Okay, I’m not sure what I regret MORE about "Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band On The Road."
Could it be:
• The fact that I never saw a production of it?
• The fact that I just found out that it existed?
And just so we’re clear, I’m not talking about the 1978 film of a similar name.
Because if you have something bad to say about this wonderful abortion of a film, I have four words for you:
I also owned the soundtrack to said movie as a kid & loved the ever-loving SHIT out of it.
Oh, you have something bad to say about that, TOO, asshole? Okay, we need to step outside.
Alright, I’m exhausted. And old. And hurty.
The “Sgt. Pepper’s” I’m referring to is the 1974 off-Broadway musical.
Lennon was there opening night to support the cast.
Whoops. Sorry. I meant to say that he was there with May Pang.
But from what I’m seeing of the photos from the performance, I’m not really sure if it all hung together that well.
Hold on. What the SHIT?
Jesus fucking Christ.
Well, this looks like a Goddamned conceptual nightmare from start to finish. I read that Lennon sat in during rehearsals, but is THIS really what he was thinking of seven years prior when he recorded this beloved album?
I don’t know. Maybe.
It had some heavyweights in it at least. Alaina Reed Hall from “Sesame Street,”
the dude from “The Warriors,” “Twin Peaks” & “The Adventures Of Ford Fairlane”
& even Jesus.
But even THAT crew couldn’t save this thing.
And even though I read somewhere that Lennon fucking HATED the Bee Gees/Frampton film,
that film seems closer to the original concept than whatever THIS is supposed to be.
Then again, I also read that the film was a loose adaptation of the earlier play.
Well, John’s long gone, so I guess we’ll never know. I’d personally want to hear a dead guy’s take over Ringo’s any day. That dude was clearly just along for the fucking ride.
Oh, okay. You got a problem with me dissing Ringo now? Get over HEEEEERRRRRE!
Eat it, boy. EAT IT!
So, I saw this on the ground the other day.
First off, nothing against a blind illusionist. Second, nothing against a blind illusionist, who’s using his powers for good.
What I regret about this is the fact that he called himself Amazing Jeffo.
Jeffo, if you happen to see this (or reading it via some futuristic Braille screen), I have a few suggestions if you ever want to rebrand:
• Blind Faith
Maybe you play something off their album during your show. The kids might not get it, but the RIGHT people will.
A little too literal, maybe? But it rolls off the tongue a lot better than Jeffo. If anything, it’ll give you more freedom to drink.
He was a blind guy that Jesus healed, remember? Read the Bible sometime, you a-hole. Pretty sure it’s available in Braille.
This has nothing to do with being blind or Christian. Just seems like a zany name that could have a lot of mileage.
Or, I don’t know, go all the way & just call yourself God.
And I don’t mean in a blasphemous way. Think of it as setting up a franchise.
Some may call it miracles. You know what I call it?
Exactly. Think how much business you’d get if you advertised with something as simple as THIS:
Do you realize how much work would be coming your way? I mean, some of it would be negative, but you could always use that to your advantage.
Take that bakery who wouldn’t serve the gay community for example.*
They voluntarily closed down after that fuckus. Now they owe something like $15,000 in back rent & are crying about it.
When all they should’ve done is keep up the anti-gay facade for a little bit longer & just make the damn cakes.
Gay couples would’ve beaten a path to their door just to prove them wrong. It would’ve been raining spite money up in that bitch.
Just keep that in mind, Jeffo. I guarantee the blasphemer dough you’ll be rolling in will FAR outweigh the afterlife consequences.
Oh, shit. I just realized your mascot is a blind rabbit.
You’re going to Hell already. Go for fucking broke, dude.
* Oh, how I regret the existence of these dillholes.
Richard Wright was the man behind Pink Floyd’s curtain.
In the early days, he was the guy bringing jazz leanings into their wigged-out sound.
