in every few hours and jabbed the HUGE FUCKING SYRINGE into my elbow joint to see if any fluid was accumilating from the previous invasive entry of the HUGE FUCKING SYRINGE. Finally, Friday night he said enough, and wanted to see how my elbow healed from the inflammation of having a HUGE FUCKING SYRINGE jabbed into it several times.
They had my elbow in traction and elevated the whole time I was in, so I maybe got like three hours of sleep total the whole weekend. Bag after bag of anti-biotics. Friday night, everytime I fell asleep, I would bend my right arm, pinching off the IV tube in my vein, thus setting the alarm on the IV machine off, and a nurse would come in and would tell me to straighten my arm out and reset the machine.
After bitching and yelling at one nurse, I finally got them to put another IV in on the back of my hand, which was way more tolerable. None of the nurses knew what to make of me. I seemed impervious to the pain, but whenever they asked me to rate my pain on the 1-10 scale, I always answered "six" and kept close track of every four hours, when I knew I could get a couple more Percoset. That and they found my tattoos fascinating. And the lab techs were in awe at my unflinching attitude to getting blood drawn, even when they couldn't find a vein. It was just that HUGE FUCKING SYRINGE that I had the problem with.
The surgeon came in Saturday, took one quick glance at my elbow and told me that I had to stay at the very least another day. He said that if the infection didn't start clearing up, he would have to open up my elbow and clean it out with a scalpel. Not cool.
So I just layed there and watched cable TV the whole time, stoned on Percosets. The food wasn't too bad, though it was hard to eat with one hand (even harder before they relocated my IV, I just didn't eat). The nurses were pretty nice, they would get me whatever I asked for (water, Pepsi, Percosets, Nicotine patches, crackers).
Since I was in traction, I had to piss into a jug (at least they didn't give a catheter) and then they would have to empty it out. That was sort of weird, a few of the nurses were young and cute and the idea of them having to dump my piss out kind of gave me a dominatrix complex).
I watched a bunch of movies on cable TV. Napolean Dynamite was actually pretty funny. I watched a few Clint Eastwood movies, and The Road Warrior. When I watched the Road Warrior at three o'clock Saturday morning, the nurse came in and said I had to turn it down, which I found funny, but then again I was stoned on Percosets.
Wendy and Chris and Sarah came and visisted me on Friday afternoon, and Whalen and Crystal and the kids came and visited me on Saturday. They brought me a balloon that they wrote on that said "Sorry to hear about your Genital Herpes" which the nurses found quite amusing. Thanks, guys.
I started getting pretty depressed Saturday night, because my girl didn't come visit me and I knew she was out partying. "So just how many guys did you fuck while I was lying in the hospital?"
Today I got up, and was bummed out because my pain level was the same as Friday night and I figured that was going to mean surgery. The surgeon had said that as the infection went away, if I still had a lot of pain, then it was likely that there were other issues and that he would have to open my elbow up and see what was going on in there.
He came this morning, took one look at it and told me another day of the hardcore antibiotics. At least he didn't probe me with that HUGE FUCKING SYRINGE. Then he looked at it again, grabbed the sides of it and squeezed and asked me if that had hurt. Amazingly, it did not. He told me that he was releasing me today and putting me on oral antibiotics and Vicodin. Sweet.
So I Whalen and Crystal picked me up at noon and brought me home, after I complained enough to get one last dose of Percosets an hour before I was supposed to. My elbow is really really tender and sore, and I still can't extend my arm all of the way out, but the redness is all gone and it doesn't constantly throb in pain. As long as I don't bump it on anything, I am all good. They gave me my sling and ice pack to bring home, but I don't have any ice, and the sling is sort of funky so I am eschewing not to use them right now.
I have a script for my meds, but have no money to fill them, so I don't know what I'll do about that.
I have to go back Thursday for a follow-up, and if my shit ain't healing, back in I go to have surgery.
I am in a surreal state right now, after being stoned all weekend, in the same bed, and from all of the hardcore antibiotics. And no cigarrettes. They gave me the patch, but as much as I smoke, they should have given me three at once.
I am broke today, which sucks. I could use my meds, some smokes and a shower. (I stank like a fucking bum when I went in, and sweating all weekend in the same bed from alchohol withdraw and pain pills didn't help).
Now I get to go see what kind of mess my girl has her head in. At the very least, grab my backpack from her house and try and procure some tobacco and maybe some cash for my meds before that last dose of Percoset wears off.
I'll just have to take it easy this week, let my shit heal and see what the surgeon says on Thursday. Fun stuff.
How was your weekend?
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
The Glimmer Twins
After drinking since Friday morning with no sleep, on Saturday morning Pete the Poacher and I decided it would be funny to pick up this couch that Rock and Roll John was sleeping on and toss him off of it, again. So we did and John bounced off of the corner of the coffee table and landed face down. A pool of blood formed quickly. I thought we had fucking killed him. We rolled him over and there was a large gash above his eye. He was pretty wasted so he just kind of laid there and moaned, which was a good sign. I compressed the wound and we got him back up on the couch. After some discussion and general freaking out, Pete went and found some super glue and we glued the gash shut. It would have taken at least four stitches to close it. We almost glued his eyelid shut. Later on, I butterflyed it. I'm good at DIY injury treatment. John slept the rest of the day. I kept waking him up and checking on him every forty-five minutes or so, in the event of a concussion. He woke up that night, where we proceeded to a hobo party down the street by the tracks. We had a good time unitl I decided to try and kick a piece of wood in half for the fire. I didn't think to consider it a bad idea, considering the fact that I was wearing Converse and that I had already broken my foot in two places a few years ago. As soon as my foot contacted the wood I knew I was in trouble. The pain was unbearable. I instantly had a meltdown. Now they call us The Glimmer Twins.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Did I Mention that I Love Bacon?
