Grady

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How To Get Out of Iraq

Well I have an idea for this. First thing we do is, put it to the men and women are serving over there. If they want to stay, as some of them do, let them. If they want to go home, as some of them do, let them. AS I understand it, some of them do and some don't. Let them decide as it is their lives they are risking.

Second phase is:

Take those remaining troops and (1) Secure the Northern, Kurdish area as it appears that they are our only real allies and we have fucked them over once already, and (2) Secure the area around the Baghdad Airport. Then set up a 10-mile wide (or however wide it needs to be) kill zone from the airport to Kuwait in which if a person enters, they will be killed. Make this public knowledge. We cordon off the area with barbed wire, and station several high-resolution satellites over this strip. Anyone enters: dead. Thus no surface-to-air missiles can be fired at any incoming flight traffic. Much like the Berlin Airlift, this would enable us to send troops/supplies and also enable us to help out any friendly Iraqi forces that need it.

Finally, establish a large airbase in the north and one in Kuwait. All air strikes can be called in from there.

Done.

Links

No time to post today as I have actual work 2 Du, but, some killer pics and video of Wing Bowl here and here. L8r.

Tennis for Tampons

So I worked for a while at one of the Philadelphia-area “Cricket Clubs.” I won’t say which one so as to prevent any slander/libel lawsuits that may or may not come my way. However, I will say it is located in the northwestern section of the city proper, so, figure it out on your own. And as a few of them work with me now, I would like to avoid any blanket, sweeping statements; however, this is what it is, and that is:

If you are a member of one of these clubs you are a disgusting pile of dog shit, less worthy, in my opinion, of the entitlements you take for granted and which you condemn others so easily for taking advantage. I know, that was a wordy sentence. Let me break it down for you, dumbasses: Just because mommy and daddy paid your way through everything, including this club, does not give you the right to look down your nose at the below-average person on collecting food stamps. In fact less; further: at least those people have poverty or a lack of education to explain their aberrant, anti-social behavior. What are your excuses?

Let me explain: take a walk sometime at midnight through the men’s locker room, and here is what you will see: towels littered everywhere, despite the fact there is a bin for used towels. Un-flushed toilets. Used condoms. Empty bottles and plastic cups. And if you think it is any different in the “ladies” locker room, let me tell you: no, it is far worse. Won’t even go there.

And that’s just the start. Check out the patio on a Sunday about 11p.m. after a warm June day/evening: trash, trash, and even more trash, like none of these people have ever even heard of a wastebasket. Literally, squirrels would come to eat the lemon and orange and lime rinds. So I suppose in that way they were “recycling” although I‘m sure that none of them ever considered this as such. I swear, if it were socially acceptable, these people would just wear gigantic diapers, shit and piss themselves silly, and then hire a nanny to do the wiping and changing. Thank god it isn’t.

Then there was the “deal” we (the "regulars" and I, as if there was anything "regular" about them) worked out. That is, I’d pretend to like them and “buy” them drinks. Then after they had signed their cheque (they never paid on the spot, just a bill at the end of the month) I’d add all the drinks they had on to it. Dumbasses. Why is my bill so high? Duh, you’re an alcoholic and you drink too much. An entire fifth of Canadian Club is way too much for anyone, and I don’t care how much Diet Pepsi you mix it with, it still has a lot of calories in it. Why am getting so fat? See the above. Oh and how come I’m not buying you any drinks? Ever hear of a gratuity? No? I’m not surprised. Yes, the $8 an hour I’m making is real swell, Mr. Wilson, but barely enough for rent gas money for my hither and thither to school every day.

And that was just the squash players. The tennis people were far worse. More than once I had to tell a group of thirty or more of them that, you see, I am by myself, and there are thirty of you. Queue up; get in line, one at a time. There’s an old joke: Black guy finds a magic lamp, he rubs it, a genie comes out and says’ “I grant you three wishes.” So, first the guy says, “I want a million dollars.” Poof, a cool mil appears. Next, “I want a trick-ass ho that looks like Janet Jackson.” Poof, JJ clone appears. Finally, I want to be white, uptight, and outta sight. Poof: Genie turns him into a tampon.

So one day, my buddy Gerry the waiter and I are working a banquet upstairs, and we are looking out of the balcony windows, watching the tennis players, dressed in their horrible, atrocious white-fasion-fuax-pas tennis outfits, making their horrible, atrocious attempts at tennis, and I’m snapping pictures ‘cause in a weird way it was a nice scene, and I tell him: Gerry they’re tampons: white, uptight, outta sight, and sucking the blood out of me. Totally cracked us both up, yah good one! There really is no more of a fitting metaphor than that.

Now I’m going to subcategorize for a minute: most of these people had some degree of money, I’d guess a personal income of $75,000 per individual per year and above. These were the neuveu riche. Then there were the real old-money ones, the genuinely rich, the ones who worked as a hobby. Neuveu riche: asshole lawyers, doctors, brokers, the worst of the worst no matter what ball they chased around what court.

Genuine millionaires: nicest people you could ever meet. Took time to read. Books, magazines, newspapers, anything with some kind of depth or information. Didn’t look down their snouts. Took time to learn your name. Actually gave you an envelope at Christmas without ever asking for anything gratis.

So to those very few of you there were there at that time and place: Thanks.

Neuveu riche: generally would say things like “Well I’ll do what I want, this is my club.” I heard that so many times, I eventually read the Club Member’s Handbook or whatever and read all of the by-laws.

Turns out, it is not “their” club at all: they are simply dues-paying members of an established institution, entitled to the rights and responsibilities their monthly dues purchase thereof, but no more than that. The old money, which goes for the perpetuation of the club, is entrusted in a bank someplace, thereby guaranteeing the club’s existence in perpetuity, and has been entrusted there since the establishment of the club.

So, after I read that, the next time I heard the phrase “My club,” I had had that subparagraph memorized, and repeated it.

I love out-lawyering a lawyer, especially a snotty, tennis-playing one.

Wing Bowl XV: Part V: The End

Well, it is 2:53 a.m., morning of Wing Bowl, morning of the big dance. Slept for a bit after work, got up at midnight. Watched Jimmy Kimmel, then Oprah. I like Oprah even though she sucks most of the time. Man-hater. Anyway, the plan is already awry: I was supposed to meet everyone for drinks at 700 at midnight-ish, but when I called Meats, no answer. He called back about an hour ago, gonna meet Meats at 4:00 a.m. at The Congregation a.k.a. The Church. Whatever, go with the flow. 'Til then, listening to Howard Stern replay. Will update later today. Be good.

OK, I'm back to some reasonable degree of sanity.

So we started at the Congregation, this old church in Fishtown where George, Woddy & Ang and Meats live. Pretty cool spot, first time I've checked out either George's or Woody's pad, both exceptionally nice spaces, really, well thought out and well-lived in. Chilled out and cocktailed for a bit, met Pete, good dude, one of us for sure. Then we cabbed it to Pete's bro Nips place (yes, his name is John, but everyone calls him Nips. As a fan and a receiver of many a quality nickname, I was on board immediately), so six dudes in a cab, seven really, including Mr. Cabdriver, whatever, it's all good.

Cabbie let us out in front of McFadden's at the Ballpark as the cops shut us down from getting any closer. It was surreal: about 40 degrees, quite warm comparatively, but somehow snowing big beautiful flakes. Anyway, we split up at the northeast entrance to the Wach, as Meats and I had floor passes from the Slack's event which needed redeeming at the will-call window.

Eventually we figured out where to go, with the help of the wiil-call lady, and went inside: Surprise VIP passes! Dope! I've never actually been a VIP at anything before, unless you include life in general, and from my own perspective at that.

Not that it really meant anything. I mean, I figured an open bar or some kind of special treatment, but really what it meant was: Welcome to the floor of the Wachovia Center, where bad hockey and basketball has frequently been played, at least by our homers. Whatever, someday maybe we'll get a Cup or an NBA Championship or something besides a Wings trophy, and then it will mean something. But I'm not complaining, well, yes I am: first of all, poor execution from whoever designed this event. You could only enter from the penalty box (actually, that was pretty cool, being in the penalty box, more later on that though) on the one side and exit the floor from a location approximately on the other side of the rink. Both of these locations were maybe 20 feet from the stage. So, naturally, a bottleneck (the first of which I'll gripe about) developed. So to get in or out was an exercise in elbow tossing, with the obligitory "Pardon me, 'scuse me's," tossed in for politeness sakes. Had this whole affair taken place at the Spectrum, I may have actually lifted the plyboard and kissed the ice, gladly sacrificing flesh for fulfilled fantasy. However, this is not the case. So I didn't.

Other than those gripes, the inside track was kind of cool: got to see most of the first twenty or so parade members up close and personal. Plus every time a chick took her top off in the stands, it was a matter of: track down the cheer, look for pointed arms/fingers, bingo!: titties! How much fun! I mean really, it is Mardi Gras set indoors for six hours. The last bastion of political incorrectness in Philadelphia, thank god. God save 610 and Wing Bowl.

