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I am bleary-eyed with fatigue. I have bad gas. My ears are bleeding a little bit. On the whole, not terribly different from most days. The only difference today is that these symptoms are a result of having my head ripped off by Nine Inch Nails at Blossom Music Center last night. Having spent many years in radio, I learned that among musicians and their crews, Blossom is considered to be the Taj Mahal (literally translated: “beautiful Mahal”) of outdoor concert venues. The same goes for concertgoers themselves. I don’t think I’ve ever been to a show there that wasn’t simply exquisite. Finding your car, on the other hand, is simply excruciating. And thus, the universe is in balance.

The night began with a really entertaining performance by Peaches, who reminded me of a cross between Pat Benatar (who Butt-Head of Beavis and Butt-Head fame famously refers to as “Pat Nebatar”) and KMFDM’s Lucia Cifarelli. It was a winning combination. She ended the night with “Fuck the Pain Away,” the sex anthem heard during the squirming stripper bar scene in Lost in Translation. (”Suckin’ on my titties like you wanted me / Callin’ me all the time like Blondie / Check out my Chrissy behind / It’s fine all of the time…”)

Peter Murphy managed to get Bauhaus back together for another gothic on-stage throw-down. I was never a huge fan of the guy, but I will say this-he was thoroughly entertaining. He’s still got it.

And finally, NIN came out and tore out my soul, anally violated it with a nightstick, and re-inserted it upside-down. I won’t go into great detail, but suffice to say it was un-fucking-believable. NIN puts on one of the sexiest, most violent and most cathartic shows I’ve ever seen.

Something was missing, though. Where was the maniac spilling cheap beer down my back from dual plastic cups, one in each hand, as he tries to squeeze between me and my guest like a calf exiting the birth canal? Where was the moron that sits directly in front of me, bobbing his head and pumping his fist in a fashion that suggests this is the first time he has ever heard music, and boy is it swell? Where was the comedian who bellows the immortal ‘Play some Skynyrd!’? In short: where was my FOC?

A FOC is a Fucking Obnoxious Concertgoer. This particular performance seemed to violate all the natural laws of rock concerts that I’ve ever known, as I’ve endured at least one FOC, but almost always more, at literally every other concert I have ever attended. FOCs come in all shapes and sizes, including:

The Validator – the FOC standing in front of you who, every 30 seconds, turns around and looks at you with a face that says, “Wow, you guys! Isn’t this the best concert ever?!” This is usually augmented with wild gesticulation.

The Requester - the FOC that shouts out the title of some obscure B-side by the performing act 5-10 times between each song, as if (a) the band could actually discern their shout over the rest of the crowd noise, and (b) they actually give a shit. This FOC is unaware of the existence of set lists.

The Drinker – this FOC leaves their seat or standing position every 15 minutes to get another beer. They take no joy in watching and listening to the band perform, but instead in paying $50 to drink $9 beer that would cost them $2 anywhere else in the known universe.

The Rocker – the FOC who pumps his fist so hard to each tune that his entire frame jerks forward, which nearly knocks him over. Almost always male. Fist often augmented with the devil sign.

The Singer – the FOC who clearly only knows the words to the band’s few hit singles and sings them with much gusto – often in a different key, but typically in no key at all.

The Screamer – the FOC who lets loose a horrendous “WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” every time a song gets soft or ends, delivered with enough intensity and duration to suggest their body actually contains no other organs besides lungs and one giant larynx.

The Talker – the FOC who gives not one wit about the opening act, which you happen to really like, and is insistent on carrying on an inane conversation at the maximum required volume with their concertgoing companion.

The Scholar – always male, overweight, and balding. Almost always pays for sex. This FOC can tell you the twelve countries that the drummer lived in while growing up with his single military father. He can tell you the names of the four songs on the band’s or performer’s first demo, and who did the artwork for it. He can explain, in great detail, the juxtaposition of ironies and the interplay of Dorian and Mixolydian modes on their latest EP. And he will tell you these things, and everything else he knows, at any time when the band is not playing a song.

