Vinyl retentive

I love shopping for records with an unbridled passion that is usually reserved for such primal activities as sexual intercourse. Its speaks to a baser need that is buried somewhere deep in my core. Something left over from simpler more barbaric times. It’s the thrill of the hunt. Sometimes you get rabbits and sometimes you take down the fucking mammoth but you rarely come back empty handed. If you did you would somehow be less of a man, unable to provide aural sustenance for your tribe. There is a certain moment when you’re out on the field of battle when things can turn vicious. Consider this: Your flipping through a record bin which has been filled seemingly at random. You must weed out the unworthy game from the truly amazing kill. You look to your right and notice another hunter. Most of the time (for myself at least) this doesn’t pose a problem, yet occasionally you realize that this fellow primate is hunting the same game as yourself. You realize your working your way through fields, which were once rich with the type of game that you and your tribe thrive on. However this hunter has picked the fields bare. You are at odds. There have been occasions where I wondered if I could take this hunter out and hide the body before an employee realizes that Ive just killed a man over a Kinks or Standells record. Perhaps I was born too late maybe I’m a relic from a time I never lived in. However, know this: If you see me in a music store don’t touch my records or Ill fucking kill you!

Not unlike a swift kick to the ovaries

I didn’t think that this stuff required qualifiers yet as of late I’m beginning to think I may have been wrong. It would seem that sarcasm does not telegraph in text as well as I had hoped. In regard to my previous post I received a few emails with varying degrees of eloquence essentially stating that the sender was disappointed in me. Allow me to clear this up right now. I was expressing my disdain for this way of life by presenting somthing written in the first person of one of these sad one-dimensional individuals. "A good hard fuck" is NOT the only thing that makes me feel alive....... Its just one of them.

Welcome to the meatmarket culture...

There are hundreds of thousands of us stinking of desperation and cheap cologne, stuffed into hip little bars all over your town. Our inexplicable loneliness is matched only by our unending need for validation at the hands of the opposing sex. Look into our shallow vapid eyes. Do you honestly believe that anything but a "good hard fuck" will make us feel alive? Do you really think that intelligence or stimulating conversation has ever been on, or ever WILL make the list of requirements? Sure, It comes right after a huge set of tits and the four hour massive erection. The only thing that has EVER made us feel alive is the trading of poorly veiled sexual innuendos and the grinding of vile stinking flesh. We've dismissed the concept of cerebral stimuli to the realm of the glitterati intelligentsia. We are the culmination of the cultivation of the most base human instincts.

Jaz Brown and Mac Ryan devise a "simple plan".

I've already told this story to quite a few times but now that I have the intraweb on my side I'll never have to tell it again.

"Look it up on my blog...Jerk."

The Background: In October The Helpermonkeys went on our first full scale tour. 30 some odd shows in thirty some odd days. Needless to say it was fucking amazing. It just so happened that my birthday fell somewhere in the middle of our tour and because I have awesome friends my roommate offered to book us a hotel whenever we wanted as a birthday present. This is fucking invaluable when you've been crashing in "stanky-ass" punk houses for a few days.