But, problem was, there was so much going on everywhere else, it meant a lot of neck-craning, and I've had a stiff neck for a few weeks. And plus there was the, every-time-I-need-to-pee-or-catch-a-smoke-I-have-to-fight-these-people thing. So I stuck around in the pit long enough to, as he passed by in his Vince Papale #83 jersey, give my regards to Frank DeFraud, at least with a very close "Eat Frank Eat!" shout and some eye contact (by the way, he had cleaned up for the event: good look, man). Plus I met a few of his South Philly bu,ds which was good enough already. Good guys.

Gripe #2: At some point, I left the floor to go to the bathroom, and was forced to to return through the penalty box, and wait in said box while the first parade party passed. And let me tell you: I'm not sure who, but someone really smelled. Of shit. And it was not me. I think it was the usher. Anyway, I'm not sure if that's why they call it the "penalty box," or whatever, all I know is: I've done my time. Get in the box!!!

So I guess after that I went to smoke, and here is gripe #3, and my final gripe:

Why is it that at every bottleneck, you stupid people have to congregate? I mean, the outside smoking area is about 400 square feet, yet everyone hangs out by the doors leading to it.

Look: it was not that cold or windy outside, and besides, we were all pretty cocktailed at that point, and shouldn't need shelter from a few flakes, which of there were none, actually. Seriously: move along, dopes, less congestion at doorways prevents such tragedies as what happened in Connecticut at that Great White show.

Whatever: In my mind, natural selection.

So next I guess was, finally, they opened the bar at 7 a.m. Meats and I got a few more drinks, two vodka and tonics each with a whiskey chaser for myself. But by then, the actual wing-eating contest had begun, and as we watched on high-def a man projectile vomited a la Lina Blair. Turned out it was a replay from last year: still good shit.

At this point Meats and I decided to meet up with the rest of our gang upstairs, section 214 or whatever, close enough to the stage. It went like this:

First round was all-involved: Eat like the madmen you are for 15 minutes, see what shakes out, next round, they take the top 10 of Round 1 and enter them into Round 2. Unfortunately, Frank DeFraud did not make it past Round 1, bummer. I was going to go down to the pit to chat with him, but, frankly, I was too inebriated at this point to navigate the steep incline of the stairs at the Wach without help, thusly deciding against it.

In the meantime: Titties!

Round Two was 5 minutes, more shaking the tree.

After Round 2: something I don't understand: a lady getting tossed out for exposing breast meat. I mean, I understand at a 76ers game, or even the Flyers, but here? Then? What's the point? Whatever. Way beyond my comprehension or control.

So last round, the speed round, was essentially between three IFOC pros and two locals. Let me tell you something: Joey goddamn Chestnut can eat some wings. A combination of skill, heart, and technique. He was ripping flesh like nothing I've ever seen. Really. Very impressive. And he won. A diamond ring from Steven Singer and a Suzuki Grand Vitara. Well done, my man, well done. Good work. Wing on, man, wing on.

But:

Best was: El Wingador, pissed about these outsiders "winning our championship," announced his official un-retirement!!!! Go Bill! Go you motherfucker!!!! Get 'em, get those bitches!!!! Bring 'em down to Chinatown!!!! I'm there with you in both heart and spirit.

So I guess by and by we drifted out about a half hour later. We went back to the Congregation for some post-Wing Bowl come-downs. Somehow, Meats turned on NPR, who, surprise surprise, were talking Wing Bowl! Must be pledge/sweeps week.

Anyway, I stayed for a bit, but had to meet my Pops for a junk engagement. But I listened to stupid Terry Gross on the way home. Finally, getting pissed enough at her condescending attitude towards food eating competitions, I had to call in. I don't think I got my point across, but what I meant to say was, not in so many words, but, here we go, for the record:

Fuck you: Terry Gross, and your pals at the Philadelphia Weekly and the Philadelphia City Paper. I am in fact as smart if not smarter than you. And you know what? I like Wing Bowl. You stupid pseudointellectuals don't get it. Know what? I don't care. As someone told me at Wing Bowl about your attitude, in fact:

"Let 'em stick the're fois gras and truffels where the sun don't shine. Fuck them. We're blue-collar. They don't know us. They don't know Philly."

Amen.

As for me:

Next year: I don't care how I get in. But I will have: Wingettes. A float. And a chance. I god-damn-guarantee it.

Peace Y'all.

Smarty Bones: Out!

Sirius Satellite Radio

The guys at 610 are gonna kill me for this, well, not kill, but you know what I mean, anyway, this one is about Sirius Radio, great shit it is. And anyway I still listen to 610 a lot too.

Anyway in the interest of full disclosure of conflict of interest, I must mention am both a subscriber and a shareholder. Granted, only 75 shares, (well, at one point 100, but after ditching it December 30 in order to take advantage of the tax break on capitol losses, I re-bought it before the February 1 time frame which would have made my transaction legal, when they announced they had finally gone into the black and turned a profit for the last quarter of 2006. Dammit. Live and learn I guess) but a shareholder nonetheless.

Let me tell you why it rocks: because, simply, it rocks. I mean, this morning, I was listening to Howard Stern, and planned on continuing listening to him as I drove to work. My model, the Starmate, has this feature which allows you to program in up to 30 artists, so when an artist you like comes on, it will beep, and you can tune to that station. So I get in the car, plug in the radio, turn it on, and it beeps, Velvet Underground, “Sister Ray.” Now I haven’t heard that horrible beautiful noise in some time, and it was just the thing to cut through my morning fog, so I listen for a bit, get lost driving for a bit, then it beeps again, Dinosaur Jr’s version of “Just Like Heaven.” Then “Heart of Gold.” Then “Bohemian Rhapsody,” followed by “More than a Feeling.” I actually parked and sat in the car for a few minutes to listen to the sound of Maryanne walkin’ awaaaaaaaaaaaaay…, a trick I learned from my pop.

Oh yeah, did I mention, all that stuff is commercial free? And they have every variety of music? From classical to bluegrass? And are now getting NASCAR? Not that I’m into any of that, but you might be.

So, don’t get XM ‘cause that company is apparently currently being run by what appears to be escapees from the orangutan cage at the Philadelphia Zoo, at least going by what I read in the papers.

If you like music, like I do, buy Sirius. Well worth the $13 / month subscription and the intial purchase of equipment.

Trust me.

Wing Bowl XV: Part III: El Wingador, Franks and Me

Inspired by my achievement at the chicken cheesesteak contest, I decided to try again for Wing Bowl. Besides, now I get Wing Bowl. Really, that Slack's was crowded for such a small place, and for me it was akin to being in a band playing a small but packed club. And between watching Chuck Roast get a case of the nerves, Hungry Jack's obviously near-vomitous state, what with his sweating face and bulging eyes, and Frank just run away with it all and torture Jack at the end, I have to say, it was quite an experience. But now I'm hungry: I want a float, I want Wingettes, I want to win that car, I want in, I want to be in Wing Bowl, god-effing-dammit!

There is another contest. This one is a Wing Off, held at Dempster's in Mt. Holly, NJ. It's a different scene than the Slack's though. More of an Eagles pep rally as they prepare for the divisional title game against the New Orleans Saints. Plus, anyone can walk in and register, no pre-qualification necessary. Plus, there are a ton of hot New Jersey chicks, as Dempster's had their own Wingette competition a few weeks earlier. Plus there are girls from Coor's Light and Jack Daniels wearing halter-tops and acid wash. I mean, who knew? Halter-tops and acid wash—I had thought that those particular styles had gone the way of the flannel shirt, Wranglers and the tie-dye, but, then again, all of those were also on display that night as well. Note to self: submit slogan for NJ auto tags next time they run a contest: "New Jersey -- Where Bad Fashion Never Dies."

So, instead of a race between all competitors, they only allowed eight of us to eat at a time. And with 40 contestants plus 10 minutes per heat plus down-time between heats, it took a bit longer than I expected. I'm not complaining, it was just different than the Slack's competition. Anyway, when it was my turn to eat, I did pretty good in the Wing Off -- by my count, 53 in 10 minutes, yet not well enough to win a spot at the big dance, or even take third. Winner did 63, second 60, third 57 all in the 10 minute time allotment. I placed somewhere tied for fourth.

Note to co-host Hugh Douglas: At one point during the competition, you said, "Looks like we should buy Smarty a new hat." Lemme tell you dude: that hat is all about food & luck. While wearing that hat, I've made approximately 3,000 whole-cooked turkeys, 1,000 baked hams and an enumerable amount of Schmitters. Seriously, when you get into tonnage, why count?

