Foley is Good



That my friends is the greatest wrestling promo ever cut. Period. And the reason Mick Foley is one of my big three. The big three are the pillars of my intellectual and philosophical influences. They are the lifeline to this man and above all the reason why I wake up in the morning and continue to live my life. Mick Foley, Wes Eisold, and Andy Kaufman are my three biggest heros and I will attempt, though jumbled as it may sound, to explain why Mick Foley is among them.

A lot of people wonder why a wrestler means so much to me and why something as superficial as a wrestling can captivate me and stimulate me artistically in ways that some music fails miserably. The truth is, I don't know. I've been watching wrestling since I was a little kid and through all the terrible times I had to go through I could watch this shit and escape for an hour or two. These guys were my heroes. It was a fantasy life that I could escape to when the world (even for a six year old) got to be a little much. When I was ten, it was the first time I ever saw Mankind. He scared me. He made me want to change the channel. He made me want to not watch wrestling. But oddly enough, I found myself rooting for him in all his matches. His classic battles against the Undertaker, his match against Shawn Michaels. I liked him because he was depressed, sad, different, not good looking, and just wanted to be loved--all the things a marginally disturbed pre-teen like myself felt at the time.

Mankind quickly became my favorite wrestler, not for his wrestling skills but mainly for his personna. He was a man beaten by time and passed on by the world, yet he still kept fighting, a character at the tender age of 11, I identified with. I got to know Mick's other characters like Dude Love, the outlandish, and yet strangely charming surf funker. And Cactus Jack, the deranged madman that only like to hurt people. Each one of these characters I saw a little of myself in, especially Mankind. When Mick was thrown off the cage, it was a turning point in my life. As he points out in "Have A Nice Day", it was the moment that made his career, but for me, it was the moment that changed my adolescent life. I realized that if a man can endure this much physical pain, this much punishment, then my life really wasn't all too bad. Even at my most depressed moments during my teenage life, I only had to think of Mick's body lying motionless in thumbtacks for me to realize, some guys have to blow themselves up to make a living (not that there's anything wrong with that). The bottom line was Mick Foley made me feel good about myself, a feat that is rarely matched by any other idol I have.

I watched his career progress and began to retroactively root for his Cactus Jack character in all the ECW matches I would watch. Mick was a consimate performer,despite his lack of physical talent, a trait which always resonated with me. He was a wordsmith and the best fucking actor the wrestling world has ever seen. It's promos like "Cane Dewey" that make me belive that there is a place for a thinking man in wrestling, and by all means when it came to wrestling, Mick Foley was definitely the thinking man's Terry Funk.

When Mick started writing, it was so cool to me. I always had an interest in writing from when I first learned how to form sentences and here my favorite wrestler was penning autobiographies and novels. I look up to Mick Foley in a manner that sadly I never looked up to my dad in. It's because Mick not only was crazy, deranged and disturbed like I felt I was, but he was also charming, funny, charasmatic, and a talented writer, all of things I definitely thought I was. This man's life was the ultimate in lives for me. He has fulfilled all his dreams, and I look to him as the gold standard in living your life by your own means according to your dreams. His writing inspires me because it's not stilted or pretentious in any way. It's true, simple but so descriptive and rambled. ANd his wrestling style is like my poetry. He can't fight. He can't grapple, but the motherfucker can pick up a trashcan and beat you senseless before falling over after being beaten so unmercifully.

Now I find myself emulating his style, much like I did when I was a teenager. Yes I admit it. When I saw Mick get thrown off the cage I wanted to do dangerous shit too. I got thrown off of roofs, smashed by chairs, driven through plywood and drywall, cut with blades, powerbombed onto floors. But I only did it because it made me feel good, the way Mick made me feel. Now I'm passed that and yet, I still find myself emulating him except this time in my writing. A lot of my creative writing is somehwat nonsensical with extreme digressions, but simple and heartfelt nonetheless. And while there is tons of room for improvement, I'm proud that Mick Foley is the biggest literary influence when it comes to the development of my literary voice. When it comes to fighting, I never was a very good fighter, but I get a feeling if I got into a fight now, you'd see a little Foley come out in me. And that quite frankly is a fucking scary thought.

I don't think I did a very good job explaining why he means so much to me. I suppose trying to sum into the words the reason why your hero means so much to you is extremely difficult, and fucking impossible if your hero happens to be a professional wrestler. All I know is that Mick Foley gave all loveable losers out there a hope. He made the tired, weary, and burnt out seem like they could keep on fighting. He also let me know that just because you fulfill one dream, doesn't mean you can't go for broke and accomplish another. Above all Mick Foley made me feel good about who I was. Whether its the Dude Love in me that comes out when I'm at parties and chatting it up with the dudes and the dudettes, the Cactus Jack in me that comes out when I'm picking fights with J-Crew wearing fuckbags, or the Mankind in me that comes home tired every day from work, just wanting to drink and go to sleep, I can safely say that I feel comfortable in who I am and owe a lot of it to Mick.