The worst (or best) FOC I have ever seen was at a John Hiatt concert at The Cleveland Odeon in 2001. I was sitting next to an EFOC – that is, an Extraordinarily Fucking Obnoxious Concertgoer. They can also be dubbed MFOC (Multidisciplinary Fucking Obnoxious Concertgoer) as they possess ALL of the aforementioned abilities. This EFOC wanted to hear an obscure John Hiatt song called “I Have a Gun”, so, like it says in the EFOC textbook, he took to belting it out all night long. Not just between songs, but also during. Just that one song title. So, red-blooded, terrorism-fearing American that I am, I went to the door and told security, in alarmed tones, that some guy sitting next to me in the balcony kept shouting at John Hiatt that he had a gun.

How was I to know?

I spent the better part of my day and night getting to, waiting around and drinking in, and trying desperately to get out of Chicago.

It was a simple enough proposition: catch a late morning flight in, hang out in the hotel for a few hours, throw a party for a group of physicians, and catch the red-eye home. And everything went fine until the red-eye bit, although admittedly, my eyes were red.

Everyone told me: don’t fly out of O’Hare. How bad could it be? It’s Chicago to Cleveland – could that flight really be all that late?

I sat there with my thumb up my ass for five agonizing, sweat-soaked, hazy hours. Let me tell you… if you ever get really drunk and need to sober up for that drive home, fight with the wife, galactic civil war… just go spend a few minutes in “flight limbo” at O’Hare. That’ll kill your buzz right quick.

Anyway, at the airport, I kept having these waking dreams. You know the ones I’m talking about. These particular waking dreams are about severe, cartoon-like violence. I’m talking Itchy & Scratchy shit here. Sometimes they are so vivid they frighten me. They’re that breaking point in my mind’s eye where a near-boiling ire turns into a beautiful fantasy of apoplectic rage.

For instance, I saw this kid walking through the airport, maybe seven or eight years old. He was several feet in front of his family, which consisted of another younger brother and a clearly bedraggled and bleary-eyed mother and father. Every ten seconds or so he would look back and shout – shout, mind you – one of several phrases in rotation. They were:

“C’mon, you guys!”

“C’mon, everyone!”

“Let’s go!”

“Hurry!”

“Hurry! C’mon!”

What this child was on about, I’ll never know. Perhaps he knew they were going to be late for their flight. Perhaps he was tired and wanted to arrive at the gate so he could rest his weary little feet. Perhaps his parents should have drowned him in a pail of warm water immediately upon his birth.

I walked up behind the parents and scalped the mother with a Bowie knife while my finger turned into a shiny sword and stabbed into dad’s eye ala liquid metal guy in Terminator 2. I then pummeled the caterwauling child on the top of his head with my fists until his skull collapsed and then proceeded to punt his lifeless body down the terminal while singing a medley of show tunes.

C’mon. You know it’s happened to you. I should point out the following disclaimer: I just had about five rounds of Glenfiddich and was out of my mind with fatigue. And I was at fucking O’Hare, people. Ergo: I feel somewhat justified. I had plenty of other, um, “moments” like this during the remainder of my exile, but I won’t go into them here. You get the drift.

My most frequent waking dream occurs during seemingly endless moments of extreme boredom, usually during business meetings that I’m forced to attend for no good reason. During those, I usually picture myself jumping up from my chair, grabbing it and throwing it through the window and following it out and down to the ground.

Anyway, what was my point here, you ask? Like I fucking know? Don’t eat yellow snow. Don’t do drugs. Keep your hands to yourself. Don’t grow up to be like me.

You fat, turgid fuck.
You whine about climbing stairs.
Go iron your clothes.

—–

Strange, you look like a
fucking fat slob. Oh, wait. Right.
You are a fat slob.

—–

Wirey hair, bald spot.
Beady eyes, man tits and gut.
May I please kill you?

—–

I see you and gag.
I hate you so fucking much.
Die die die die die.

—–

You speak, get winded,
and lean on your desk. Must be
time for a movie.

It was the Fall of 1996. O.J. Simpson’s trial was just beginning. A little known band named Nirvana released From the Muddy Banks of the Wishkah. The Dow Jones Industrial Average closed above 6,000 for the first time ever. Banyamulenga Tutsis of Laurent Kabila in Zaire seized Uvira and proceeded to kill Hutu refugees. And love… love was in the air.