He helped hone & define the music that was in Syd Barrett’s head. An early characteristic of their overall sound was that crazy Farfisa organ of his.
And when Barrett was losing it, Wright came up with some of the Floyd’s most beautiful songs. This one’s a particular favorite of mine.
But Wright wasn’t exactly the most powerful personality in that band. If anything, he was the meekest. Which meant that when Waters started steering them into a definitive Pink Floyd sound, Wright was generally left in the background.
And not just as a personality. His musical contributions were treated as a sort of sonic wallpaper. That’s not to say he didn’t contribute some incredible music. Neither “Dark Side” nor “Wish You Were Here” could’ve achieved what they did without him.
By 1977, Waters was delusional enough to actually believe that Wright was somehow vying for control of the group. And in 1978, during the recording sessions for “The Wall,” Waters kicked Wright out of the band.
During the subsequent “Wall” tour, Wright - a founding member of Pink Floyd, mind you - was brought along, but only paid as a session musician.
And even after Waters cut ties with Floyd & they released 1987’s “A Momentary Lapse Of Reason,” Wright was more or less treated the exact same way by Gilmour & Mason, who were the only two technically billed as Pink Floyd at that point.
Somewhere along the line, Gilmour reinstated Wright as an official member of Pink Floyd again. Well, not “somewhere along the line,” really. It happened during “The Division Bell,” which Wright contributed five songs to.
And for my money, I agree with Waters. In fact, the only reason I own that album (apart from being a Floyd completist) is because of Wright’s contributions.
Again, the man behind the Pink Floyd curtain. There’s something about hearing his voice in a song - even a “Division Bell” one - that takes me back to a time when it could be heard on earlier songs I love.
All this is basically building up to the following announcement a while back.
A new Floyd album hits shelves in November. The basis of it is a Wright composition that Gilmour & his crew have added finishing touches to.
And even though this whole album will probably sound like latter-day Floyd (which I’m not a fan of), I regret that I’ll most likely buy it.
But those aren’t the reasons I’ll pick it up.
There’s a song halfway down there called “Autumn ‘68” that I need to hear more than life itself. I’m sure it was named that by Gilmour after Wright’s death, but the fact that it references one of Wright’s earlier songs does my heart good somehow.
At the same time, I’m regretting in advance that it probably doesn’t sound ANYTHING like Wright’s early song, “Summer ‘68.” But that doesn’t matter to me. If I get more Wright, that’s what’s most important.
Richard Wright WAS & IS Pink Floyd to me.
It’s always great to get out of town, even if it’s only one state over.
If anything, it reminds me how much I regret not taking in the sights.
For example, the creepy circus museum,
the Cranberry Festival,
the bizarre astronaut/bird mashup museum
or the grandeur of the Exit 45 Restaurant & Bakery.
And don’t get me started on George Webb.
Home of the most fucked-up abomination of a mascot EVER.
Seems like every time I hit the border of Wisconsin, I’m reminded of its absolutely breathtaking landscape.
We actually didn’t have too much time to sightsee though. The wife’s cousin was getting married. And let’s just say that it wasn’t the most organized event that ever existed.
In fact, the relatives organizing it had no real idea exactly when or precisely where it was happening. Which left us dressed to the nines, outside in the heat & pretty much looking at our watches.
(You’re the watch in this scenario.)
Well, my mother-in-law & I were ready to chuck the whole thing after an hour had passed. I mean, we’d driven 4+ hours, busted ass to get checked in, gotten changed & floored it to a location we were told it was at.
But just as we were about to hit the road, the groom & the rest of the wedding party showed up.
Then a banjo player started plucking a tune
& the ceremony was underway.
Beautiful people on both sides.
And once the vows were read, I immediately regretted my downer attitude about the whole thing. This wedding was just fucking transcendent.
And don’t get me started about the reception. It was pretty much as freeform as the ceremony, but pretty great just the same.