BACON CHOCOLATE-CHIP COOKIES WITH MAPLE-CINNAMON GLAZE
¾ cup butter, softened
2/3 cup packed brown sugar
2/3 cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon hazelnut or ½ teaspoon almond extract
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
2 eggs
2 ½ cups flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
1 cup white chocolate chips
1 cup dark or semisweet chocolate chips
2 cups crumbled cooked bacon (about 2 pounds), plus another ½ pound of cooked strips (divided use)
Maple-Cinnamon Glaze (recipe follows)
In a large bowl, beat together the butter, sugars, extracts and eggs until creamy. In another bowl, sift together the dry ingredients. Add the dry ingredients to the butter mixture and stir together.
Dough will be slightly soft. If you want a more cakelike cookie, add another 1/2 cup of flour. Mix in chocolate chips and crumbled bacon. Stir until well integrated.
Place dough on a sheet of wax paper and refrigerate at least 1 hour.
Preheat oven to 350 F.
Remove dough from fridge. Pinch off 1 ½ -inch pieces and roll into balls. Set dough balls about 2 inches apart on an ungreased cookie sheet. Flatten dough balls in the center slightly with your fingers. Bake about 10 minutes, or until the dough starts to turn golden brown. Allow cookies to cool on a cooling rack while you make the glaze.
Spread a small amount of glaze on top of each cookie and top with a small piece (1 to 1 ½ inches) of crisp bacon. Makes 3 dozen cookies.
Maple-Cinnamon Glaze: Mix 2 cups powdered sugar, 1 tablespoon maple extract, 1 teaspoon vanilla extract and ½ teaspoon cinnamon with enough water to make a thick glaze, about 3 tablespoons. Mix all ingredients together until smooth and creamy. If lumpy, use a whisk.
SOURCE: Adapted from neverbashfulwithbutter.blogspot.com
¾ cup butter, softened
2/3 cup packed brown sugar
2/3 cup granulated sugar
1 teaspoon hazelnut or ½ teaspoon almond extract
½ teaspoon vanilla extract
2 eggs
2 ½ cups flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
1 cup white chocolate chips
1 cup dark or semisweet chocolate chips
2 cups crumbled cooked bacon (about 2 pounds), plus another ½ pound of cooked strips (divided use)
Maple-Cinnamon Glaze (recipe follows)
In a large bowl, beat together the butter, sugars, extracts and eggs until creamy. In another bowl, sift together the dry ingredients. Add the dry ingredients to the butter mixture and stir together.
Dough will be slightly soft. If you want a more cakelike cookie, add another 1/2 cup of flour. Mix in chocolate chips and crumbled bacon. Stir until well integrated.
Place dough on a sheet of wax paper and refrigerate at least 1 hour.
Preheat oven to 350 F.
Remove dough from fridge. Pinch off 1 ½ -inch pieces and roll into balls. Set dough balls about 2 inches apart on an ungreased cookie sheet. Flatten dough balls in the center slightly with your fingers. Bake about 10 minutes, or until the dough starts to turn golden brown. Allow cookies to cool on a cooling rack while you make the glaze.
Spread a small amount of glaze on top of each cookie and top with a small piece (1 to 1 ½ inches) of crisp bacon. Makes 3 dozen cookies.
Maple-Cinnamon Glaze: Mix 2 cups powdered sugar, 1 tablespoon maple extract, 1 teaspoon vanilla extract and ½ teaspoon cinnamon with enough water to make a thick glaze, about 3 tablespoons. Mix all ingredients together until smooth and creamy. If lumpy, use a whisk.
SOURCE: Adapted from neverbashfulwithbutter.blogspot.com
Monday, September 3, 2007
Not your grandma's 'Piknik'
Not your grandma's 'Piknik'
9/3/07
One-day festival celebrates punk rock
by GARY J. KUNICH, Kenosha News
HICKORY CORNERS, Ill. - Dressed in Catholic schoolgirl plaid matching her close-shaved red hair, black fishnet stockings and combat boots, the woman with a beer bong funnel and tube draped around her neck stomped toward the front of the stage.
As the lead singer of Army of Cretins leaned back and screamed into his mike, a rush of bodies swarmed forward, slamming against each other. In seconds, the girl in plaid was clothes-lined by a guy diving from the stage.
This was no place for a Backstreet Boys reunion.
About 300 people, many setting up tents for the night, packed a farmer's field a pierced lip away from the Wisconsin state line near Antioch, Ill., for Kenosha's seventh annual Punk Piknik - and no, that's not misspelled.
The one-day punk rock festival moved far from the city limits last year after police broke up the 2005 event at the St. Therese grounds, leading to complaints of brutality on one side, and police on the other saying there were several fights and people refusing to disperse.
"It got out of hand on both ends, but some dumba---s should have left when the cops told them to leave," said Stephanie Baltes, 23, of Kenosha, as she walked toward this year's concert. "You're gonna find dumba---s everywhere. You can probably find some dumba---s in church. We're just here to have a good time."
With bands such as Republicans on Welfare, Pistofficer and Phrenology on the bill, the event exploded at noon with a fury of loud, thrashing guitars, sweaty slam-dancing fans and even a quiet Hare Krishna woman in an orange dress and scarf quietly reflecting on the day.
"No Backstreet; I think they would probably get tore up out here. You'd see a lot of beer bottles thrown," laughed Tony Rec, 21, of Racine, while he sported what he called the horror-punk look - an Elvis-like pompadour, sideburns, teardrop shades and a black and red, spiked leather Misfits vest.