Thus my D-Troit Tiger's hat. Part o' me, that's all. I began thinking about retirement the next day, but that's mainly 'cause my tummy was cement-mixer upset and my bum was fairly raw. Plus there was a mucus attack at 3 a.m., which I believe was a direct result of an overdose of Louisiana Hot Sauce. But, no official announcement as of yet. I was, however, very encouraged by El Wingador, who both offered me a ton of advice as I was cramming wings down my gullet, things like, "Less water! Clean them bones Smarty!" and afterwards told me that I "really showed a lot of heart for a little guy," a sentiment I shall cherish always. I mean, c'mon, I'm 5'9" 175 lbs. I'm in a different weight class (other than the Black Widow) altogether than these people. I didn't tell El Wingador that I nearly puked twice, once around wing number 30 and again around wing number 45, but instead told myself, "Be a man, this is for a new car!" and choked it down. I suspect El Wingador knew anyway, as he is a seasoned professional and five time Wing Bowl Champion, and has seen this type of thing once or twice before.

Frank DeFraud, who bested me in the previous event, was kind enough to both act as my main cheerleader (C'mon Smarty, don't think about it! Eat!) and take several pictures of me with a clown-like amount of hot sauce on my face, stuffing myself silly and hanging with ex-Eagle Hugh Douglas. See above photos. Always a winner, however, I won two more tickets at the raffle to the big dance, but promptly sold them to a great guy that I met, Frank "Empty Plate" D. and his buddy from Gettysburg College, for $20 as I needed gas and toll money to get home.

So, who knows? Maybe I'll retire, maybe I'll just put myself out to stud.

Next stop: Another Wing Off at the Trappe Tavern in Collegeville Thursday night, 1/18/2007. If not as a contestant than I will be there as a spectator, if only to root for Empty Plate.

Barbaro

Now it has gone from baffling to surreal. I mean, c'mon: a horse that won only one big race is makes the cover of both papers this morning? Retarded. Listen people:

First of all, it isn't like these animals lead any kind of life of pleasure. I like to gamble, I bet on the ponies at the Turf Club, all the time, but the fact is, these creatures are so overdosed with steroids, growth hormones and whatever other concoctions humanly conjurable, that they literally cannot help but to bolt out of the gate when it opens. I know more than one former jockey, that's what they tell me, and I believe them. So any of you nitwits out there that are leaving carrots and roses over at Barbaro's grave, please stop. If you care that much, go to the track instead. The animals there need your attention much more than a dead one. Second of all, if you try and tell me that he was some kind of a "fighter" or a "hero" or whatever, I'm going to say: stop being silly. Let's reserve those terms for those who have actively served in the line of duty. It was a horse. A racehorse. It did not experience emotion any more than the chicken salad sandwich I'll be having for lunch later today has any emotion. Stop projecting your own twisted senses of compassion and failure on the incognizant. Stop living your lives through a horse. Please.

And if you are one of these PETA people, if you believe that all animals have emotion or whatever, well, believe what you want. I'm not gonna try and stop you. But I am going to point out to you the following: where does it end? I mean, in any form of vegetation, there are billions of microorganisms that belong to the animal kingdom. Let alone that and consider the Venus flytrap. I don't know if it has a brain or not or is capable of any emotion or imagination, but that plant sure seems clever to me. Humans? Go deep enough into the Amazon and hang out with some cannibals, then come and tell me (assuming they haven't eaten you) that they are screwed up. I don't know, I've never met one, but I'm not going to judge anyone's lifestyle choices without at least meeting them first. Me, I'm just gonna stay here in Philly where is is reasonably safe, well, sort of, and do my chicken wing thing.

And since this particular equine is dominating headlines, I have to point out that it is the media, not religion, but the media, which is the opiate of the masses. Religion has had it's time and place and all, but who besides the willfully misguided goes to church or temple or the mosque anymore? And everyone I know watches television. So develop whatever conspiracy theories you want on your own, but, in my opinion, most of you are being fed lies and are deluded, lies which, I might add, you happily consume like so many Happy Meals. I mean c'mon, over 400 murders last year here in Philadelphia alone, and we're having a state funeral for a freaking horse. He wasn't even Mr. Ed! Or Trigger! Or Lassie! Or Rin Tin TIn! I mean, what?!?!?? To quote the great Mugato, "Is everyone taking crazy pills?!?!?!"

Anyway, my final recommendation to you all is, next time it is on special at Le Bec Fin, try le chevalier. Pretty good stuff when you can get it. Yummy, in fact.

WNOC

Lee reminded me of something today that I have already mentioned in this post:

Many thanks to the whole E7 crew: Dolan, Sean Gal, Sherlock, Kevin, Kel, I'm probably forgetting someone, and also anyone else that happened to share that spot in the space/time continuum: Gretechen, Nicole, Sue, all the chick's I've forgotten, doesn't make you any less important to this tale, just I smoked a lot of pot then, a known memory eraser.

Anyway: Thanks, without you guys, woul'da never known the joy of the 'NOC. Peace out.

Before I begin to ramble on about the boys in WNOC I should probably explain my view on the N word. Let me say up front I never use that word, as it is way too loaded with over five hundred years of slavery, oppression, torture and systematic abuse. See Wachovia Bank for details. Anyway I wasn’t in the band, just a fan of the music. Personally I don’t think they are or were racists, either, I think their motivations were more along the lines of Mark Twain’s who used that word in "Huckleberry Finn," by my recollection, at least twelve times on one page alone, describing Jim, but I think that was the whole point of Jim: he was the only genuinely good-hearted person in the entire book: thusly Twain was attempting to show that although you may call someone something, words can have little power over their life if they do not let them do so as such. Or at the very least, he was attempting to remove some of the the negative power of the word. Don't know. Not Sam Clemens.

Old Dirty Bastard of the Wu Tang Clan explained once on the Howard Stern Show that there is a difference between ----gers and ----gahs. Essentially, one is a lazy person, the other a homeboy. Personally, I’m pretty confused by the whole politically correct approach to these things, by that I mean, in the nineteen forties and fifties, they preferred “colored” because “negro” was to close to the other word. In the nineteen sixties and seventies, it became “black” – black power, black is beautiful, etc. Then in the nineteen eighties or nineties, it became “African American,” which, I think, is probably insulting to those who are: from Africa, but not of that particular color, are of mixed heritage, and those who are that color but came from somewhere else, i.e. the Caribbean.

The other thing I should explain is the blues. The blues evolved in the Mississippi Delta this way: slaves, whose only common tongue was that of their master’s, English, would sing, in iambic pentameter, their troubles to pass the days, to make their lives more bearable, to celebrate, to laugh, to cry. So you can take the last two lines of any act of any one of Shakespeare’s plays, sing them, and play the blues to them. Couplet iambic pentameter. Crazy but true. Anyway the blues begot jazz, rock and roll, reggae, funk and so on and so forth until hip hop rolled around in the late seventies. And, here we are now, they are all still going strong, entertain us.

So I guess what I’m saying is, I don’t go for that politically correct bullshit to begin with, i.e. a executive once got fired after a public speaking engagement for using, in his speech, the word "niggardly," which is defined as: "excessively stingy." Go ahead, look it up. See? Told you so. I think perhaps there ought to be some kind of referendum amongst everyone so as to decide what exactly they would like to be known as / the rest of us should call them. Until that happens, I’m going with black, because, as a child of the seventies, I like that one best: Black is in fact beautiful. Black power is likely at least some, if not most of the time, a good thing.

At any rate, I think really we all ought to drop the whole labeling thing anyway, unfortunately, the day that happens, (pardon the clichés) hell will freeze over, pigs will fly, bombers flying shotgun in the sky will turn into butterflies over our nation, frogs will sing, and the Antichrist will appear. Besides, as I heard a comedian say on Sirius radio the other day, “there are so many better reasons to judge a person other than their skin color, it’s stupid. I think all people are born equal: then it is a slow but steady decline into [asssholedom.]”

Or adopt it whole-heartedly: I have no problem whatsoever if you want to refer to me as "some kind of Deigo/Deutch/Dutch/Mick bastard," or "one crazy 'Casian." I even have been known to answer to "hey, Asshole." Whatever.

So, the use of ---gahs by some people that are non-black is sometimes acceptable, not to me, but, I guess, if they are friends or whatever, it is o.k. Never has been for me, but that’s what some of them tell me. But if you are a performing artist of any color, whether you are Elvis Costello or Chuck D, and you use that word in your music, you ought to at least include an insert explaining the difference between the two words and when it is/is not appropriate for use, because, in general, and you can call me cynical all you want, most people are both stupid and ignorant. For in my experience, those non-black people who adopt the fashion and listen to the music are often the most racist people I’ve ever met. Not all, but more than a few. And I think WNOC did a disservice to both themselves and their fans (who were largely in their early to mid-twenties and white, forgive me, European Americans of Mixed Heritage, college students) by never doing that. Was at least one factor of three that I can think of that they were never signed to a major label. Thus: WNOC, White ---gahs On Crack. Anyway, like I said, I don’t think they were racist; I got to know them, as you will read, pretty well. And besides my opinion, there was one other that ought to count for something: the late, great jazz saxophonist Grover Washington Jr.’s.