The morning brought a fantastic talk with some aunts & uncles at the IHOP. Mostly about places in Europe we needed to visit next.
All told, it turned out to be a good time that started out bad. Although on the way back home, I was reminded of Wisconsin radio’s penchant these & ONLY these four bands.
In the span of two days, we heard the following four or more times:
• “Hotel California” by Eagles
• “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd
• “Bad Company” by Bad Company (from the album “Bad Company”)
• “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen
I mean, there are OTHER bands you could play, right? Not to mention other songs by these bands you could play. Aw, what do I know?
But like I said, it was nice to get away, if only for a couple of days. And sure, it was a little bit of a drive over two days, but the wife & I killed time by concocting a story involving Def Leppard bringing live animals onstage before they performed “Animal.”
JOE ELLIOT - And now, we’d like to dedicated this next song to all of our animal friends. Let’s bring ‘em OWWWWWWT! (the opening guitar riffs of “Animal" begin as animals flood the stage, most of whom are mortal enemies out in the wild, which ends in an unfortunate bloodbath)
An additional regret was not being able to finish my Alternate Reality Album Cover I was working on.
Too many damn ideas, not enough time.
Someone read Regret-A-Day recently & accused me of being “droll” & “anger inducing.” A few things about that:
• Part of me was hurt, but part of me felt like it was a victory
• Ever since then, I’ve thought twice about how I approach this
• Today’s post ISN’T an attempt to call that person out on it
• Today’s post ISN’T an attempt to prove that person right
Please keep those last two in mind when reading this. Because as of this moment….
Exactly. Once again, welcome to Bummertown.
This is Dan.
I know that because he told me his name at least 10 times in the 10 minutes I was stuck talking to him. I should also bring up how that happened.
I’d just gotten out of my car when he burst out of a nearby Starbucks singing.
Yes. Singing. In full voice.
Now, normally I don’t have a problem with the awkwardly flamboyant population of the world.
Dan instantly reminded me of all the reasons I just kept my head down on the streets of Hackensack, NJ.
If you never make eye contact, the fucking freaks won’t approach you. Well, it’s been a while since I lived in New Jersey.
Sure enough, I somehow found myself within his wacky field of vision.
This face? That’s his resting face.
For the most part, he was talking loudly to me, singing random shit at people as they passed by or generally screaming his guts out.
And I was trapped. I was being accosted by his fucked-up rants about:
• How he hates his wife & wants to leave her
• Why he won’t, since his mother-in-law’s worth $6 million
• The fact that he hasn’t had sex in 12 years
• His wife’s cockblocking skills regarding meeting Harvey Fierstein
• His wife’s cockblocking skills regarding his desire to be an actor
• His horribly mundane life as an electrician & plumber
Now, before you say, "Why didn’t you just walk away" or "Why didn’t you tell him to fuck off," let me clarify.
I wanted to. JESUS, did I want to. But being around Dan was like being sucked into a black hole. And I was on the event horizon with very little hope of escape.
I was also raised in the South. And I’ve never been able to shake that bless-his-heart, maybe-he-just-needs-an-ear-to-bend mentality. Trust me, it’s a blessing & a curse.
As hard as nails as I TRY to be, when it comes down to it, I wind up in situations like this.
It got worse when I legitimately tried to give him advice. Shit like:
• Leave your wife if you’re so unhappy/happiness vs. money
• If you want to be an actor, there are TONS of resources out there
At which point, he asked my name for the 15th time & asked if he could sit in my car.
Yeah, NO. I’m a nice guy, but even I know how to draw a fucking line.
And when he was getting ultra excited about talking to me more about acting & shit, he handed me his phone & told me to give him my number.
I actually did it. Although I felt like if I put random numbers in there & he checked while I was there, he’d become even more unstable than he already was.
So, I put in my phone number from the house I grew up in.
I finally got away & he took off, proclaiming “I’ll call you! Tomorrow! 8 am!”