The spikes, he said, were for the slam dancing. "That's so people don't get too close."
While Cretins lead singer Chris Beljaeff and his band - a bunch of self-described "fat, white guys" - played their set, his 3-year-old daughter Lily jumped up and down in the audience with her grandparents, Al and Lily Beljaeff.
"We're here as a family, and we're having a good time," said Al Beljaeff, while pointing to his son on stage. "I think it's great. It's a good outlet for my son from his corporation job. I'm not going to tell you what that job is because I have a corporation job, too.
"I think they need to have this in the city at the band shell. I mean, give these guys a break. Country Thunder was probably a lot worse than this."
In the middle of the sort-of controlled chaos and kids with mohawks spiked as high as some of the nearby corn stalks, a barefoot Lisa Loring, 40, kneeled serenely in the grass and listened to the music. She didn't exactly cut the classic punk rock picture.
"We come from all walks of life," she smiled. "I've been a punk for 25 years. I started out as a middle-class Catholic girl, and now I'm a hard-core Hare Krishna. My son and his friends are out here. I can keep an eye on them. I no longer live the lifestyle, but I understand it."
Completing the "punk-but-a-mom" image, Loring busied herself picking up empty beer cans and throwing them away in a nearby garbage can.
A place like this is not for the timid, and might look pretty rough to the uninitiated, with people such as David "Moon" Strassberg throwing himself into the crowd and tumbling out of the mix with a river of blood trickling from his knee.
The 43-year-old punk rocker with black mascara, an orange mohawk and tattoos of Marilyn Monroe and Betty Boop intermingling with skulls and skeletons, said it's more helpful than harmful.
"Does it hurt?" he asked of his wounded knee. "Yeah, it hurts. But it hurts in a good way. I've been doing this for 25 years. I keep coming back 'cause it's real. It's the music. It's like our therapy. We don't have to go to therapists because the music is our therapy."
A few minutes later he was back in the pit, then taking a swig of Jaegermeister. And a few minutes after that he was asleep in the shade in a hammock after a friend patched up his bloody knee.
"Moon likes to have a little fun early, but we got him out of the way so he doesn't get hurt," said event organizer Frank Lenfesty. "It's all about unity, and we really do look out for one another out here so nobody gets hurt."
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Waxing With Chinaski
Finally, a little scratch in my pocket.
I stop at the corner tap for a respite. I couldn't see sitting inside these four walls immediately after work.
It's okay. It feels nice. Hello, old friends. Hello, corner stool. Hello regulars. They have my ashtray stored and awaiting my return. I don't even have to order, the bartender remembers. It's nice.
The thing about money is that there's always too much or not enough. I think some asshole wrote something about it a long time ago.
The ball game is on the television. Someone is even playing decent music on the jukebox for a change. The songs that I would have picked. My team is winning, and there's not much chance of the opposing team catching up. Such are things that make life livable. Or at least seemingly so.
And then she walks in. With a friend.
A solid country girl. I can tell the type just by studying her for fifteen seconds. Raised by rednecks, but she doesn't want that life. She knows what I know, which isn't much, but is still enough to get by without getting choked out. An air of practicality and starkness floating just beneath the survivalist front. Real. Fun-loving. Beautiful.
We play eye games for a few minutes across the bar. Her friend slides over a seat and motions me down. I pick up my drink and saunter down.
I could have stared into her eyes for an eternity and been content with life forever. She speaks. I laugh. I don't remember what she said but it was perfect. She is witty, too. Things are looking really up all of a sudden.
And then I freeze up. I can't find the words that I want. I can't find anything. I'm not drunk. I'm not high. I'm just me. Just another scumbag loose in the freak kingdom. Nothing.
I have been playing this rock and roll card for along time. Suddenly, it feels like I have a losing hand.
I try to think of things to say. Anything. Any normal thing that would create a semblance of conversation. I draw a blank. I have heard it all before. I have said it all before. I stare at the ball game on the television. I freeze.
I spend the last of my scratch buying us shots of bourbon. I make inane jokes about the enviroment of the pub. It's not what I want to say.
My chest starts slamming. Not now, please, not now.
Too late. Anxiety attack.
I focus on my drink and tell myself over and over that I am okay, that the room isn't going to implode. Everything right flashed through my head at a million miles per hour. Everything wrong looms large in my head like an oozing popsicle dropped on a hot Arizona Safeway parking lot. I hear someone crying. It's me.
Of course, the girl is not impressed. I make a joke about how I am betting against the winning team. My life savings, I say.
I get up and walk out of the bar onto the street. There is a cop busting a guy for a few dollars worth of bad gear.
I light a cigarette and look back into the bar. Some other guy is sitting where I was, lighting her cigarette.
I walk home and am now writing this.
There are ups and there are downs, and here is to hoping life always finds you up, my friend.
I stop at the corner tap for a respite. I couldn't see sitting inside these four walls immediately after work.
It's okay. It feels nice. Hello, old friends. Hello, corner stool. Hello regulars. They have my ashtray stored and awaiting my return. I don't even have to order, the bartender remembers. It's nice.
The thing about money is that there's always too much or not enough. I think some asshole wrote something about it a long time ago.
The ball game is on the television. Someone is even playing decent music on the jukebox for a change. The songs that I would have picked. My team is winning, and there's not much chance of the opposing team catching up. Such are things that make life livable. Or at least seemingly so.
And then she walks in. With a friend.