I won't say Foley is god, because he never felt comfortable when fans like me referred to him as god. I will say though that Foley is good. Foley is damn good.

- Cactus.

Scumbag Casanova

Sunday, July 12, 2009

Real Estate

This band is ruling my ears so hard. The east coast doesn't have very many fun or nice beaches. However, these Jersey guys are repping them pretty hard and it's nice to have a band so into developing an east coast beach-sound. I am head over heels with their sound and this awesome band. And you know me. If it reminds me of the beach in anyway, it reminds me of home. Real Estate is the soundtrack to my summer right now and the most comforting of tunes. It's a nice sunny day where everything is right and there ain't a cloud in the sky. Completely comforting and definitely best new band of 2009. Looking forward to the full length.



- son of the beach.

Scumbag Casanova

Saturday, July 11, 2009

Babe of the Moment

Chan Marhsall


This probably goes without saying but Chan Marshall is one of the hottest babes of the last ten years when it comes to legitamate music. Part of it is her voice. Part of it is her talent, and a good portion of it for me at least, was the drunkenly volatile way in which she lived a good portion of her life. Somewhere there is a picture of Chan after a week long bender posing for some famous photgrapher where she is visibly fucked up, looks like shit, and isn't wearing underwear so you see some of her untamed wilderness. Though I think that's the coolest photo of her because it looks the coolest, this isn't about admiring someone's crotch or their train-wreck lifestyle (although I totally did). This post is about the fact that despite that all, she has always maintained a certain allure that wouldn't be there if it weren't forthe fact that she seems like an honest and immensely talented person that I admire more than anything. This picture is a good representation of her quirkiness as well as her smoking hotness. Sorry dudes, no Bush here. Go google it or some shit.

NOT BABE of the Moment
MEGAN FOX


I don't know how this bitch got to where she is. She is the antithesis of Chan. She has no talent. No real beauty and is generally just a waste of space. "We will all laugh at gilded butterflies?" We get it. You took sophomore year literature in high school and read "King Lear". Congratulations you proved you are not illiterate. What you didn't prove was that you have any talent, you don't look like a retard on heroin, and that you aren't the sluttiest megaslut to ever grace the face of the earth. I can deal with the Albas, the Beals, because they seem like nice enough girls. You just have a douchebag attitude coupled with that slutface you make that makes you think you look pretty when really it just makes douchebags like Brian Austin Greene jackoff to your android features. You can't act. I don't think you're pretty. You're not deep. You're not smart. You're not open-minded. You're not marginally talented in any sense of the phrase. You're a slut. Go home. You fail.



sorry seems mean spirited, but I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one sick of her..

- bad.

Scumbag Casanova

Friday, July 10, 2009

Part Tre'
It's been a while. I was in LA and didn't have the internet until today at any rate here is night three no fun. Two months later...

Con-Cert/Conrad Schnitzler So everyone knew this dude was Kieth Fullerton Whitman. And everyone knew he was going to do something special. What I didn't know was that I would be subjected to yet another boring performance from this dude for the second year in a row. I mean the first 20 minutes were good, but then it lost focus, and droned on for about another 30. Way too long. Way too boring and Whitman, way too overrated. I'd still see him if he came to D.C though.

Jazzfinger - I actually liked this a lot. A lot of people thought it was lame but I thought huge pulsating feedback was pretty awesome. It was intense as shit and the people looked like they were having fun fucking with the amps. It was super loud, just the way I like it. People weren't impressed and it's not like they are the second coming of Metal Machine Music, but it was still pretty rad.

Peter Rehberg/Marcus Schmickler: I think Colin and I stepped out to grab a much needed slice of pizza. That pizza place right off the Bedford metro stop is really fucking good. I must have had at least 8 slices that weekend. 2 bucks for a 40? DC doesn't even have 40s! Gimme a 40 and a huge slice of pizza. Now we're talkin, none of this weird german shit.

Cold Cave: We were back in time to see a band I was super psyched on and that was Wes Eisold's own Cold Cave. Wes is one of my personal heroes and one of the BIG THREE influences in my life (the other two being, Andy Kaufman and Mick Foley). American Nightmare, Give Up the Ghost and Some GIrls are all on a short list of bands that made me want to give up school and follow. His poetry and writings also have a huge influence on my life outlook. Needless to say this man means a lot to me. So I was super stoked to see his new project which I have been in love with since my first listen last year. THe set was actually really good for someone who only was one hand (not a jab, I am surprised how much controal Wes has despite his handicap). A lot of people were actually getting into it and feeling the danceable beats. I thought everyone would hate it, but to my surprise I found a lot of people humming the Cold Cave tunes long after the set was over after a mere 15 minutes. At the point where they sang, "I'm--going to--put you in the hospital," I decided I love the set and I could see from the smile on other people's faces as they tapped their feet that they did too. Feel good set from a band that's supposed to be mysterious and dark. Fucking cute motherfucker Wesley.