‘Twas Homecoming season for this humble high school senior. I was dating a comely young princess, the Countess Amy, heiress to an inflatable furniture manufacturing empire. My friend Allen was courting the Duchess Laura, a niggling harpy that incessantly broke his heart and blew his friends.

Homecoming is a vastly different experience for guys than it is for girls. Girls view the night as a God-given right to wear a pretty dress, spend hundreds of dollars on their hair and makeup, wear flowers on their wrists and spend the entire night dancing with their girlfriends and ignoring their dates while the poor boys squirm in their suits. Guys view it as an opportunity to get a blowjob at the after party.

However, Allen and I were not your typical guys. We really were just interested in having a good time (and no, not that “hey sailor” sort of good time) with our ladies and showing them that they were special. However, we lacked some of the appropriate gear for the excursion (a couple of new ties, cologne, grappling hook, flamethrower, etc.) so we went shopping.

Shopping, like Homecoming is just plain different for guys. Girls love to shop for no particular purpose. For them, it’s the journey and not the destination that counts. For guys, it’s all about the destination. Hell, that’s why we act like such idiots all the time, and with such disregard for our own safety – we’re just trying to hurry up and arrive at our final destination like Freud’s Thanatos tells us. Allen and I had taken this destination-not-the-journey way of living (and shopping) to unimaginable heights. Our only aim was to exit the store as quickly as possible, no matter what the situation. It was not at all unusual to exit a grocery store after a beer ‘n snack run with adult diapers and allergy pills as well. The key to success in these situations is to grab items off of shelves and displays that you think you can identify via your peripheral vision without actually looking directly at them. Also, never stop moving. Don’t stop to think. Just get what you need and get the hell out of there.

During this particular shopping excursion we ended up in a JCPenneys or a Kauffmans or something. Allen mentioned that he needed new underwear. And so, displaying exquisite form, Allen grabs what appears to be a three-pack of tighty-whities from a tub of said item and we continue on.

Later, at Allen’s house, we prepare. Shit, shower, shave. Dress. Preen. Hip flask full of Jäger? Check. Cologne applied with frightening zeal? Check. Lone condom, mainly as a joke? Check. I’m ready to go and I’m waiting anxiously. Allen is right behind.

Allen comes downstairs. He is visibly disturbed and walks with a shambling gait. I ask him what is wrong. He responds that the underwear he bought are tight, and that he may have bought them “a size too small.”

I suggest changing them before we pick up the girls, but we’re already a little late. We predict that the article is cotton, and that it will stretch to allow more room for Allen’s prodigious junk. We are satisfied with this assessment. We split.

We pick up the girls and head to the restaurant. Being seated has presented Allen with a whole other set of challenges with regard to his new underwear, and while the girls may not realize it, I can see it all over his face. In a quick aside in the lobby I suggest to him that he free the beast. Before he can respond we are met by the hostess and seated.

A few more agonizing minutes pass before Allen announces… that he has to use the bathroom.

It’s a nice bathroom at a nice restaurant. Two stalls (one of which is wheelchair accessible), two urinals, two sinks. Dark wood. Gray marble. Moodily lit. Soft Flamenco guitar music dances across the meadow-scented air.

Allen enters, a lit Winston dangling from his mouth. Sensing the need to be discreet and not simply remove his pants in the middle of a public restroom–this surprised even me–Allen enters the wheelchair accessible stall, as the other stall is in use.

As Allen begins to remove his shoes and pants, he notes that the gentleman in the neighboring stall is engaged in what can only be described as a spirited bodily function, complete with splashing, grunting, and an unpleasant odor. He’s completely ruining the aesthetic. Unfazed, Allen continues with single-minded resolve to rid himself of these accursed underthings.

He unties his shoes and removes them. He undoes his belt, unzips his pants and removes them as well. Finally, it’s a long slide down both legs, then over to one toe. And with a quick flick of the big toe he launches the offending article… under the divider into the next stall.

One can only speculate as to what message his fellow bathroomgoer thought Allen was trying to convey. “Here, try these on?” “Use this to wipe?” “Please accept my invitation for anonymous gay bathroom sex?”