A solid country girl. I can tell the type just by studying her for fifteen seconds. Raised by rednecks, but she doesn't want that life. She knows what I know, which isn't much, but is still enough to get by without getting choked out. An air of practicality and starkness floating just beneath the survivalist front. Real. Fun-loving. Beautiful.
We play eye games for a few minutes across the bar. Her friend slides over a seat and motions me down. I pick up my drink and saunter down.
I could have stared into her eyes for an eternity and been content with life forever. She speaks. I laugh. I don't remember what she said but it was perfect. She is witty, too. Things are looking really up all of a sudden.
And then I freeze up. I can't find the words that I want. I can't find anything. I'm not drunk. I'm not high. I'm just me. Just another scumbag loose in the freak kingdom. Nothing.
I have been playing this rock and roll card for along time. Suddenly, it feels like I have a losing hand.
I try to think of things to say. Anything. Any normal thing that would create a semblance of conversation. I draw a blank. I have heard it all before. I have said it all before. I stare at the ball game on the television. I freeze.
I spend the last of my scratch buying us shots of bourbon. I make inane jokes about the enviroment of the pub. It's not what I want to say.
My chest starts slamming. Not now, please, not now.
Too late. Anxiety attack.
I focus on my drink and tell myself over and over that I am okay, that the room isn't going to implode. Everything right flashed through my head at a million miles per hour. Everything wrong looms large in my head like an oozing popsicle dropped on a hot Arizona Safeway parking lot. I hear someone crying. It's me.
Of course, the girl is not impressed. I make a joke about how I am betting against the winning team. My life savings, I say.
I get up and walk out of the bar onto the street. There is a cop busting a guy for a few dollars worth of bad gear.
I light a cigarette and look back into the bar. Some other guy is sitting where I was, lighting her cigarette.
I walk home and am now writing this.
There are ups and there are downs, and here is to hoping life always finds you up, my friend.
Monday, April 9, 2007
Bacon!
I love bacon. It rocks. I think the pre-cooked microwavable Oscar Meyer bacon is best thing since Wonder Bread. Oh, and how I love bacon wrapped shrimp!
These bacon sandwiches are tasty as well:
- 1 sliced glazed Krispy Kreme doughnut sliced in half
- 5-6 slices of Crispy bacon
- 1 slice of Pepper Jack cheese
- Tobasco
bacon
Friday, April 6, 2007
10-96 Tour 6-12-1996
From my 10-96 Tour Diary, that I am trying to piece together from my archives. This entry is about our trip to Graceland and our date in Nashville, where we were also asked to play an impromptu set at the World Famous Tootsies. Pictured is our questionable tour vehicle.
June 12th, 1996
Whew... amazing past twenty four hours.... punk rock plays amazing games in the hand of fate...
Went into Memphis yesterday morning and stumbled upon Beale St right away and took a quick spin up and down it observing the locals, and then made our way to GRACELAND.... twenty bucks to tour a dead guys' house- way to go Elvis. The tour was entertaining enough, they give you a walkman, headphones and a cassette and you kind of take an audio tour seemingly alone, even though you're in a group. It was kind of creepy, I think they do it because it keeps people quiet.
I wish I could have seen the throne upon which the King died, I wanted to masturbate on it, but we only got to see the commons of the house. The trophy room was huge, they had a bunch of weird stuff like TV sets that Elvis would shoot for target practice inside the house and stuff. I farted in Elvis' backyard. I collected some dirt from Elvis' grave, some day I will ingest it and see what happens...
I insisted that we tour the automobile museum, which was interesting for the other guys but was my favorite, being the motorhead that I am. I had a chance to steal Elvis' original Shell Credit Card but karma persuaded me not to. I wanted to purchase a pair of those wicked silver shades with the holes in the sides from the gift shop but I didn't have the twenty-eight dollars.
We headed back into Memphis to take a walk on Beale St. Most of the blues bars were closed, but we did have lunch in one (four beers and four "Bluesburgers, please!") and we had a beer in BB KING'S bar. I demanded to speak to the owner, but the bartender just ignored me.
We headed out for Nashville, heading down the "Music Highway," and I thought the transmission was going to take a shit for sure due to the stress of driving through all of those mountain hills. There were enough road construction distractions to receive another lesson on Moon's theory of "Orange Construction Barrels Inheriting the World."
We got into Nashville around five or so and I located the IndieNet (1707 Church Street) on a tourist map of the city, and we found the place without too much difficulty. It's a record store in the front of a building with a big room with a stage in back; too bad we weren't playing at an actual punk show, I believe only three punk kids were there, but that's later on in the night. We unloaded what was left of the gear and went for a ride, me driving.
Traffic was brutal and we ended up driving through some sort of downtown festival, wicked stress. But I now understand the reasoning behind the band name "NASHVILLE PUSSY," there were beautiful girls every twenty feet in every direction.
The guys wanted to find this bar that they had went to back on the 1986 tour, the Infamous Tootsies' Bar and Grill, which Dean insisted was very cool and a must-see, so we drove around town trying to find it and then Dean remembered that it was directly behind The Ryman Auditoruim, which rendered finding it much easier. Patsy Cline and Hank Williams, among others, would play at the Ryman and then hangout at Tootsies after the show, arriving through the alleyway back in the day.
We finally found the place and obtained a parking spot in the alley behind the Ryman (the sigb said "Artist's Only and, well, we're Artist's, right?) and went around and inside the front door which, is smack-dab on the hillbilly-tourist-strip. We crowded up to the bar, and waited ten minutes watching a young, hillbilly-country cover band before the ancient bar-hag told us that she would not serve us because we were wearing 'tank-tops' (I think it was a subtle attempt at labeling us as scum-fucks) so we left. (Actually, I think it had more to do with Moon and my huge 12-inch-plus mohawks and the fact that we had some gnarly tour-rash going on).