I got to know Grover because he was a frequent customer of mine at where I bartended as his business office was across the street. Tuna sandwich on whole-wheat toast with lettuce and tomato and a bottle of Sam Adams, every time. Good guy, too: Annie, my boss, and I argued frequently over which jazz station I was allowed to play: Temple University’s (WRTI) that played the good, real jazz: Dizzy Gillespie, John Coltrane, etc., or 106.1, the station with the modern, ‘mersh crap: Kenny G and so forth, even Grover. One day, Grover walks in while we are in the middle of that argument and says, “I want you to know, you are the only bartender here that plays decent music” That was the last time Annie said anything about it. Thanks Gro, see you up there. ‘NOC got to know Grover because Brownie, Chris Brown, the guitarist, did roadie work for him frequently, and anyway, the point is, Grover laid tracks for them on one song on their second release, “Devil.” Maybe he didn’t know what the acronym meant, I doubt it, though, and that guy was the first person I ever saw with an “Erascism” hat.

So can a white man feel the black man's pain? I don't know. I know I can feel empathy towards someone but that's not the same. Anyway, think what you will about me and/or the band. I don't give a shit. I can’t stand blind faith in anything, like when I was 10 and one of my mom’s cronies told me I shouldn’t be wearing a button with Buckwheat’s picture on it because, in her opinion, Buckwheat was somehow a racist portrayal, which is the same reason Bill Cosby bought the rights to all of them and will never show the Little Rascals again. Way to change history Bill: censor it. No, a-holes: it was a movie serial about the antics of a few kids in the Depression, that’s all. Entertainment. In hard times. The fact that the rest of the Rascals were all friends with Buckwheat should give you some clue as to the mindset of the producers of the Little Rascals. Freaking Big Brother Bill, like Fat Albert wasn’t chock full of stereotyping. Meanwhile Bill Cosby is cheating on his wife, slipping women Mickeys in order to take advantaged of them, telling Eddie Murphy to clean up his act, and telling blacks to learn to speak proper English, as if English isn’t a very malleable language, and in fact changes almost daily and ghetto-speak or whatever you want to call it hasn't already been absorbed by most mainstream culture. What a douche. Whatever. What I’m saying is, “liberals” are sometimes not at all liberal: they are as pigheaded, stupid, and blindly loyal to their side as anyone on the far right. Being liberal should mean, “being open to new ideas,” and many of them are, in fact, not at all open to anything.

So anyway, to the topic at hand: I saw WNOC first in early nineteen ninety-one, at this place Spelunker's near the Tower Theater in Upper Darby, and to paraphrase Rob Reiner in Spinal Tap, "don't look for it, it closed along time ago." I love that line, so self-serving, like anyone would. Anyway, they flat out sucked that night. Brownie told me later they all had had the flu, thus the overall suckiness of their performance. Flush full of the confidence that stemmed from my first and only fake I.D., I wound up getting so drunk on Jack Daniels and Heineken that I first went to puke in the bathroom, which turned out to be a broom closet. Being a gentleman, I don’t puke in broom closets, so I somehow managed to hold it in my cheeks, chipmonk like, while I found the bathroom, and did it in the sink. After washing out my mouth, I returned to the bar, and proceeded to promptly fall asleep on it. Next thing I remember is being escorted to the exit by a rather large, muscular and burly gentleman, who informed me to please not return for a while. Never did. Never drank Heiny and Jack again either.

The next time I saw them wasn’t until over a year later, had to have been mid-April nineteen ninety-two. My friend Nicole from La Salle University convinced me to go as she needed a ride, so I said, what the hell, let’s go to Penn’s Spring Fling and check it out. They totally rocked. I don't think I ever told Frank Holt this, but at one point I saved his entire effects pedal setup from a spilt beer. They also covered “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” the end of which featured a very large headshot poster of Kurt Cobain being blown apart by fireworks, scant days after his unfortunate demise. Later I learned that at their first-ever live performance, at a place called JC Dobbs on South Street, where I once spoke with Billy Joe Armstrong of Green Day at length about the album insert in for their first record, nice guy, by the way, at least before he got fat, 'NOC had collected hundreds of crack vials from the neighborhood where Brownie lived and threw them out to the audience as presents. My kind of jokers.

They were really a great live band. I don’t dance well, or often, but something about their music really grabbed me and made me do it. They were kind of like Sublime, with a little polka or whatever else thrown in, and happening at the same exact time, just with a vocalist, MC Cold 40, that rapped, sounding not entirely unlike Ernie from Sesame Street. If only Ernie could say things like “I’m not here to cut the rug / or dis any biddies / I rather kiss and hug / than piss on their titties / Don’t get me wrong, dating’s allowed / but not with the ones who call me when I’m rockin’ the crowd / I share my life and sacrifice but when we turn the light out / please receive me dear uh huh call me MC White Out” (‘Biddies (Be Dissin’ Me’)) or “Sing a song a sister’s got a pocket full of crack / you think you’re saying something but you ain’t sayin’ jack / tell me what is going on these days / from what I seen lately motherfuckin’ crime pays / cause somebody is getting paid” (‘Getting’ Paid’) and so on and so forth.

The live shows were simply the best. Really I’d say that, over a span of six years, I probably saw them play nearly three hundred times, easy. I mean, virtually every time they played, I went, it was that good. Always fun. And in addition to the frequent present-throwing, which made great schwag, I witnessed and/or participated in the following: dwarf tossing, tossing presents offstage at the Christmas show while Schooly D DJ'd, strippers stripping fully nude, marijuana smoking inside clubs (every time they played ‘Kind Bud,’ actually), psilocybin use, Sean Gal taking out the drum kit as he was tripping on ‘shrooms while simultaneously attempting to sing his part on ‘Biddies’ one time at the Barbary, blowing antagonistic smoke at the back of the bouncer's head at the Halloween show while dressed in a cow costume and wearing a Jason hockey mask, my "Mad Cow" outfit that only Joe MC40 got later that night as he was about to go to bed at four a.m. and probably because he used the same mask on stage, how star-effing of me, and a whole shitload of public drunkenness. Really. A lot. More than you can imagine, even, as Han Solo once said, if you can imagine quite a bit. My “seat,” as it was, at these shows was generally to stand front row, center, for as long as I could take the heat, and dance my ass off and sweat like crazy. Then hit the bar for a shot and a beer. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Apparently at one Halloween show, when they had WNOC carved each letter into four jack o' lanterns, I very nearly got my head kick in for taking that position, but hey, sacrifices must made if you want to properly enjoy a show, and anyway I'll take one for the team anytime.

Another time, there was supposed to be some kind of an ‘artist showcase’ at the Trocodero where featured artists were supposed to play for a few different labels' A&R guys. Of course maybe 7 people show up, and not one A&R guy. Call it Bones’ Inverse Law of Trying to Get Signed: play a club designed to hold 75 people and 200 show up: play a club that can hold well over a thousand, invite the record companies, and virtually no one shows up. So this band Mercy River is playing, and the jackass lead singer/guitarist says something like ‘How come no one is dancing? You guys suck.’ Dude, there’s twelve people here, and four of them are on stage and two are behind the bar. Not a lot of dancing is gonna go on. So Meats and I, wise-asses that we are, form a two person mosh pit for their entire next song, which was pretty long, four or five minutes at least, dancing in the most absurd fashions possible: foxtrot, robot, Charleston, whatever, every once in a while knocking each other onto the floor. At least the guy apologized after that tune, like, ‘Sorry I guess I shouldn’t have said that.’ Duh, no asshole, not to me, not in Philly. The one time I missed what turned out to be a good show was when ‘NOC opened for U2 in Hershey, PA. Another factor in career-killing (which I’ll get to later): the instructions were: whatever you guys do, don’t go onto Bono’s catwalk, which extended twenty yards or so into the crowd (especially Achtung-Baby-Tour-Bono, he's cool again now, but he acted like a total jackass that tour, I saw him singing to himself into a mirror at the Wachovia Center, no shit, and he wouldn't shake my hand when he got close as I was standing next to his precious self-serving catwalk. Divorce: it does a body no good.). So, of course, 40 had to leap the ten-foot gap the stage crew had left in the catwalk, blow-up doll in hand, and proceed to simul-fuck her. Now that’s commitment to a joke. And suicide for a band. Anyway, there's many, many more details than those, but thems the ones I 'member. For now.