Yeah, good luck, pal.
So, what have I learned from all this? Well, there’s two sides to it:
• I regret thinking about the possible heartbreak he may face when he dials my fake number
I know, I know. Why the fuck should I fucking care, right? Well, keep reading, Mavis:
• I regret that I rarely have the ability to simple walk away
• I regret that every sociopath somehow knows I’M their mark
• I regret I won’t be there when Dan inevitably deep-throats a pistol
That’s right, folks! Things here at Regret-A-Day are just as horribly dark as they always were.
I have no idea what the F is going on in my brain lately.
Apart from being a broken dream factory, I’ve had to second guess choices that should be commonplace on a daily basis.
Let’s start with the dreams. Maybe they’ll connect the dots. But I doubt it.
I’ll go ahead & skip the one about being trapped in an art gallery that featured various paintings of Rosanna Arquette eating.
Jesus, it felt like I was in that gallery for fucking eons.
The one I’m focusing on involves being stuck on the Enterprise from “Star Trek The Next Generation.”
I’ve had a few TNG dreams before. Most of the time, I’m the only one onboard. Which is about the most worthless dream you could have. Hell, I don’t even end up exploring any Jefferies Tubes.
But in this recent one, I’m in the observation lounge with the chief officers.
I’m not dressed as them. Just my normal, everyday, schlubby self.
So, I’m sitting in this chief officers meeting, not really paying attention & looking down at a picture of Power Girl, I think.
Or maybe it was She-Hulk.
Some comic book heroine anyway. Deanna Troi notices this.
ME - (to self) Man, if only she weren’t an imaginary character.
DEANNA TROI - (deadpan) We’re all imaginary characters.
Then I woke up. And dammit, something about a character who doesn’t exist actually owning up to this fact put a serious zap on my head.
Well, for some reason this thought has been bouncing around in my noggin ever since. And I regret that it’s been clouding how I see the world.
your average elevator buttons. Same ones I’ve been pressing all my life. But my addled brain has been second guessing what this simple gesture means.
MY BRAIN - Wait, so when I press up, does that simply mean I want to go up? Or does that mean that I want the ELEVATOR to go up? Which means that if I’m down on the 1st floor, shouldn’t I press the down button instead?
I know, I know. I’m not saying this is normal thinking. But I swear I’ve faced this simple decision at least 10 times over the past few days & I find myself contemplating my decision for at least five seconds each time.
It’s like Q is playing with a Mariachi band in my head. And it’s the same song over & over, playing ad nauseam until I decide to give in & blow the fucking Enterprise up.
Or maybe I just need more sleep. And completely avoid Rosanna Arquette vehicles.
and-then-theres-that said: I didn't actually think there could be a more droll, anger inducing individual since I left my parent's home. Yes, life can be full of regrets but spend too much time on the regrets, you miss all the good bits. Something good has to happen to you once or twice in your life. FYI I'm 29 years old and LOVE Alan Parsons. And I bought vinyl from Urban Outfitters, before they became what they are now, and I did so because I knew what it was and respected it. Not everyone is what you think they are.
Let me start by saying that I totally hear what you’re saying. This Tumblr is mostly a persona I put on, not legitimately me.
Sure, I can be negative in real life, but most of the entries are me just blowing off steam. And you’re right, a lot of great things have happened in my life. I don’t regret any of them. But that’s not what my blog is about.
Regret-A-Day is a New Year’s resolution that turned into something that just snowballed. I write other stuff on the side, but this keeps the creative juices flowing.
Mostly though, it’s just me skewering ridiculous stuff I see. Sometimes I bitch about things that have merit, sometimes it’s just goofy ranting.
If you went through any of the other 1300 days, you’d see that most of it’s sardonic moaning that’s hopefully funny to people with the same bitter humor that I have. Maybe not, but this is what I do.
I like to think that there’s a LOT worse on Tumblr.