We walked around back to the alley near where we had parked and decided to just settle for the first bar we came to because we were stressed out and needed a beer pronto, so we walked into first door we came to. There were four or five "good ole boys" sitting at a bar and they looked us over and started laughing at us, "Are you all in a rock band, or somethin'?" and goofing on our hair and everything and then Dean started talking to them and we're looking around the place and realized that we were still in Tootsies. We had entered the back room, which, like the front half, was complete with a stage and full bar. History had smacked us in the face.
The guy that Dean was mainly talking to turned out to be the owner of the bar and after Dean explained what had happened out front with the barhag the owner said, "Oh. that ole bitch? We been tryin' to get rid of her for years! You beys need a beer? Hey, Earl, go and fetch these fellas a beer, will ya?" We stood there talking with them for awhile, the owner must have bought us four or five rounds. He told us a lot about the history of the bar, which had pictures of EVERY country star imaginable, many of them autographed. It turned out that Tootsie's is one of the oldest bars in Nashville, and everyone that was anyone had hung out there at one time or another.
After awhile the conversation turned onto the fact that we we're a punk band, and the owner seems interested in us and and asks us if we could play a song for him. We weren't really up for it, as we still had to be at the IndieNet, and the guy was like, "You mean I just bought you boys all them beers and you won't play a little ole song for us?" in this threatening tone, it was directly like right out of Deliverance. So we agreed and he told Earl to go and get the band out front off of the stage so that we could play. He told us that we could use all of their gear, and after a few minutes he had us introduced and we walked out front and proceeded to the stage.
The look on the old bar-hags face was worth a million bucks; her jaw dropped and her eyes bulged out when she saw us saunter down the stairs and across the front bar full of tourists to the stage, which is placed in the front windows of the bar, directly beside the front door. The other band that was playing reluctantly handed us their instruments, and I felt sort of sorry for them as we decided to play "Folsom Prison Blues" ala 10-96 style. The crowd, that was consisted of mostly tourists were speechless as we stood there and started. Dean dedicated the song to Patsy and Johnny, and Joe had a really clean guitar sound for change(a Telecaster, what else?) which made us sound more like a hellbilly band than an old school hardcore band. The looks on everyone's faces were astonishing: you could see fear and even horror on some, morphing into relief and fun on the rest.
A sizable crowd had formed on the sidewalk, watching us through the window, pointing and laughing at the funny punk rockers playing country. We finished to a more than polite applause and decided to quit while we were ahead so we left the stage and returned to the backroom. The owner was as pleased as anyone and was laughing and having a 'good ole time.' He paid a roving tourist photographer to take our picture and said he would hang it in the bar on the wall with the rest of the pictures and told us that we should come back sometime when we could play a whole set.
We found our way back to the IndieNet to discover that we had fifteen minutes to stage time, so we set up what was left of the gear. We played with HIPSTER DADDIOS THE HAND GRENADES, DIMPLES MALONE and one other band that also wasn't punk. HIPSTER was a full-piece swing band, the new wave of neo-swing/jazz. When we got up and played, everyone left to go stand out front and smoke, except for three fourteen-year old punk kids.
I never understood clubs that insist on no-smoking policies. The sound was horrible, but we knocked out a decent set and I just found out from the flier that the show was broadcast on the web, live. They wouldn't let us drink beer, so we took a bunch of the swing bands' bottled water to help fight the heat from the stage lights, which were way too bright We finished the set to some sarcastic remarks and sincere disgust. Sometimes it's more fun to play to a crowd that hates you than it is to a crowd that likes you. Thanks to the three kids who danced and generally helped piss everyone off even more.
After the set we went to the bar next door, which turned out to be a queer bar. Dean freaked out as I openly used the word "queer" as if I was offending folks, he couldn't understand that queer people know they're queer. As long as you hold respect for them, they generally don't mind if you refer to their queerness. We drank a bit and loaded up and decided to head back downtown to Tootsies.
We walked in and ordered some beers, once again much to the dismay of the bar-wench. The owner had left but his brother was still there and he bought us a few rounds. Dean tried to convince the bar-wench into trading a Tootsie's shirt for a 10-96 shirt, but she wasn't going for it. We ended up going to the bar next door, drinking with some local girls while still letting the brother buy our drinks. There was a band playing there, also, with a female singer who was sexy as all hell. She drank with us for a bit, between sets.
We ended up getting loaded and decided to move on out, and we drove through the city to a motel on the outskirts of town. I don't remember actually driving to the motel and checking in, but that's where we woke up this morning before driving here to Knoxville. Now I am sitting outside this club writing this. The show isn't for a few hours.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
CONEY DOG!!!!!!
I am from Flint, Michigan..... the home of the best thing to eat on the planet... The Original Flint-style Coney Island Hot Dog, or as us Flint-ites call them, a "Coney Dog" or just "Coney...."
This is no ordinary hot dog.... it is a Koegel's vienna (has to be a Koegel's to be correct), topped with a meat sauce, which is made from a special recipe. Not chili, but a MEAT SAUCE..... diced onions are optional, but in my opinion, it's not correct unless it has the diced (almost minced) fresh onions on them as well..... I also elect to condimentate mine with either yellow mustard or sometimes a little Tobasco sauce.....
One cannot really consume a Coney with one's hands, rather you need to use a fork to eat these culinary delights....
Someone made a Coney Dog Profile on Myspace though they talk of those evil so-called "Coney Dogs" from Detroit that are not nearky as good as the original Flint style.