I got to become friends with them, at least sort of. Brownie worked the door at Walsh’s Tavern (don’t look for that one either, it’s gone too), this bar in West Philly, where, every Monday night, and the Tuesday nights, this band Crosstown Traffic played. For me it was like getting a weekly guitar lesson. Rob Holt would come for the same reason but drums. Three guys that were Philly studio musicians, Greg, Wally and shit, I can’t remember the drummer’s name, but he wound up playing in June Rich, which effectively ended Crosstown Traffic. Can’t blame him though. Anyway I'd hang out, listen to music, and play whatever video game was next to the door and Brownie and I would talk about whatever, Eagles, Flyers, Philles, Sixers, music, whatever. I'd like to say I remember verbatim more of the conversations, but given the setting, that didn't happen. Oh well. Can't remember all the bullshit I suppose.

I got to know all of them a little bit anyway. Actually, if I were working that night, I would bring two Schmitters (Frank Holt (bass) and Brownie (guitar) one Dickens (Rob Holt (drums)) and a G.B.S. (Joe (Roastin' and Toastin')) for them to eat at the mid show break. That worked out, 'cause they usually didn’t go on 'til after 11 or so, and I was always out of work by midnight, and most of the places they played were within a half hour drive, so I’d catch a good portion of the show, then go home and crash, and be back to work fresh as a still-drunken daisy by 9 a.m..

The worst time, though, was this: I had this dog, Rudie, she was great. But you had to be careful with her. She didn’t bite on purpose, but if you were trying to wrestle the stick or ball or toy or whatever out of her mouth in order to throw it again (she never mastered the whole ‘drop’ command, but hey, that’s half the reason I named her Rudie: the Rude Dog, rude, stubborn and disobedient. Other half was "Rudie Can't Fail" by the Clash), she would quick-snap at another point on the stick to get leverage. So one time I went to see them play down at the Art Museum area, and anyway I took Rudie as it was a nice day and I could walk her down Kelly Drive. Turns out the band went on a lot earlier than I expected, but I ran into Rob and his girlfriend at the time, Natalie on Kelly Drive. So anyway, I’m talking to them, Rob starts messing with Rudie, trying to get the stick out, I say, ‘wait, not a good idea’ as I know what’s about to happen, which was, she adjusted her grip and bit right through his thumbnail, bad news for a drummer. He was cool about it, like, ‘you told me so,’ but Natalie was this sort of hot, but not hot enough to be the kind of a power bitch she was kind of girl, and, anyway and I never liked her all that much to begin with. Personality disorder of none whatsoever. Anyway, every time I saw him at Walsh’s after that, until the scar that developed on nail grew all the way out, I’d buy him a couple rounds at least---he never asked for that, I just did it out of guilt, and in fact eventually he started refusing--but it still beats the hell out of the hassle and pain of a lawsuit and a dog extermination. Good guy.

They were never signed. Personally, and this is only my opinion, I think there were a few factors:

#1 I think they didn’t write enough new material. Two albums in ten years (excluding the annual Christmas tape) is simply not enough and songwriting is like any writing, the more you do it the better you get at it. I mean they changed and improved and different versions of all of their stuff, and the lyrics were almost never the same, Joe would just go into a zone and make stuff up freestyle, but still. Just not enough new shit, in my very humble opinion.

#2 They were trying to get signed. They really wanted that, especially Rob, and I don’t think as an artist you should ever concentrate on any award or achievement or whatever. It will only cloud your thinking and ultimately you will compromise your art. Self-censorship is absolutely the worst kind.

#3 would be the name. No major record company is going to risk throwing that out there, unfortunately.

#4 May have been MC40. He was a pretty good rapper, but when compared to Sublime, and their music really was very similar, but there was a difference. Plus Brad from Sublime overdosed, and everyone knows death is a career move in the music industry, and nobody in that band died, fortunately or not. And 40's freestyle raps were so goddman dirty, they were great: I have this one live version of "Gettin' Paid" that he gave me, a line in it goes: "To all the ladies that look fine / pretend my prick is Moby Dick / have a whale of a time / though I'm not a deep sea diver / I just love when my cock / is covered in saliva / into pussy lickin' know what I mean G? / when it comes to eatin' cat / I'm the Chicken of the Sea." Fucking brilliant. Don't get me wrong though: I mean not to say 40 was any worse or, for that matter, better than Brad, they each had their own attributes, they are/were their own men. Just that Brad, by record sales alone, was the better vocalist: he could sing sweetly like Bob Marley, and I never heard 40 do that. Not that he can't, I just never heard it.

But, who knows, really; I suppose they were never signed because it just wasn't in the cards is all.

So, I guess they broke up some time in 1999. I actually missed the last couple-few shows as I was working in upstate New York for about six months at the time, bummer, but I got to see them plenty anyway. I do sometimes wonder: if I get married, which likely won't happen, would they play my wedding? Maybe not, but, every band has their price…..

Music Meets Big Guvamint

In the mid-1970s, Great Britain experienced a certain cultural upheaval among the nation’s youth which, when examined later, stands apart from the other various youth counterculture movements in close proximity to that era. Aggressive music, torn and disheveled clothing, wildly colored hairstyles, and the appropriation and reinterpretation of symbolic imagery (such as the Nazi swastika) characterized the outward ‘look’ of this movement; all were integral to the anti-establishment tone of the movement.

The movement, which became known as “punk,” was seen as ‘offensive’ to most Britons; resultantly, the press, police, politicians and even ordinary members of society widely vilified and sought to persecute members of this movement. In and of itself, the persecution of a youth counterculture movement may not seem unremarkable to the casual observer. But in the context of post-World War II British society, it can be seen as extraordinary, given the foundations of freedom for which Briton themselves had fought only thirty years earlier: as late as the 1960s, Britons considered themselves to be members of a ‘Permissive Society,’ and, while condemning certain aspects of other youth countercultures (drug use or the perception of rock and roll as Americanization), generally allowed the various youth counterculture movements the freedom to run their inevitable courses.

The causes of the highly conservative reaction to punk by the mainstream society of England in the mid-1970s are varied and complex; however, it may be that many Britons, including the upper echelons of government, the press, and even ordinary members of the middle class, viewed punks as a genuine threat to their own existence: as such, punks became an enemy to the state and mainstream society—and needed to be silenced, if not destroyed.
To understand the backlash that punk generated, a working definition of what precisely ‘punk’ was must first be established, and some of the generalities of life in England during this era must first be examined.

The term ‘punk’ is a nebulous concept—the definition of ‘punk’ can change from person to person, and often changes in meaning to an individual over time. However, it is necessary to begin with some kind of working definition in order to proceed. At a basic level, ‘punk’ was a subculture differentiated by being part youth rebellion, part artistic statement. It peaked as a movement during the period of 1976 to1979, most noticeably in England and the United States.
It had its primary manifestation in music, not only among the disaffected rock and roll bands like the Sex Pistols, Buzzcoks and the Clash that made the music, but also their fans. Secondary manifestations of punk were fashion and the visual arts. Philosophically, punk stood for identifiable attitudes: an emphasis on nihilism, a consciousness of class-based politics, a belief in spontaneity, and an ethic of ‘do it yourself.’ Finally, because ‘punk’ also entails political and class consciousness, it can only have begun in one place: England in the mid-1970s.

This is not to rule out the American bands such as the Ramones, the New York Dolls, the Velvet Underground and Iggy and the Stooges: punk could not have been born without their influence. However, these bands used generally used outrage for art’s sake, and had little or no political agenda. Punk therefore contained not only a musical sound, but also an injection of political philosophy. In order to narrow the scope further, it will become necessary to examine the trajectory of one of these bands, arguably the most influential and perhaps the definitive punk band: the Sex Pistols.

[A side note that did not appear in the original publication of this paper:

First, I'd like to thank Dr. Regina Gramer for helping me work all of this out. Nice lady. Asked good questions. Cute kid, too. Doc, sorry about cutting class so much, but those other people in W387 drove me mad. They still thought that there was some kind of JFK conspiracy! No. Oswald acted alone. Try to explain it and get shouted down. Whatever. Anyway, thanks again for writing that recommendation to the LSAT board even if I didn't get in. Things have worked out for the best.

Second: There was much debate at Club 700 about what constitutes "punk," "post-punk," "New Wave," et cetera. In my heart of hearts I know these two things: (a) those three terms and any others like them are representative of the same ideas and movement. Just because ian Curtis died while in Joy Division doesn't make New Order any less of "some kind of a punk band" as Bernie once said, and (b) besides, it is like the blues: it will never die, it does not matter what age, creed, gender or color you are. If you have been oppressed, if the kids at school are teasing you, if some one ever took your lunch money,if you've been spit in the face, and you are pissed off about these facts, do yourself this favor:

Convince your parents to buy you a guitar and the biggest amp they can afford, or buy one of each yourself, like I did. Actually my brother gave me the amp, but whatever, I'd of bought one need be. Then, put it in the basement, or your better, your bedroom. Then, put in some foam earplugs. Then, plug it all in, unless it is battery-powered, in which case, first charge the battery. Then, turn that bitch up to eleven. Then fucking wail on it. Don't even bother tuning it up. Or, if you decide to tune it, feel free to experiment like Thurston Moore and the rest of Sonic Youth with your tuning. It'll sound best if you do your own tuning anyway. Tune it to what you feel inside, your heart. Don't bother taking any lessons first either, and that's really the whole point: make your sound. Sound good to you? Good. Rock.

