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Hello, my name is Judas Gutenberg and this is my blaag (pronounced as you would the vomit noise "hyroop-bleuach").


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Like my brownhouse:
   defying punk rock orthodoxy
Friday, July 11 1997

    here's now two 70 megabyte ESDI hard drives in my PS/2. The second was a remarkably easy install. Next stop is LINUX, the free UNIX operating system.

    On the Downtown Mall with a mug of iced vodkatea, I sat and watched the usual Friday throng of people walking by. A skinny goth boy was being led around on a leash by one of two goth chicks. In the Downtown Artspace, Jenfariello complained that my musings are boring these days. Apparently for her, veiled introspection just doesn't have the entertainment value of drunken adventure.


    ack at Kappa Mutha Fucka, quietude pervaded the place as has been common of late. But then people started appearing.

      First came Peggy and Zach in the dark blue 1988 station wagon Peggy's mother just bought for them. But they didn't stay long.

      Then came Matthew Hart, Leah and the boy Jesse,
      then Leticia the Brazilian Girl.

      Most unexpected of all was the arrival of Matthew's scarred and tattooed 47 year old pal from Waynesboro, CJ. He was riding in a bright red sportscar driven by an unassuming sidekick. CJ came bearing a big bag of grey-green marijuana with the disturbing flavour of cheap perfume. Later he bought an 18 pack of Icehouse. Yes, Icehouse comes in 18 packs these days.

      Last of all came Matthew and Leah's friends Natalie and her sidekick Sarah. They were the ones Theresa accused of being dykes last Saturday. They had a "suitcase" of Schlitz.

    There's an orthodoxy to punk rock culture, you see. This orthodoxy dictates that relatively obscure punk bands be played in preference to all else.

    y old scratchy vinyl albums dominated the stereo all evening long. This surprised me a little since most of it is clearly classic rock. Classic rock, in case you don't know, gets assigned especially low status in the caste system established by my peers for the various musical genrés. My vinyl does have one thing going for it though; most of it is relatively obscure. It's not the sort that has been played to death on classic rock radio or in the inevitable pot-centric dorm room down the hall back in college.
      First I played some Syd Barrett, then some Black Sabbath. Then Monster Boy put in the Metallica. Metallica is righteous head-banging music, the sort that is never played by people with punk rock pretentions. There's an orthodoxy to punk rock culture, you see. This orthodoxy dictates that relatively obscure punk bands be played in preference to all else. But should someone come along and play Metallica, it seems everyone likes it just fine; it's just that no one has the balls to put it on all by himself. Especially when the only music anyone else ever puts on the stereo is either punk or goth.


    J's sidekick drove Leticia and me to Farmer Jack where we bought a box of blush wine for $10. The whole way over our driver played Tom Petty on the stereo. Judging from his lyrics, Mr. Petty appears to be aiming his music at the potential niche audience of aging pot smokers.

    On the way back from Farmer Jack, the music was a slow country love ballad, exactly the sort of music one would expect to be played by a Waynesboro native. I found myself having interesting thoughts about the music. I didn't automatically despise it as you might expect. Instead, I found myself thinking that no matter how tough a guy leads people to believe he is, he still has his favourite love ballads. And you can tell a lot about a guy by the kind of slow love ballads he listens to. In a way, I felt honoured that our driver was letting us into his soul, revealing his big secret by permitting this sappy love ballad to play on his car stereo.

    You see, I just couldn't bear hearing any more of the usual annoying high-fibre punk rock diet. But Guns 'n' Roses suited my mood with its refreshing retro-mainstreamness.
    Back at Kappa Mutha Fucka, I put in Carnival of Animals, a classical work by Saint-Saens, only so I could hear the "Imperial March of the Lion." Tonight, in my position as defacto deejay, I may have been able to get away with a lot of nonesense, but this time I'd gone too far. Matthew first asked "what are we listening to?" in an effort to have me apologetically change it. But when I responded "this is beautiful and I'm the deejay," he began whining and complaining, so I decided suddenly that I wanted to hear the whole thing. It was only after everyone consensed on playing Guns 'n' Roses' Appetite for Destruction that I agreed to change it. You see, I just couldn't bear hearing any more of the usual annoying high-fibre punk rock diet. But Guns 'n' Roses suited my mood with its refreshing retro-mainstreamness.

    And wouldn't you know, everyone loved Appetite for Destruction. Everyone sang along (especially to "Sweet Child o' Mine") and expressed regret that they hadn't listened to it more in recent years. You see, they all grew up on Appetite for Destruction; it holds real meaning for them. To experience it again was almost like a sacred religious rite.

    Later still, I played ZZ Top's most energetic album, Eliminator.


    s the evening wore on, I found myself becoming extremely drunk. Right there on the front porch, I somehow became involved in an increasingly indiscrete interaction with Sarah, Natalie's sidekick. I'll spare you the PG-13-rated details, but suffice it to say we did end up in bed together. That couldn't have possibly happened had Deya been around, but she was off with another Sarah, Sarah Kleiner.



    heridan, the little drug-dealing alterna-boy, talked to Matthew Hart today. He told Matthew that he was busted for a series of car burglaries he committed recently. Acting on a tip, the police executed a search warrant and found all the stolen goods at Sheridan's house. It seems Wonderboy Neek had been bragging about the burglaries rather extensively. Tight lips contribute to the successful floating of ocean-going vessels.
      I can picture Wonderboy right now chatting up some little punk rock hottie on the Downtown Mall. In an effort to seem dangerous and hardcore, he casually mentions all the loot he and Sheridan stole from "Fratboy cars," no doubt exaggerating his own participation. The girl is scandalized but keeps the boy wonder talking, only to go home that night and divulge all to her Daddy, the chief of police. She might look punk rock, but blood is thicker than manic panic.
    Poor little Sheridan is going to have trouble getting out of this little situation; I'm told the fingerprints found on the burglarized cars match his perfectly.

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