In my opinion, while there are several "Coney Island Restaurants" around the Flint area that serve up a good Coney Dog, Angelo's Coney Island has the best in town. Sadly, I have recently discovered that the orignal owners have sold the place (the restaurant on Franklin and Davidson) and the new owners have really changed the place and created a franchise.... So I don't know if the Dogs are the same or not, but if my memory serves correct, The Atlas, The Capital, and Venus are all fine Coney Island restaurants.....
(In particular, the Venus was a regular haunt of mine for years, I also really miss those 'Venus Rings' onion rings, I remember turning Mike Fickies onto them, and upon leaving after his first visit, he thought he was going to have a heart attack for sure.... he said that he could feel the grease clogging up his arteries.... indeed, when I left the Venus after a plate of Coneys and a side of rings, it felt akin to doing a cheap ten-dollar bag of northside scag).
Word has it on the web that Tom Z's downtown on Court Street has the best in town now, but I haven't been there for ages.....
Angelo's Coney Island on Davidson Road... I don't who took the picture, I found it on Google.....
Here is a listing of all the Flint Area Coney Island Restaraunts
I remember many nights in Flint where we would goto a Coney Island Restaraunt after a night of drinking and/or attending a hall show to chow down a few Coneys at four in the morning..... We wouldn't consider it a "real" Coney Island unless it was open 24 hours, though the original Angelo's on Davidson Road was forced to close for an hour every night by the health department "to clean," though I suspect it had more to do with the rowdiness of the customers at Four in the morning than it did the sanitation....
I found this on a blog using Google, and I couldn't have said it much better myself, so I am quoting it..... some girl named Erica posted it on Librarian Avengers....
"From the 1970's on, Flint's Angelo's Coney Island restaurant was a meeting-place of cultures. On a given night you could see rich old women in furs, bikers, prostitutes, gang members, suburb punk rockers (the quasi-urban angst!), and the mayor eating side-by side in its red vinyl benches. The waitresses coughed a lot and if you were really nice, you might get a tobacco-stained smile. They were open 24 hours, every day except Christmas, until the health department made them close for an hour every night to clean. There were fights in the parking lot. You could get fries with gravy. The signs, menu and prices hadn't changed for 30 years."
What was the attraction? The unchanging ambiance and the coneys. Ah, the coneys. A coney dog, dear reader who wasn't fortunate enough to be born in Flint, is a Koegel's hot dog (made with real innards!) with a dry spicy meat sauce, finely chopped raw onions, and mustard. Eat it. It's good. Get two, you might as well."
There are two genres of Coney dogs: Flint-style and Detroit-style. Detroit-style is all runny and nasty, just a dog with chili on top. Flint-style on the other hand, is coney perfection. These days, the original ones can be found at Tom Z's coney island downtown. Accept no substitutes."
When GM has a strike, Flint women cook up sauce in a crock pot, chop up onions, and deliver coneys to the picket line. Flint kids go to Angelo's before prom, carefully lifting their ballgowns off the floor."
A few years ago, Angelo's was sold. The new owners fired the coughing waitresses, dressed up the new ones in "Angelo's" t-shirts, took down the old yellow menus, raised prices, franchised the place, changed the food, and generally fucked everything up."
Fortunately, the Angelo's-shaped hole in the universe has ushered in a new era. During my last visit, I saw dozens of new coney places that had opened up. Flint coneys are everywhere now. I remain hopeful."
Thus endeth the tale of the Vastly Superior Flintstyle coney. Anybody has anything different to say about the quality of the Flinttown dog, then come on up here and say it. I'll fight ya. Come on. You. Right now. Flint!"
-Erica
As I said, I couldn't have said it better myself......
But since I can't always get to Flint when the urge strikes, or when I am finished drinking at the pub, it is entirely possible to recreate a close assimilation of the original in my very own kitchen..... just remember, don't try this with anything except Koegel's Viennas..... though I have, with a local Wisconin brand vienna, and while it usually cures the craving, it is not the same.....
Original Flint, Michigan Coney Island Hot Dog Sauce
Combine all except hot dogs and simmer until thick. Grind the hot dogs [or chop in food processor], stir in and cook 15 min longer. (I usually let it slow-simmer for around an hour). You can freeze the sauce for use later, or refrigerate it for a day or two...
Aside from being essential to a proper Coney Dog, the Koegel's brand makes an assortment of meat products, although I stay away from the 'Mac and Cheese' and 'Head Cheese.' You can buy a 10-pound box of the viennas online and have it delivered right to your door! Though they also have a "Coney" style vienna that is only available through wholesale, the regular viennas are a treat, even without the Coney Sauce..... and they work just fine for the Coney Sauce as well.....
If you really want authentic, though, Angelo's will ship a box of dogs and a GALLON of sauce right to your door!!!!!!
Though there are many inaccuracies, this is the Wikipedia definition of a Coney Dog
And here is the definition of a Coney Island Restaraunt, though it is a bit inaccurate- maybe I will edit both later.....
Selah!
This is no ordinary hot dog.... it is a Koegel's vienna (has to be a Koegel's to be correct), topped with a meat sauce, which is made from a special recipe. Not chili, but a MEAT SAUCE..... diced onions are optional, but in my opinion, it's not correct unless it has the diced (almost minced) fresh onions on them as well..... I also elect to condimentate mine with either yellow mustard or sometimes a little Tobasco sauce.....
One cannot really consume a Coney with one's hands, rather you need to use a fork to eat these culinary delights....
Someone made a Coney Dog Profile on Myspace though they talk of those evil so-called "Coney Dogs" from Detroit that are not nearky as good as the original Flint style.