Believe me: at this point you are not playing that guitar, it is playing you. Enjoy. Disturb the neighbors, frequently. And don't worry about it when your parents tell you to TURN IT DOWN, DAMMIT! Trust me, they probably deserve the any and all of the punishment you are dishing out . And that they have it coming. They have committed many crimes to you which they are about to atone for. Not their fault, not like their parents were a road map or the government gave them a pamphlet, either, as Kineson once said. Rock on. Congratulations, you are now a punk rocker. Go get 'em!

What I'm saying is, most if not all musical forms transcend time and space, and the only poseurs in punk are those who have not experienced any of the pain or opression or whatever aforementioned above, yet still call themselves punks. To them it's just about the fashion. Dorks.

Back to the matter at hand:]

The changes England experienced during the early 1970s were unpleasant to the youth of the nation, to say the least: by 1975, England was experiencing full-blown recession. People faulted everyone but themselves for the poor condition of the economy: the government, immigrants, OPEC, and striking union members all shared in the blame. Public spending had risen by 45% under both the conservative leadership of Prime Minister Heath and the Labour leadership of P.M. Wilson, while the gross national product shrank, due to low-priced foreign goods and a lack of production in England. Those graduating from primary school were the most vulnerable to the declining economy. In late 1975, Healy introduced a domestic spending package that would cut three billion pounds in social welfare expenditures. Meanwhile, the United States, mired in its own economic quandary, called in the loans it had provided to England during World War II, increasing the national debt by another three billion pounds.

Generating revenue became the focal point of any enterprise in England, and the music industry was no exception. The Beatles, Rolling Stones, and The Who were all renowned for their ability to sell hundreds of thousands of records overseas, producing vast amounts of capital from almost nothing: the cost of studio time was made irrelevant by these artists creativity and marketability. By the mid-1970s, six multinational corporations dominated nearly three-quarters of the English music industry. These corporations favored progressive rock: costly, multi-tracked songs, which, in addition to the guitar / bass / drums / singer formula that had defined rock since its inception, often included synthesizers, scores of background singers, more obscure instruments like harpsichords, and even entire orchestras. ‘Prog’ rock was defined by bands like Yes, Pink Floyd, The Moody Blues and Abba. These bands were also expensive to market: promoters would spend huge sums, hoping that the bands would be accepted by the masses. Rock and roll had ceased to be counter-cultural: it had become the mainstream, a bloated monster that celebrated economic gain and excessive living.

This monster was generating a false consciousness: ostensibly, it was rebellious music; in reality, it had become yet another strata in the class divisions existing within English society. To the teenagers of the early 1970s, it was simply boring.

Malcolm McLaren, manager of the Sex Pistols, and Jamie Reid, their album artist, were all at least admirers, if not members of the Situationist International movement during the nineteen sixties. The Situationists (See: Paris, 1969 I think) were the modern intellectual descendants of the nineteenth century anarchists. The Situationists ideological basis was that the original working class movement had been trodden by the bourgeoisie in the West and by the Bolsheviks in the East. Working class organizations, such as trade unions and leftist political parties had sold out to world capitalism; furthermore, capitalism could now appropriate even the most radical ideas and return them safely, as risk-free ideologies, to be used against the working class, which they were originally supposed to represent. The Situationists did not want to work with the existing system: instead, the sought to destroy it, after which they would create a world composed of small, independent states: “an alternative society, neither capitalist nor bureaucratic-socialistic: a society based on voluntary co-operation among men and women, working and living in small self-governing communities.”

McLaren formed the Sex Pistols in late 1975, by introducing the members to one another in his sadomasochism-themed clothing boutique, Sex. Initially, he sought to use the group as a promotional tool for his bondage gear. What he soon discovered was that the group had a wide appeal to the disenfranchised youth of the nation. And that he could capitalize on that appeal.

The members of the Sex Pistols were not necessarily politically aware when McLaren introduced them to one another. They were, however, aware of their own economic plight and lack of opportunity. With the exception of original bassist Glen Matlock, the members of the group were lower class, and had been raised in abject poverty. Singer John Lydon (also known as Johnny Rotten) had been born into an Irish immigrant family living in the slums of Finsbury Park, London. “The whole family [father, mother and three brothers] shared the same bedroom and a kitchen. That’s all it was. No bathroom. Outside toilet. A tramp lived in the front room, which used to be a store front.”

Lydon, dissatisfied with his own socio-economic-political situation, reflected a similar philosophy with the lyrics to “Anarchy in the U.K.” In it, he sings, “I am an antichrist / I am an anarchist / Don't know what I want /But I know how to get it / I wanna destroy / the passerby /'Cause I wanna be Anarchy / Anarchy for the U.K. / It's coming sometime and maybe / I give a wrong time stop a traffic line / Your future dream is a shopping scheme.” Lydon, who claims to have been apolitical at the time, provided the conceptual direction of the group, calculated to be as confrontational, caustic and threatening as possible. Lydon was not interested in British politics because they had nothing to offer—thus the need for a new type of society.

McLaren, realizing that the promotion of the song and the philosophy was key to the success of both, booked the band on London Weekend Television's Today program with Bill Grundy, which ended in a stream of four-letter abuse of the host that brought the group banner headlines in the following morning's tabloid press:

Grundy: They are “punk rockers.” The new craze, they tell me. Their heroes? Not the nice, clean Rolling Stones... You see they are as drunk as I am... They are clean by comparison. They're a group called The Sex Pistols, and I am surrounded by all of them...

Jones: In action!

Grundy: Just let us see The Sex Pistols in action. Come on kids...I am told that that group have received forty thousand pounds from a record company. Doesn't that seem to be slightly opposed to their anti-materialistic view of life?

Matlock: No, the more the merrier.

Grundy: Really?

Matlock: Oh yeah.

Grundy: Well tell me more then.

Jones: We've fuckin' spent it, ain't we?

Grundy: I don't know, have you?

Matlock: Yeah, it's all gone.

Grundy: Really?

Jones: Down the boozer.

Under pressure from local authorities, promoters in the cities of northern England canceled most of the group’s scheduled tour. Furthermore, the single was banned from many shops due to the lyrical content. In spite of this censorship, the group had gained enough attention from the interview that the single eventually reached #36 on the New Musical Express charts. Yet the negative publicity was too much for the group’s label, EMI, to handle: the group was dropped shortly after the interview.

Besides the tabloid press and bans from record stores, the bands were also reviled by the more legitimate press, and members of political institutions. Ronald Butt, writing for the Times of London, dismissed the group as “the grubby face of mass promotion;” Member of Parliament Marcus Lipton stated that “if punk rock is going to be used to destroy Britain’s institutions, then it ought to be destroyed first.” Bernard Brooke Partridge, a member of the Greater London Council, delivered this diatribe:

“My personal view on punk is that it’s nauseating, disgusting, degrading, ghastly, sleazy, prurient, voyeuristic and generally nauseating. I think that just covers it as far as I’m concerned. I think most of these groups would be vastly improved by death. The worst of these punk rock groups I suppose currently are the Sex Pistols; they are unbelievably nauseating. They are the antithesis of humankind. I would like to see somebody dig a very, very large exceedingly deep hole and drop the whole bloody lot down it. You know, I think the whole world would be improved by their utter non-existence.”

Lipton and Partridge nearly got their wishes. In the next few months, the Sex Pistols released their next single, “God Save the Queen.” In it, Lydon sang, “God save the Queen / The fascist regime, / They made you a moron / A potential H-bomb. / God save the Queen / She ain't no human being. / There is no future / in England's dreaming /Don't be told what you wanted / Don't be told what you need. / There's no future / There's no future / There's no future for you.” The release of the single coincided with the jubilee anniversary of Queen Elizabeth—outraging ordinary British citizens, most of whom adored the monarch, in spite of the lack of prosperity in their own lives and the millions of pounds paid annually to the royal family.

The repercussions were swift. The BBC banned the record from the airwaves; when the record debuted at number one on the popular music charts, a censor’s black line occupied the space where the song’s title should have been. At Virgin Records, the bands new label, press officer Al Clarke said, “There is a unanimity of bans. Every conceivable outlet for the disk is now closed for us and our only chance is to push it via press advertising and a poster campaign, but quite a few posters have been ripped down by supporters of the royalty.” Finally, Lydon and drummer Paul Cook, as well as members of four other bands, were attacked and beaten in the street by bands of hooligans: suddenly, the political had become very personal.

During this time, a split occurred within the band. Glen Matlock was replaced by John Ritchie (also known as Sid Vicious). McLaren claimed that Matlock had been fired for liking the Beatles. In reality, Matlock left the band because his own upbringing did not concur with the ideology of Lydon. Matlock would go on to form his own group, the Rich Kids.

