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.

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

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."

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.

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

mmmmmmmmmm bacon!










bacon

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.

Asshat 201

This is my first, uh, vlog......

Enjoy.