For the record, my regrets are mostly filled with the positive as well as the negative. When I dis Alan Parsons, I have something good to say about him, too. But depending on my mood on a particular day, things CAN get a little too hard hitting. (Whatever you do, don’t read the one about Moody Blues. That one’s a doozy.) I’m human & that’s my manner of expression.
I honestly appreciate your feedback. I want you to know that. Please don’t take any of this bullshit seriously. I don’t.
These are just opinions & I view them as such. I never want anybody to feel like opinions equal facts. This world is full of pricks who try & make that a reality. I just don’t want to be viewed as one of them.
I’ve done regrets about the Iveys in the past.
Oh, wait. That second one was the year I appeared as host Shanan Custer’s “cranky sidekick.”
I guess I was trying to psyche people out by posting a regret saying I wasn’t going, then showing up onstage.
Yeah, well, I have my moments.
Anyhoo, the wife & I went to the Iveys last night.
Hold on. Maybe I should do a quick level set for anybody who doesn’t know what the F the Iveys are (is?).
On one hand, it’s a Twin Cities theater awards show.*
On another, it’s really just an excuse for people to dress up & mingle.
Which I can TOTALLY get behind. And that, my friends, is where today’s regret is leading us.
So, yesterday I posted THIS picture on Facebook.
The caption under it read, "That’s right, Iveys. I’m wearing THIS to your awards show tonight."
Well, guess what. I wound up wearing THIS instead.
And I’m sort of surprised the flack I got for NOT wearing the Akira shirt. Sure, it was mostly people giving me shit in a lighthearted way, but some of the responses came off kind of hostile.
"Why aren’t you wearing the shirt?"
"What the actual fuck? You said you were gonna wear the shirt!"
"Where’s the shirt?"
"You said you were wearing that shirt, you liar!"
I have no idea why I picked “Real Housewives” images for this. Honestly, none of the responses were THAT dramatic or bitchy. And this is no offense to anyone who confronted me about it, obviously.
But again, I felt kind of weirded out by the intensity of most of the reactions.
Overall, I think it can be explained by the steady influx of booze.**
And I mean on BOTH our parts. Maybe THEY were just liquored up enough to speak their minds & I was just liquored up enough to become too sensitive to it all.
Somehow I knew this kind of shit storm was on the horizon. Which makes me regret posting something about the shirt in the first place.
I also regret the fact that this was somehow a thing at all. I mean, who the fuck am I anyway?
I’m not that important in the grand scheme of things, ESPECIALLY when it comes to this particular event.
And although I feel like I’ve done some great work onstage, I don’t exactly see myself winning one of these things in the near future.
If anything, I’m just a grain of sand on this beach. So, why all the fuss?
Part of me thinks that people who don’t know me in real life think that the bitchy, persnickety persona I give off here on Regret-A-Day is who I really am.
Well, it’s not.
I know. It’s mind-boggling.
In the past, people who’ve never met me in real life have read what I’ve written & come up to me in public places, playing the "you’re-obviously-this-way-so-I’m-gonna-play-along" game.
It’s a bizarre social tennis match, only with perceived personas. And when it happens, I’m never really ready for it.
So, what does all this come down to?
Well, I DON’T regret not wearing the Akira shirt. But I kind of regret going to the Iveys in a Judd Hirsch costume.
* Recently I heard somebody say, “it’s basically actors paying to see other actors get awards, which are paid for by actors.” Not to take away from the event, but that kind of covers off on it.
** The flask is more or less an Iveys tradition. Some people carry them because they just like getting hammered. MOST people carry them because it helps take the edge off during an event that has an exorbitant amount of protruding edges.
We’ve been getting free Sunday editions of the newspaper lately.
Mainly because they think that if we get enough of them, we’ll appreciate the old-fashioned, tactile satisfaction of reading the paper on Sunday mornings. Then we’ll turn around & demand a subscription.