Later that year the group released an album called “Never Mind the Bollocks-- Here’s the Sex Pistols.” As with all of their other material, it was banned from radio airplay. Nevertheless, it was a commercial success and was number one in the charts within four weeks of its release. The media refused to carry ads for the album. These ads were designed specifically to give no offense, but were barred from commercial radio and television. According to Virgin, the ban had been imposed by the Independent Broadcasting authority (IBA) after initially being approved. A spokesman for the IBA confirmed that no technical objection had been found to the ads, but felt that advertising the album itself might give offense. The IBA advised both the Independent Radio Contractors and the Independent Television Companies Association to consider carefully whether they wanted to advertise the album. Unsurprisingly, both decided they didn’t want to carry any ads for the record.

Some of the record stores that did carry the album came under attack. Several stores were charged with indecent display. The offending word was “bollocks.” However, in the first case to come to trial, an English professor defined the word as “nonsense,” and the case was dismissed.
Yet, the fact that there was a legal case at all shows how acute the reaction to punk by government authorities had become. Primarily, this reaction was rooted in the threat which punk, like all revolutionary movements prior to it posed: an attack on those in power by those without it, with the presupposition that those without power intend to supplant those with it. The Sex Pistols, therefore, had become the cultural offspring of Marx, Lenin, and Situationism.

Nonetheless, it remains that prior to the evolution of punk, British society had not reacted to a subculture so strongly as they did to punk. Certainly, members of other bands had been arrested in the past. But these musicians had been allowed the freedom to create their art without interference from political authority. Furthermore, although these musicians had widely known and publicized political opinions, the politics rarely, if ever, entered directly into their music. Punk was a direct attack on political authority and control, set in a time when the powers-that-be had, at best, a tenuous grip on that authority. Therefore, the perpetuation of those people and systems that depended directly on that power used it, for their own self-preservation.

Ultimately, these fears proved to be unfounded. The Sex Pistols fell apart from their own accord: during their first and only tour of the United States, Ritchie became growingly addicted to heroin. Controversy continued to follow the band wherever they played. At the Longhorn Ballroom in Texas, Ritchie and members of the audience traded insults, them blows. In the ensuing fracas, Ritchie hit an innocent bystander with his bass while attempting to ward off an attacker. As the tour progressed, the members of the group became estranged, to the degree that Lydon and Ritchie refused to ride the same bus as drummer Paul Cook and guitarist Steve Jones.

Yet they played their last show, at promoter Bill Grahm’s Winterland Auditorium in San Francisco in January of 1978, with the same vitality and energy that they had exhibited from the beginning. Without a laser-light show, a proper sound engineer, or even working monitors onstage, the Sex Pistols did what they did best: shock their audience into the understanding that they were witnessing the beginning of the end of the western cultural tradition. There is a point during the show, which can be heard on ‘The Great Rock N’ Roll Swindle” LP: the band is performing “Belsen Was A Gas,” with Lydon singing the lyrics: “Kill a man/ Be someone / Kill someone / Kill yourself.” The song ends abruptly; there is a moment of stunned silence, then spontaneous cheers. The audience has succumbed and accepted as fact Lydon’s vision of the past as equaling the present: vis-à-vis those forces which seek to maintain and control society, to coerce and control the individual, there lay only two choices: compliance or self-destruction.
In the end, the Sex pistols chose self-destruction: the group disbanded after the San Francisco show. Ritchie would die of a heroin overdose less than a year later. Lydon went on to front his own group, Public Image Ltd., while Steve Jones and Paul Cook toiled in relative obscurity, until the band reformed for its self-parodying, appropriately titled 1996 Filthy Lucre Tour: as the Situationists had predicted, the band itself had eventually transitioned themselves from countercultural iconoclasts to marketable icons; as Lydon once said onstage, “Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?”

Perhaps, but perhaps not: the ultimate legacy of the Sex Pistols lies not in their political underachievement. Instead, it can be heard and seen in the art that followed them. Whether it is the anti-establishment tone of the punks bands that followed them, or the more recent bands Rage Against The Machine and Public Enemy; the non-linear insistence in the filmmaking of Quentin Tarantino and David Lynch, or the cyberpunk storytelling of William Gibson, the Sex Pistols taught the countless artists in the three decades that have passed since their formation one simple rule:

Express yourself, and fear no one.

Wing Bowl XV: Part IV: Jesus, Wings, and Annabelle Lee

I've been editing so this is a re-post if you've read it already. Anyway, I'm gearing up for the big dance, going out Thursay about midnight and plan on staying up until whatever time it all catches up with me Friday night. I'd say I'd post then but I don't know what condition I will be in after Wing Bowl, so likely not until Saturday or Sunday at the earliest.

So, I'm heading out for the Wing Off in Trappe, PA, to the Trappe Tavern, but my sister calls and invites me over for dinner. I was pretty hungover from Meats' send-off the night before, he went to Africa to do a Doctor's Without Borders type of thing, so I took her up on it, figuring I'm pretty much done with wings for now seeing as the smell sickens me. Nice dinner, her kids are sweet and cute. But then the news comes on, and of course, as it happens now every night, more bad news about the environment: there are giant icebergs dropping into the Arctic Ocean, Polar Bears are starving, and, yet, my brother in law says, "I don't believe we human beings, are causing in global warming, the Earth has been having warm and cold cycles forever."


True enough: however, as I pointed out to him, ask anyone involved in or associated with the earth sciences, and they will tell you the same thing: this is not the same type of climate change that has happened in the past: it is far more rapid than anything the planet has experienced before. Blame industrialization, blame overpopulation, blame the emanations cause by chicken wings coming out of my ass, blame China, the results are the same: it's gettin' hot in here, I take off all my clothes.....

Now I know where this is coming from: James Dobson, Chuck Colson, and Richard Land et al. Seeing as half the wing nuts in my family are born-again Evangelical Christians, this doesn't actually surprise me. But that's another topic for another day, I'll go into that later.

So anyway, back to Wing Bowl tryouts: I left my sister's and drove up to Trappe. Took the long way as I mistook Route 30 for Route 3, whatever, it's the drive not the destination, but made it in time:

I was a little hungover from Meats' send off the night before, but, I got a bad vibe from the joint: So what's in a name: Trappe, because, if you move there you are Trapped for life. Trappe, because inbred rednecks are always Trapped in their hometowns. Trappe Tavern, because, once inside, I realized there were two hundred people in a venue, that, at best, holds 75, thus Trapping me inside. No Wingettes or really any shallow, hot chicks, either. Only: Cows. Eating. Chicken. Not seeing Frank "Empty Plate" D., and having received a call from my friend Jeff, who was going to meet me there, but had a sick daughter at home, I decided just to head on over to Jeff's, about 10-15 minutes away.

So we rapped for a while, I updated him on all my wingdings and comings and goings. Eventually, his daughter Annabelle came down from her room she's 5.

A: Hi

Me: How are you?

A: Good. I puked in my bed today!

Me: Really? What was it?

A: Macaroni and cheese.

Me: Was it all macaroni? [Saw my sister Judy puke spaghetti and minus the sauce one time, it was all noodles, kinda cool though for a five-year-old to witness]

A: No, it was all cheese. [Weird. The inverse. Don't know if I believe her, but I wasn't there. Jeff? Jayne? Your comments please.]

Kid, as a Wing Bowl wanna-be, trust me, I feel your pain.

All in all, a good night.

Next Stop: The Big Dance, Wing Bowl XV, actually, I'm going to post some of my "scholarly research" -- ha! how pretentious!-- before then, kind of dry, but if you're into it, enjoy I guess.

Wing Bowl XV: Parts I and II: Well, How Do We Get Here?

Part I: Why We Eat

If you're from Philly, you can probably skip Part I, as you already inherently know the ideas, if not the specifics:

Some background for anyone not from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, U.S.A:

There is an AM radio station, 610 WIP, which broadcasts, approximately, a signal that reaches about 100 miles from downtown, Center City Philadelphia. This is a Sports Talk format station, and can be heard, here on the Internet.

Fifteen years ago, amidst a dearth of championships (last one was in 1983, the 76ers) for Philadelphia's beloved sports franchises -- the Phillies (baseball) the Flyers (hockey) the 76ers (basketball) and, most importantly (at least to myself and many others) the Eagles (American Football), one host named Angelo Cataldi, of the 5 a.m. to 10 a.m. time slot, came upon an idea:

If we, the collective sports consciousness of Philadelphia (read: 610 WIP listeners) cannot enjoy a (American Football Championship) Super Bowl of our own, we shall invent another:

Wing Bowl

A food eating championship.

The food: Buffalo Wings

The competitors: all local Joes, Bobs, Jims, whomever wanted to show up.