Emeralds - Holy flaming ghost shit. Talk about spactacular. Emeralds wasted no time, wasting the audience. From the moment the system blared their galactic blasts of space ships, the audience was placed into hyperdrive. For those 20 minutes, the Music Hall lifeted and ascended into the stars, where only those three men can take us. While this was definitely not the best I've seen them, this was still not pawltry set to say the least. Aside from the fact that Mark's guitar was turned up high enough, the set was damn near perfect. You can't really blame that for happening either, the eardrums were just being pulverized by these guys. It was the loudest set of the weekend by more than one person. John furiously banged his head as he manned the lazer controls, while Steve masterfully mannuevered the ship through a barrage of meteor blasts to the eardrum. Mark provided the guitar work of a sage and together Emeralds literally and figuratively, blew the roof off the fucking place.

Black Pus - I was honestly not really looking forward to this. I saw Brian at Velvet a year ago doing Black Pus and it was utterly incredible. So I was not expecting this to top it, but I was dead wrong. As soon as he placed his kick drum in front of my face, I knew I was in trouble. Maybe Brian heard me saying I didn't really want to see him play? Maybe it was a personal attack. Whatever the case, I'm pretty sure his set took 5 years off my hearing as he played the fastest and craziest I've ever EVER seen one person play by themselves. His homemade synth box wasn't working a couple times which led to witty banter with the audience and a cool connection to someone so mythical, no one even mentions his other band (oh yeah, THAT BAND). Last time I saw him in D.C he even mentioned, "when I was heard one time with my other band", someone immediately and jokingly shouted out, "WHAT OTHER BAND!??!" And we all laughed. Brian is seriously the fastest drummer on the plannet. THAT'S RIGHT faster than Zach Hill, who is fast but to me, the most technical drummer in the world. Black Pus was infuckingcredible. Using his voice as a guitar and a placement for beats, Brian blasted through 30 minutes of tribal, pulse pounding, beat thumping drum beats coupled with his trademark high pitched squeak that was aided by the help of that little synth box cleverly mounted in the middle of the set. Say what you will about Lightning Bolt's cookie cutter aesthetics, Brian Chippendale can seriously blow your fucking face off. He did mine.

Prurient/Kevin Drumm - Probably the best set of the weekend. I have never seen Kevin Drumm before and surprise surprise, the man is a beast. Just to set it up, earlier in the weekend, Grey Wolves played the sorriest excuse for a set of music I've ever seen. While they were blowing, a disgruntled fan (who also happens to be an artist) threw a cup at them. A huge bearded man pushed the kid and looked at him and told him to do it again and see what happens. The kid balked, looking like he had seen a ghost, but the kid's girlfriend was not impressed. She egged the burly dude on saying that her beloved boyfriend was also a musician as the kid tried to get her to stop. Finally the huge dude asked her who her boyfriend was. When she gave the response the bearded giant went, "I've heard him before, HE FUCKING SUCKS." At this point the kid looked like he was about to cry as the huge beardo countinously screamed the girl in the face to "SHUT UP." While she tried to talk. Finally she stopped after he screamed it at point blank distance.

The next night Prurient and Kevin Drumm were coming out to play their set. Dom came out to thunderous applause and cheer while he set up his mayhem. Then what looked like a random dude came on stage and made his way to the HUGE elaborate set up of electronics on the table in the middle of the stage. That man, was the same man that killed the dreams of a young artist the night before whilst simultaneously scaring a young girl into silence. That man was none other than Kevin Drumm.

Their set was unbelievable. It was seething with such negativity and pent up agression. It teetered on the brink of uncontrollable before Dom and Drumm would pull back as if torturing the audience in some sort of BDSM situation. Drumm looked fucking pissed off and as Dom wailed away, I could not think of a more fitting duo than Dom and Drumm. They are both angry midwesterners, who hate everything and it shows. Drumm with his brooding and nerve wracking delirium of hate drones and power blugeons and Dom with his fierce destruction of ear drums and his aural raping with the microphone. These guys were perfect tonight and they new it. I don't know if I will ever see this again, and to tell you the truth I hope I don't. It was violent. It was disturbing. It was everything you could expect from Dom and Drumm. I just hope the next time they collaborate, for the sake of that poor boy who had his dreams crushed by his hero telling him he sucks, that they in fact suck...although it's not bloody likely. Sorry brashe.

Skullflower - I could go on and on about how legendary this outfit is with whats-his-face controlling everything and this being his opus. And I cold drone about how Hototogisu is one of the most brilliant groups to ever come out, but I won't. Because plain and simple: Skullflower sucked. It was a complete bummer to the rest of the night. But Matthew Bower's strap kept falling off. He didn't have enough slack on his guitar to reach the microphone. It was honestly, just a mess and it's a god damned shame because I respect Matthew Bower a lot. He is one of the reasons I love drone so much. But unforunatley tonight, twas not to be. Skullflower ate it, and everyone ended no fun with a wierd taste in their mouths that wasn't semen.


That's it for No fun 2009. Stay tuned for more updates on other shit. I'm going to Whartscape this weekend with no money. Let's see how that turns out. Baltimore or bust!

- Crabs