Whatever his understanding was, he immediately zipped up and high-tailed it out of there. I stress immediately because his departure took place without a wipe, a flush, or a washing of hands. Bottom line: worst dinner companion ever.

Allen retrieves the offending underwear. As he rises and begins to fetch his pants, he begins to sense that he is being watched. There is a larger than usual gap between the wall of the stall and the wall proper, with Allen’s pants hanging on a hook on the stall wall that acts as a sort of curtain. He retrieves the pants and sees an eye.

The eye belongs to a small child – six or seven years old – and is opened wide in terror. Allen simply stares back in blank defiance. “That’s right, I’m pantsless in a men’s room stall. That’s right, there’s a cigarette dangling out of my mouth. That’s right, I have quantities of hair that would make a Bonobo blush,” he seems to project with the full force of his being at the terrified youth. Said youth makes haste to the door and exits, likely making mental notes of key details of the experience for recitation during visits with mental health professionals later in life. Serves him right. Nosy little fucker.

Finally, the restroom is seemingly empty, but our boy isn’t out of the woods just yet. Allen wastes no time in re-robing and leaves the stall at the same time that a friendly, elderly man walks in and begins to avail himself of the urinal. Allen decides to do the same. They engage in a friendly banter about the weather and move to the side-by-side sinks to wash up.

Allen spruces up in the mirror. The elderly man finishes washing his hands at the same time that Allen absentmindedly sets the underwear down on the counter and begins to wash his hands. They both pause in perplexed silence to look at the underwear. A startling discovery is made.

A lone tag protruding from the lump of cloth answers the last of Allen’s questions. It reads “Hanes Her Way.” Allen was wearing panties.

The final player in this bathroom visit gone awry comports himself much more graciously than the others. He meets this presentation of women’s undergarment’s by Allen with stone-faced indifference. He simply concludes by drying his hands (yet still with a noticeable degree of haste) and leaves quietly. Allen finishes as well and dries his hands on the underwear. Exeunt. Scene. A new chapter in the diabolical epic of Allen’s bathroom chronicles is written.

Epilogue: The rest of the night is a bit fuzzy. A Jäger- and hormone-induced fog. We did those things that kids did at formal high school dances, changed our clothes, drank clandestinely, and went home. Amy later went on to break my heart, but it turns out she didn’t put out anyway, so fuck her.

What other hilarious misadventures await Allen? Here’s just a taste of the stories to follow:

-A visit to a Turkish prison bathroom leads to sodomy – and hilarity ensues!

-Allen stumbles into a women’s bathroom high on meth at a traditional southern cotillion while the debutantes are getting dressed - and hilarity ensues!

-A farting contest in a Denny’s bathroom in Kansas City turns deadly - and hilarity ensues!

-What should have been an uneventful Canadian border crossing sends Allen on an epic quest to find a federal bathroom, and when he arrives… hilarity ensues!

Stay tuned.

I just got back from the Denver International Airport today. (Okay, I didn’t. I’m not the bronzed, erudite international playboy that you are. So fuck off.)

I did, however, just learn about some really, um, utterly terrifying murals that grace the halls of said airport.

So, yeah, who doesn’t expect to see a painting of Thanatos, clad in military garb and a gas mask, wielding a scimitar and a machine gun in an airport these days? I mean, studies have shown that this type of imagery does wonderful things to soothe nervous travelers, especially in this post-9/11 era.

Ahh, yes, then there are the dead children entombed at Death’s feet. Oh no, wait, that would just be morbid. They’re probably just sleeping.

Here are some delightfully mischievious little bastards. They gathered up all of their country’s weapons, wrapped them in their flags, and are bringing them to a little German boy to turn into plowshares. Note that America-Boy (the Boy Scout) is kinda giving bedroom eyes to Indian-Girl (how else do we identify Native Americans? Yep-headdresses.) I wouldn’t give those swords away just yet, kiddies! I saw Death around here somewhere, and I think he’s about to go baggage handler on your asses…

Oh no, wait, no need. They seem to have dispatched with Death’s psycho ass already. Hey, good for them. On a side note-doesn’t Death look a lot like the guy from the Scream movies here?