Well, that ain’t gonna happen. Because print may not be dead. But newsprint certainly is. To me, at least.
That’s why, while I sifted through the Sunday paper, I regretted seeing the shitty, shitty, SHITTY state of comic strips.
It’s been a while, but I’ve already bitched & moaned about Donna A. Lewis’ complete fuckus of a strip.
So, I’m taking her off the table.
I’m not giving her 3rd grade, diving-bell-and-the-butterfly/my-left-foot style of “drawing” a pass, mind you.
I just feel like I’ve given her enough shit. She’s only part of the problem anyway. Let’s go through the greatest hits of comic strip regrets.
"Brevity is the soul of wit" only works if you’re funny in the first place. Also, it’s clear that Guy & Rodd had ONE punchline. A shitty pun about Sweet’N Low. A mini regret is that it takes TWO FUCKING GUYS to come up with this shit.
Is there something here I’m not getting? I mean, it seems simple enough. But even something as basic bitch as “Family Circus” has a 1-2 punch to it. Something like THIS.
Or, you know, THIS.
Sorry, you’re so damn simple & saccharin-coated that you fucking lost me.
Again, what am I not seeing that other people are? Am I reading the panels in the wrong order? Fuck me, this is infuriating.
Also, I’d like to point out that these last two strips appear back-to-back. Which makes this shit even MORE confusing.
They’re both about dogs. One’s created by a guy named Basset, the other’s called “Fred Bassett.”
Okay. Moving on.
So, I’ve seen this crap for years & I STILL don’t know what the shit a “plugger” is. I don’t actually WANT to know. I’m assuming there’s a fan base of desperate “Parrotheads,” sending ideas into this Gary Brookins dude on a daily basis.
Probably via snail mail.
A sad, tired, stop-taking-my-freedoms generation of oldsters, who shove their political beliefs through this dumbass strip.
You know who I’m talking about. It’s probably your dad.
"HA! Whatcha gotta say about THAT, Obummer?"
So, here’s the last one I’m putting out there.
Again, no FUCKING idea. And I’m not intentionally being dismissive. Maybe I’d like to know what the fuck is going on here. But when I see brainpuke like this, it reminds me of the stuff Gary Larson rejected.
But at least the strips Larson didn’t publish were borderline genius.
I just get an sick feeling in the pit of my stomach when I see “Prickly City” for some reason.
Ahhhhh. There we go.
Look, if your comic strip is already shitty, don’t cloud it with your stupid politics. I mean, whatever happened to strips like “Peanuts?”
Ohhhhhhhhh, that’s right.
Sure, Schulz was a steadfast Christian. But he didn’t turn his strip into some soapboxing platform for his own bullshit.
You know what? Fuck it. I’m going back to Hagar.
That bastard NEVER lets me down.
You know what I regret seeing in movies? And I mean more than ANYTHING.
Okay, that’s going a little too granular. Believe it or not, that wouldn’t be my first choice.
Yep. Origin stories.
Now, I understand that sometimes they’re necessary. But there’s been a horrible pattern of unnecessary ones over the past few years.
Enter THIS doo-doo:
Oh, good. Maybe I’ll learn something new about Dracula.
Wait. I just remembered something. I already know all I need to know about Dracula.
Alright “Dracula Untold,” what exactly hasn’t been told before?
What? Are you fucking serious?
Yep. An undead Caligula turns Vlad into a vampire.
My sentiments exactly, Tim Gunn.
I mean, I’m all for creative license or whatever, especially if you’re tackling subject matter that’s been done to death. But if you’re putting Caligula & Dracula in the same room, don’t attach it to the original source.
Although I’m sure just about EVERY Dracula flick has attributed their work to lovable loser Bram Stoker.
I said “just about.”
For the record, my ass ain’t seeing this steaming pile. Sure, it’s got some interesting visuals in the trailer, I guess.