The Story: So it was our first day back in the states from Canada. We played in St. Cloud Minnesota. It was a great show and the kids were helpful, amazing, and grateful for the bands they were getting in their fairly small town. We met Ben and his wife who had put together an amazing co-op style venue which was not only a place for kids to see shows but also a safe place to hang out, play video games and even go thrift shopping. Aside from being a great host and soundguy Ben had told us he could hook us up with some pot. It had been a few days since our last smoke so this was greatly appreciated. By the end of the night it was apparent that we wouldn't be able to find a place to crash so I put in a call to my roommate.
"Hey dude, this is Jaz we cant find a place to crash tonight so it would be awesome if you could book that hotel room for us."
"Sure dude, let me call you back."
A few minutes later.
"Hey dude, all the rooms were booked at the Motel Sicks So I had to book you a room at the Best Western. They were pretty well booked up too so the room might be kinda crappy."
"Hey man, a bed and a shower is more than we've had in few days so whatever it is we'll be happy."
Instinctively we cruise over to the crappy looking Best Western down the street where we find out we have no room booked in our name.
"Oookay I guess we'll try that fancy looking one down by the club."
We pull into the parking lot of the "fancy" Best Western and that's when we realize that this is the hotel where that godawful excuse for a band "A Simple Plan" is stayin for three days till they play their huge arena show. The huge tour bus is parked right in front and even more nauseating than that is the Scion they've got parked next to the bus which is totally plastered with there faces and pictures of the newest and most technologically advanced Nokia cell phones on the market. If that's not what punk rock is all about I don't know what is.
I head into the office to claim our room and come to find out that we did NOT have a crappy room at all. That sneaky son-of-a-bitch had booked us a 2 story, 4 bed suite. Now, had that been the coolest thing that happened all night we would have been fucking stoked.....But, it only got better from there. We grabbed our bags and went to our room. Craig and Jeff hit the showers and Mac and I thought it best to hit the bar and have some drinks....Like gentlemen. On the way down to the bar Mac turns to me and makes a brilliant point.
"Ya know, I bet they don't get alot of 'rockers' in this hotel. Just watch, they're gonna think we're A Simple Plan."
HHhhmmmm
The bar is pretty much dead. A few glassy eyed traveling execs but certainly no "rockers". Mac and I sit down and order two whiskeys. The bartender was disarmingly friendly. Usually, our "look" doesn't exactly garner that kind of service in a "normal" bar. What in definitely doesnt do is get us free drinks but this night it did. A few moments after buying our first round of shots our friendly bartender brings out another round and places the bottle between the two of us. At this point Mac and I looked at eachother knowing full well what was going on. So we sat there a while smoking, drinking and reveling in our new found "star status". Were working our way toward a nice healthy buzz when the bartender comes back over with two giant beers.
"Hey guys I just 'accidentally' poured these, you want em?"
You learn real quick to NEVER say no to anything free on tour. So we accepted the offer from our gracious if not slightly confused host. As we chatted with the bartender Mac, ever so subtly dropped the hint that he might be hungy.
"Well the kitchen's closed, but Ill see what I can do for you guys."
This is TOO fucking good.
About this time Jeff made his way down to the bar and was made aware of the con we had somewhat unwittingly stumbled into. Expecting some peanuts and pretzels we knew without a doubt what and who he thought we were when the food came out. A stunning spread (considering the kitchen was closed). A bread bowl with spinach dip, vegetables, a huge plate of nachos, oh and pretzels. More food than we had eaten in the last 3 days. Ben, his wife and a few of there friends showed up and were briefed on the situation.
"Help yourself to some dip."
I then realized we could ride this fucking gravy-train all night if we played our cards right. I borrowed Jeff's cell phone and stepped out of the bar for a moment. We couldn't keep this all for ourselves. I needed to contact the two bands we were on tour with and get them down there ASAP. In the few moments I was out Mac blew our cover.
It went something like this...

Bartender: So, does it cost alot to drive that big tour bus around?

Mac: Uhh, actually..... That's not us. Were in that little van over there.

The bartender surveys the veritable buffet he had laid before us, the empty pint glasses, the bottle of whiskey and walks away. Mere moment later he steps back over to us and curtly informs us that its last call and he needed to get out of there. The gravy train had been derailed. However, making our way back to our fucking suite drunk and full I couldn't complain.....Much.

Upon returning to our room Mac was schooled in the fine art of lying.

"Actually... I have no idea how much it costs to keep that bus on the road. Our tour manager handles all that."

Listen up dummy.

There is no divine or godhead. We live and then we go in the ground and feed worms. Life is not a rehearsal, nor is it a precursor to the good stuff. This is it, and we get one shot at making things better for those around us and those to come.

Thank you Warren Ellis.

Oh-goddamn-Kay,

It's a new year so I figured it may be time for a new blog. I hope your happy (Claire, I'm glaring in your general direction).
Ya see, I fight an ongoing battle with myself in regard to taking part in the "Blogosphere" (shoot me if I ever say that godawful word again). The problem is that I find the medium inherently caters to the self-serving and hackneyed kind of bullshit I hate. And don't you feed me some shite about the blog being "The zine of the new world" because I don't fucking care. I felt largely the same way about those fucking things. With the exception of precious few (Cometbus ect.) zines were nothing but trite and pretentious recycling bin fodder.
So, these days I find myself reacting to blogs in roughly the same way I reacted to zines in highschool. Spewing bile about how much they fucking suck and not having the balls and more imortantly the attention span to do it myself.
However, Life has gotten easier for the lazy and the stoner alike. Gone are the days of endless cutting and pasting, as are the late night trips to Kinkos. That, is what I DO like about this format: its easy. I can type out any kinda nonsensical bullshit that ruffles my feathers and.....CLICK.... Assholes everywhere get to see it.
Sometimes I wonder if that's such a great idea. I really don't feel all to passionately about my distaste for zines. I've got far more pressing things to worry about. I'm a very important guy. Yet I got to thinking about it on my short walk to get coffee and because its so damn easy.......Here it is.
The filter is now gone, destroyed by convenience and "user friendliness". There was once a time......Long long ago, if you wanted to force your opinions on someone else you had to work for it. Late nights with your cutting edge electronic typewriter, the sickening sweet smell of rubber cement. Suffering for your craft.

So I say "Bring back the zine!!!"

....And get ME the FUCK out of here.