In my opinion, while there are several "Coney Island Restaurants" around the Flint area that serve up a good Coney Dog, Angelo's Coney Island has the best in town. Sadly, I have recently discovered that the orignal owners have sold the place (the restaurant on Franklin and Davidson) and the new owners have really changed the place and created a franchise.... So I don't know if the Dogs are the same or not, but if my memory serves correct, The Atlas, The Capital, and Venus are all fine Coney Island restaurants.....
(In particular, the Venus was a regular haunt of mine for years, I also really miss those 'Venus Rings' onion rings, I remember turning Mike Fickies onto them, and upon leaving after his first visit, he thought he was going to have a heart attack for sure.... he said that he could feel the grease clogging up his arteries.... indeed, when I left the Venus after a plate of Coneys and a side of rings, it felt akin to doing a cheap ten-dollar bag of northside scag).
Word has it on the web that Tom Z's downtown on Court Street has the best in town now, but I haven't been there for ages.....
Angelo's Coney Island on Davidson Road... I don't who took the picture, I found it on Google.....
Here is a listing of all the Flint Area Coney Island Restaraunts
I remember many nights in Flint where we would goto a Coney Island Restaraunt after a night of drinking and/or attending a hall show to chow down a few Coneys at four in the morning..... We wouldn't consider it a "real" Coney Island unless it was open 24 hours, though the original Angelo's on Davidson Road was forced to close for an hour every night by the health department "to clean," though I suspect it had more to do with the rowdiness of the customers at Four in the morning than it did the sanitation....
I found this on a blog using Google, and I couldn't have said it much better myself, so I am quoting it..... some girl named Erica posted it on Librarian Avengers....
"From the 1970's on, Flint's Angelo's Coney Island restaurant was a meeting-place of cultures. On a given night you could see rich old women in furs, bikers, prostitutes, gang members, suburb punk rockers (the quasi-urban angst!), and the mayor eating side-by side in its red vinyl benches. The waitresses coughed a lot and if you were really nice, you might get a tobacco-stained smile. They were open 24 hours, every day except Christmas, until the health department made them close for an hour every night to clean. There were fights in the parking lot. You could get fries with gravy. The signs, menu and prices hadn't changed for 30 years."
What was the attraction? The unchanging ambiance and the coneys. Ah, the coneys. A coney dog, dear reader who wasn't fortunate enough to be born in Flint, is a Koegel's hot dog (made with real innards!) with a dry spicy meat sauce, finely chopped raw onions, and mustard. Eat it. It's good. Get two, you might as well."
There are two genres of Coney dogs: Flint-style and Detroit-style. Detroit-style is all runny and nasty, just a dog with chili on top. Flint-style on the other hand, is coney perfection. These days, the original ones can be found at Tom Z's coney island downtown. Accept no substitutes."
When GM has a strike, Flint women cook up sauce in a crock pot, chop up onions, and deliver coneys to the picket line. Flint kids go to Angelo's before prom, carefully lifting their ballgowns off the floor."
A few years ago, Angelo's was sold. The new owners fired the coughing waitresses, dressed up the new ones in "Angelo's" t-shirts, took down the old yellow menus, raised prices, franchised the place, changed the food, and generally fucked everything up."
Fortunately, the Angelo's-shaped hole in the universe has ushered in a new era. During my last visit, I saw dozens of new coney places that had opened up. Flint coneys are everywhere now. I remain hopeful."
Thus endeth the tale of the Vastly Superior Flintstyle coney. Anybody has anything different to say about the quality of the Flinttown dog, then come on up here and say it. I'll fight ya. Come on. You. Right now. Flint!"
-Erica
As I said, I couldn't have said it better myself......
But since I can't always get to Flint when the urge strikes, or when I am finished drinking at the pub, it is entirely possible to recreate a close assimilation of the original in my very own kitchen..... just remember, don't try this with anything except Koegel's Viennas..... though I have, with a local Wisconin brand vienna, and while it usually cures the craving, it is not the same.....
Original Flint, Michigan Coney Island Hot Dog Sauce
- 1TB butter1
- TB margarine
- 1-1/2 lb LEAN ground beef
- 2 medium onions minced (I will mince 4 though, and use half as a condiment)
- 1 clove garlic minced
- 3TB chile powder
- 1TB prepared mustard
- 1 (6oz) can tomato paste
- 1 (6oz) can water
- 6-8 Koegels Viennas with the casings removed
- salt and pepper to taste
Combine all except hot dogs and simmer until thick. Grind the hot dogs [or chop in food processor], stir in and cook 15 min longer. (I usually let it slow-simmer for around an hour). You can freeze the sauce for use later, or refrigerate it for a day or two...
Aside from being essential to a proper Coney Dog, the Koegel's brand makes an assortment of meat products, although I stay away from the 'Mac and Cheese' and 'Head Cheese.' You can buy a 10-pound box of the viennas online and have it delivered right to your door! Though they also have a "Coney" style vienna that is only available through wholesale, the regular viennas are a treat, even without the Coney Sauce..... and they work just fine for the Coney Sauce as well.....
If you really want authentic, though, Angelo's will ship a box of dogs and a GALLON of sauce right to your door!!!!!!
And here is the definition of a Coney Island Restaraunt, though it is a bit inaccurate- maybe I will edit both later.....
Selah!
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
the first day if the rest of your life
So I went to rehab.
I didn't think it would mean much to myself, other than reset my "get drunk" circuitry and give me a "Bert Vacation," that is, a rest from the drunkard life.... Three squares and clean sheets and a rest....
But something unexpected happened..... all that shit about life, and control, and recovery? It stuck....
So I am sorry everyone, but from now on I will be sober.....