You may be asking yourself: why is this grotesque and disturbing set of imagery displayed at a public airport? The answer may lie with the Illuminati. Apparently, this freaky-ass mural aside, the entire airport is rife with overt Freemasonry symbols and is rumored to be the future control center of the New World Order. So bring your skis with you when you go to get your chip implanted! You slave worm!

This has been another installment of What in the Living Fuck is the Deal with That? with your host, Timothy Moriarty.

Arizona Beverage Company, makers of one of my favorite beverages (iced green tea) have thrown their hat into the ring with Extreme Energy Shot.

Figure 1.1: This is not, in fact, an energy drink, but a slug for a futuristic muzzleloader superweapon

The claims of the can: Anyone who doesn’t grasp the fundamentals of marketing might be a little afraid to drink this. Aside from the classic “police tape” striped black and yellow design theme to the can, it’s also adorned with a red CAUTION warning at the top. However, I DO understand the fundamentals of marketing, and at the moment, I’m all wet. This thing has warnings on it. It’s going to kick my fucking ass. I am surprised by a few other tidbits on the can, including “No Preservatives,” “No Artificial Colors,” and “Contains 10% Juice,” which as we all know is a staggering amount of natural ingredients.

Scariest-sounding ingredient: “Mango Puree”

Energy Drink Funk Factor: 2. Truly, it was a toss up between a 1 and a 2, but in the end, you could definitely tell that there was something amiss. Still quite nice, however. Tasted a bit like an iced tea drink with a little fruity something-or-other.

What it does for you: Made me feel just swell for several hours, but the 54g sugar crash was rough. I woke up in bed with our housekeeper. I let off an extreme energy shot of my own, she tells me. We had to change our phone number.

For some strange reason, Anheuser-Busch makes something called 180 Energy Drink. Hmmm. I cannot for the life of me figure out what the 180 means. Are they counting something? 180 what? Calories? Kilojoules? Megatons? Hectares? Kittens? Degrees? Turn the can around. The front-of-the-can artwork is upside down. Oh, so it is degrees. For fuck’s sake, people, that’s your gimmick? That’s all you’ve got? That’s hopelessly lame.

Figure 1.1: Annheuser-Busch ran out of ways to fuck up beer, so they moved on to energy drinks

Claims of the can: As lame as above. It boasts an “orange citrus blast” and that’s it. C’mon! Where are the ridiculous, heady, over-the-top claims? I could make a few suggestions:

-”Enough energy to demolish three 12-story buildings!”

-”Used to power Voyagers III, IV and VII!”

-”Warning: could cause violent outburts. Keep away from humans.”

-”Never blink again!”

Scariest sounding ingredient: Absolutely no scary sounding ingredients. The only thing intense about this drink is its utter feebleness.

Energy Drink Funk Factor: 3. It’s not traditional energy drink funk, however. It tastes like an extra-bitter Sunkist. I believe word I’m looking for it “bleccch.” Or possibly “yarrrg.”

What it does for you: It reminded me why I don’t drink Budweiser, either.

Rockstar Energy Drink’s marketing tactics are all wrong. Everyone knows that kids don’t want to be rock stars anymore. That’s so 1994. Kurt Cobain is dead, man. If you wanted to capture the embodiment of today’s youth’s idols, you should have called it “Drugdealer,” “Duffman,” or “GameCube.” No one is a rock star anymore. At best they are caricatures – at worst they are corporate logos.

Figure 1.1: Rockstar Energy Drink and Railroad, apparently

The claims of the can: They are numerous and often nonsensical. The front of the can features the “bigger, faster, stronger,” slogan followed below by “party like a rockstar.” The side of the can expounds upon the claim in detail – three lines worth, to be exact. Remember your audience, people. Just be happy they bought your product – don’t expect them to read your fucking dissertation on the side of it.

Scariest-sounding ingredient: “Eleutherococcus senticosus”

Energy Drink Funk Factor: 3. It was your run of the mill funk.

What it does to you: This little baby did seem to give me a fairly swift kick in the ass that kept me alert and focused for several hours. I came up with a unified field theory, actually, but I threw the napkin it was written on away.