Now, Philly is a greasy, deep-fried food-eating town. If you don't like greasy cheese fries, or Pat's or Geno's cheese steaks, or Mario's pizza, or a simple Wawa turkey hoagie with hot peppers and mayonnaise, well, frankly, you just don't belong here. You should move to either Eugene, Vancouver, Seattle, Manhattan or Los Angeles, or some other such place where you and your hippie friends can gather, worship the cabbage head, eat spring-mix and arugula salads, eat tofu, disdain omnivores, and generally ignore and be happy without us.

Wing Bowl became a tradition.

Wing Bowl has become part of us.

Wing Bowl represents our continued frustration:

Still no freaking championship.

We've come close, we've even gotten to the big dance(s) a few times, but they always break our hearts.

Every time.

Not to belittle the following, achievements, but, we haven't had a champion:

Since 1983. And that was the 76ers.

Since 1980. And that was the Phillies. One World Series in what? 125 years?

Since 1975. And that was the Flyers, an expansion hockey team. Two Stanley Cups, but...

Since 1960, not even a Super Bowl, that wasn't around yet, just an NFC Championship, when The Eagles beat Vince Lombardi's Green Bay Packers.

And what, with our murder rate being what it is, at least one generation has come and passed.

A tangent:

I can't count our lacrosse team, the Wings, because (a) virtually no one watches it and (b) those who do all go to Penn, and (c) those fans do not really represent us, they are the pseudointellectuals and preppies and (d) if they come from this region at all, they come from Gladwyne or Merion or some such place in the northwestern 'burbs where everyone is either too drunk or pilled up or can afford psychotherapy or simply too wealthy to feel any real pain anyway.

Not to make any grand, sweeping statements, but, if they are not that type, they are the kind that blindly follows whatever they're profs say, resulting in on-campus protests at the bookstore against "globalization" in the name of "sweat shop workers," concepts which, in reality, they have neither experienced nor can properly understand. C'mon. The bookstore sells sweatshirts, people, sweatshirts are made in Malaysia. Get over it. Get used to it, it ain't gonna change.

Anyway, they don't give a crap about football, largely demeaning it as "mindless fodder for the masses," when in reality, football is an extension of our civic pride: i.e. the Denver Broncos, Baltimore Ravens, New England Patriots, et cetera, and thus extraordinarily important to a city, most especially vis-a-vis civic disaster, i.e. the New Orleans Saints.

My apologies to the 0.01% of Penn alumni that do not fit either of these molds, especially those I know personally and most especially Governer Rendell, who not only did a bang up job as mayor and now does one as governor, but also finds time to co-host the Eagles post-game report on Comcast Sports Net.

My apologies, Penn, even though my favorite Founding Father, Ben Franklin, may have also founded you, as a lowly Temple University graduate, I must point out that at least our professors aren't pedophiles or murderers, or, if they are, they're not dumb enough to get caught. Go figure. I do like that Museum of Archeology, even if the entire collection was stolen from its rightful, indigenous owners in the name of academia. Anyway, I digress....

End of tangent.

Back to Wing Bowl: thank God I was 3 when the Flyers last won it all, 8 when the Phillies won and 11 when the 76ers won. At least I have some memory, however vague, of happier times.

But those players who really count in our hearts, who represent every broken nose in every bar-room brawl, who can unify black and white, yellow, brown, orange, pink; who came so very close in 1980, 2002 and 2004, who transcend all boundaries and have us scream, pound couches, punch holes through drywall, scream, groan and moan at the tops of our lungs, sounds I have personally heard both in my own home and as an outsider on the street; those who undoubtedly mean the most to us:

The Philadelphia Eagles.

Wing Bowl is our replacement, our substitute, our methadone, our Nicoderm CQ. We anoint another hero each year, one that, while admittedly less than athletic, can do one thing:

In 30 minutes, can eat the most wings.

Thusly:

Wing Bowl


Part II: My Afternoon With Meats

So on 610, my personal favorite of shows is the one that runs on Saturdays 11 a.m. - 3 p.m. EST during football season, hosted by Glen Macnow and Ray Didinger. Glen is o.k., but the real reason I listen in Ray. The man is a football genius. Literally every time I listen I learn something new about the game. I strongly recommend to any football fan out there in cyberspace to tune in then, I don't care if you are a fan the Berlin Fire or the Calgary Stampede, just listen and learn.

So, Saturday December 16, 2006, I am in the process of moving from one apartment to another, and of course I am listening. The entire time, Glen is saying, "If anyone wants to participate in our Buffalo Chicken Cheese Steak competition at the Slack's Hoagie Shack on Baltimore Pike in Springfield, Saturday December 30th, please call." He must have said it ten times in the time I was listening.

Now, the thought of entering Wing Bowl had crossed my mind before, as my friend Lem, a.k.a. Meats, can attest. Prior to this, we had actually been talking about both of us trying to get in at some point. I don't know his motivation, but I know mine: grand prize for local area winner of Wing Bowl this year is a new car, and my Toyota has 157,000 miles on it, and my mechanic tells me I'll be lucky to get another 5K out of it. Beat local eaters and the professional eaters and you win two cars. Sweet. So I decide, what the heck, I'll throw my name out there and see what happens. The following is an approximation of the transcript of my call:

Glen: Matt, you're on the air, you want to enter Wing Bowl? What are your qualifications?

Me: Number one, I'm youngest of 11, and growing up, in order to bet seconds, you had to eat really fast.

Glen: That's it?!?

Me: No, second reason is, I used to work at McNally's Tavern and my personal best for Schmitters eaten was 8 in 5 hours.

Glen: Ray, I'll let you decide.

Ray: He's in.

Glen: [Incredulous] What?

Ray: I've had the Schmitter, and I could hardly eat one.

Glen: [Sighs] That's it? That's all you're going to ask him? All right, well, Ray says you're in, so you're in. Talk to the producer.

Thanks Ray!

Now my next call was a voice mail to Lem: "Meats! Call me! I'm going to Wing Bowl!!!!"

Naturally, Meats was very excited by this turn of events. I even tried to claim at one point that he was actually more excited than me, but Kurt at the 700 Club, from under the sink at the bar, set me straight one night: "No dude, you are waaaaaay more into it." Fine, probably true.

Anyway, the next two weeks were mostly preparation. And it made for great conversation, i.e., I'm at McMenimen's in Mount Airy one night, and I tell P.J., the owner, about my antics, and he offered me sponsorship deal. I won't go into specifics as I am unsure as to the legality of it, but still, nice offer. P.J., no website? C'mon man, it's 2007! At least I got something off Google.

Understand, Wing Bowl is a larger-than-life event. You need a theme and a float. You need a nom de poulet. I chose, at first, Marty Bones, and homage to Kentucky Derby and Preakness winner Smarty Jones, who, at a time when I was fairly broke and only pulling in $100 a week from Mace's Crossing, (Bernie, see comments directed to P.J. above) won me a lot of money on a $20 bet, as he was a 50:1 shot in the Derby and 5:1 at the Preakness. Plus, Philadelphia Park, Smarty Jones’ home track, is a sponsor of Wing Bowl XV. Synchronicity. So, take my initials and stick them up front.

However, the Committee for Understandable Naming and Title Simplification (a.k.a. Bill, Hy-Sung (hope I spelled her name correctly) and Mike at the 700 Club one Wednesday night) set me straight:

"Dude, we don't get Marty Bones, no one does, but we get Smarty Bones, it makes sense." I argued my side for a bit, but, in the end, I realized they were right.

There were other plans bandied about as well, including one with tear-away clothing, ala Hulk Hogan or Mr T., and another where I was to wear blinders, but, in the end, I decided the simplest route: just wear what I normally wear and eat like a mofo.

This whole idea was so absurd to begin with, and I was mid-root canal anyway, that at one point, I doubted myself and abilities so much that I was going to email the producer and tell him I was pulling out due to root canal. But then, the Thursday before the event, they sent me and one other contestant an email that said, essentially, "You guys are the only two signed up as of yet, be there no later than 11:30 Saturday morning."

So, one other guy? I'm in it to win it.

Meats and I arrive at the contest at 11 a.m. I'd give a full report, but the reporter from the Delco Times did a pretty good job here.

Suffice to say, I ate 2.75 cheese steaks in 10 minutes, as did Chuck Roast, but the other two did 3.5 in the first round. There was another 5 minute round after that, and Frank DeFraud, whom I am now personally pulling for to take Wing Bowl, totaled 5 entire steaks in 15 minutes, and looked as though he could have eaten 5 more.

Plus he was taunting Hungry Jack (a sentiment I can get behind 'cause Hungry Jack said things like, "I'd have won it if he hadn't walked in,") for the last 3 minutes of the 5 minute speed round, winking at him and giving him the "bring it on" hand gesture, which was about the funniest thing I had seen in forever. So, Go Frankie!

And no, I didn't get sick at all, in fact, it was the only meal I ate all day.