Seriously, it DID stick.... I had a beer in my fridge when I arrived home today. I drank it. I felt sick. Physically and mentally. All that stuff about triggers they told me about? They were right.
Alot more to come, but I have won the first battle..... control.....
My vice right now, that I am imbibing in?
Grape jelly on white toast.
And I just told a guy with a case of cold beer to get lost.
I feel like a little kid on xmas..... but my present is a chance.
A chance to enjoy life for a change.
I am positive that I will be writing much more shortly, so stay tuned.
I think I have a few stories to tell.
I didn't think it would mean much to myself, other than reset my "get drunk" circuitry and give me a "Bert Vacation," that is, a rest from the drunkard life.... Three squares and clean sheets and a rest....
But something unexpected happened..... all that shit about life, and control, and recovery? It stuck....
So I am sorry everyone, but from now on I will be sober.....
Seriously, it DID stick.... I had a beer in my fridge when I arrived home today. I drank it. I felt sick. Physically and mentally. All that stuff about triggers they told me about? They were right.
Alot more to come, but I have won the first battle..... control.....
My vice right now, that I am imbibing in?
Grape jelly on white toast.
And I just told a guy with a case of cold beer to get lost.
I feel like a little kid on xmas..... but my present is a chance.
A chance to enjoy life for a change.
I am positive that I will be writing much more shortly, so stay tuned.
I think I have a few stories to tell.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Monsterbait @ Peoria
What a show that was. The FUCKED-up ice storm kept a lot of people away, but there was still about 100 people there.
Bloody was KILLER as always, and Lisa Leathers was cool as well...
Lori's basement is AWESOME, it's like a having a rental hall in your basement... she had a couple of barrels of beer for us, and as usual, everyone in Peoria were so nice, we had a GREAT time. Bloody's video guy was there and he recorded the show on some fancy gear, which he'll send us a copy of.
Actually, I was talking to the guy and he says he'll flip all of my video tapes over to DVD for me for cheap, so I will my archives have conserved, which is very fucking cool. (Then I can get them on the internets)
We rolled into town and hung out at Bloody's for a few hours. He played the new Wes Beech CD for me and gave me a bunch of CDs and stickers and stuff. He is an awesome host. It's people like him that make doing this all worthwhile.
We played well, ecspecially for playing last, we didn't get too drunk. We had a problem with the drum stool (it kept falling down to the lowest position) so Moon just grabbed a regular folding chair and placed his snare drum on it (he was using Bill's (Bloody's drummer) kit), so that he was at the right level to beat the shit out of it. I borrowed a nice Marshall half-stack, it sounded killer, I am going to have to do something about my rig, it just doesn't have the sound I like. Research time.
John did really well considering it was his second show, he's taking to the stage pretty quick. A few more shows and I think he'll have his confidence-meter pegged to the top.
Our setlist:
We're Monsterbait (and you suck)- The Meatmen
Blow Up The Embassy- Fearless Iranians From Hell
Twist Of Sexy- Danzig/Rod Stewart
Get It On- Turbonegro
Today Your Butt, Tomarrow Your Skull- The Ramones
Bite It You Scum- GG Allin/Kiss/The Anti-Heros
I Think You're Shit- 10-96/The Fuck Ups
Fuck You- 10-96
Born To Kill- The Damned
I Want You Now- MC5
Cop Killer- Ice T with Bodycount
I re-learned/remembered a lot of the basics about performing, hahaha.... it had been awhile since I have played out (I don't really count the show in Kenosha).... but we'll rectify that next time....
The drive home was FUCKED UP, it took us six hours.... Josh had ny nerves SHOT by the time we got home and I yelled at Mooch upon arrival..... time for a shower and some sleep (did I even sleep last night? I don't remember)
All-in-all, the show was a success..... next up, Milwaukee and Madison.....
Saturday, February 24, 2007
food, yawn. pizza, schwing
That's one of the few good things I can say about SE Wisconsin, we have a MEAN pizza style here...... the mom-and-pop places, HOLY PIZZA! There are a few places that I would put up there with Latinas..... Pizza is one of my four food groups, I usually order one on Monday or Tuesday and still have pizza on Friday night after I stagger home from the corner pub. As a matter of fact, guess what I am gnawing on right now?
The thing I still find peculiar, after living here near ten years, is how they cut the pizza here. They cut it into squares, rather than slices...... even the Chains do it.... I always have to ask to have it cut it into slices.....
And Chicago is only 40 minutes away, I am a huge fan of the authentic Chicago-style deep dish pie. I have been know to abuse myself with funny cigarettes and jump in the car and drive down to Evanston just to pick up a pie. If I call it in right when I leave and traffic isn't too horrible, I can sometimes get there before it comes out of the oven.
Other than that, the Wisconsin food blows. Bland cheddar cheese and grey, greasy bratwursts. There's only one bar in town where I can get a good beer AND a good burger...... and they won't serve me on Sundays anymore.......
The thing I still find peculiar, after living here near ten years, is how they cut the pizza here. They cut it into squares, rather than slices...... even the Chains do it.... I always have to ask to have it cut it into slices.....
And Chicago is only 40 minutes away, I am a huge fan of the authentic Chicago-style deep dish pie. I have been know to abuse myself with funny cigarettes and jump in the car and drive down to Evanston just to pick up a pie. If I call it in right when I leave and traffic isn't too horrible, I can sometimes get there before it comes out of the oven.
Other than that, the Wisconsin food blows. Bland cheddar cheese and grey, greasy bratwursts. There's only one bar in town where I can get a good beer AND a good burger...... and they won't serve me on Sundays anymore.......
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