But considering I’ve been in versions of both Dracula AND Caligula,
I don’t know if my feeble mind could take it.
Good God. Tyler Perry must blow a line of editors & studio execs in full drag just to get a picture locked.
I’ve been fascinated by obscure punk bands for a while now.
You know, the ones who are just footnotes in punk oral histories. Ones who known punk bands cite as serious groundbreakers in the scene.
And I’m talking before the genre became a parody of itself.
Before the general public became aware of it.
Before weak mohawks.
Before EVERYBODY had tattoos.
And before the UK turned it into an entire movement of grotesque caricature, based on ONE INCIDENT, where Richard Hell used safety pins to keep his clothes together before a performance.
I’m obsessed with the early days, when performers were taking shit back to basics. Bands that weren’t even categorized as “punk” because that term hadn’t even been coined by Legs McNeil & his crew yet.
The point is, I’ve read enough punk bios, autobios & oral histories to become geeky as hell about seminal bands that seemed to slip through the cracks.
For example, on the LA scene you had bands like The Screamers.
These were brilliant nutjobs who were churning out blistering music as early as 1975, around the same time as The Ramones on the East Coast. The only difference is that The Screamers never officially released anything apart from a few scattered demos later on.
You caught them live or didn’t catch them at all, which is why every LA punk band worth their salt namedrop them as huge influences.
Same with San Fran’s Crime.
Unless you were rabidly collecting obscure 7” records back in the day, your only chance to catch something this awesome was if you were there.
And as you’d expect, the NYC scene was a lot artier. Pretty much anything was game when it came to CBGB’s. I mean, it’s not like Hilly knew what the fuck was going on,
so he didn’t care what happened onstage as long as people were drinking. Like Debbie Harry’s first band, The Stilettos.
It had a punk-like flavor, but this was only 1974/75. It’s not like there was a definitive scene going on. They were just playing what they wanted to play. You know, as long as it didn’t resemble whatever bloated prog, maestroism & buttrock was happening at the time.
And that brings us to my biggest guilty pleasure of obscure punk bands:
It seems like apart from the occasional flyer,
or random video,
there’s almost no trace of these delinquents.
And yeah, maybe I have a thing for them for reasons that have very little to do with the music. Like, I don’t know, a backup singer gal,
who has no qualms about dancing wildly in a Catholic girl outfit?
What can I say? I’m utterly predictable.
Well, while scrounging around for morsels of this band on the cyberwebs recently, I found this article:
Wait a minute. This is about the dude who draws “Mutts?!?”
I mean, nothing against him or that strip (which I kind of dig), but I’m Google searching “Steel Tips band punk CBGBs” here. Why did…?
Hold on a second. You mean Steel Tips’ little Catholic school girl
is the “Mutts” guy’s wife? Okay, yeah. I can totally see it.
But who was HE in Steel Tips? I know he wasn’t the dude who blew himself up with firecrackers in the only video I’ve ever seen of them.
That’s Joe Coleman, who went on to become a pretty amazing painter.
And I’m pretty sure he wasn’t the chubby backup singer.
Then was he THIS guy?
No, wait. Maybe he’s the drummer.
Yep. I can kind of see it in the nose.
Regardless, my mind is fucking blown wide open today.
Look, I know there are a lot of people out there who hate the fact that nothing’s really much of a mystery anymore. They miss the days of not knowing EVERYTHING about a piece of pop culture.
Holy shit! You mean there was a GUY inside that Wookiee suit?
They live for the days when you DIDN’T know all the behind-the-scenes magic, where you’d have to dig & research your guts out to find those little morsels.
Sadly, I’m not one of them.
Because I regret that I can’t seem to fully put together the pieces to this puzzle within this wacky information society we live in.
I mean, Steel Tips were even on the Uncle Floyd show for Chrissakes!
Why can’t I find ANYTHING ELSE about these people?
Man, this is gonna slowly kill me for a long time.