Punk Rock Jihad, with My Head on the Mars Bar

Written by George Tabb on . Posted in Miscellaneous, Posts.


"Geeeee-hod!
Geeeee-hod!" yells this insanely loud voice, as my forehead lies firmly
on the hand-carved wooden trim of the bar at Mars.


"Geeee-hod!"
it repeats over and over as I try to keep my eyes closed as tight as possible,
and also keep all the Jose Cuervo, Rolling Rock and vodka and cranberry down
below my teeth.


"Geeee-hod!"
the man yells louder, as the words echo and bounce around inside my already-fried
brain, filled with images of the Twin Towers crashing down outside my window,
five short blocks from my living room.


Inside my
brain I hear Wendy yelling, "Oh my God! Oh my God! A plane just hit the
tower!" I look out the window after hearing a screaming noise so loud that
pictures of our deceased parents have fallen off our walls and shelves. Sure
enough there’s a hole in the building, which begins to burn like the top
of a cigarette.


"Geeee-hod!"
the voice echoes, as I remember watching people jumping from the heat and smoke
to their untimely deaths. Couples holding hands. Women and their children. Men
on fire.


"Geee-hod!"
as a second plane hits, and no one knows what to do.


"Geee-hod!"
as Wendy, P.J. and I flee, and a cloud larger than Godzilla chases us up Broadway.


"Geeee-hod!"
as I found myself back at Mars Bar, about two months later, still trying to
make sense of, well, anything.




I think
it was the blowjob that started it all. A very natural act. A nice pair of firm
Jewish lips around the penis of some guy. Some guy who just happened to be the
president of the United States.


When caught,
he lies about it.


Who wouldn’t.


For this,
he’s not only tried and convicted by both Congress and the media, he’s
impeached. The president. Impeached for a blowjob.


"Geeee-hod!"


I remember
Nick, my stepfather, as well as my brother Seth telling me that this was a very
important time in history. One that we are lucky to live through, so we can
tell our grandchildren. Remembering Nixon’s resignation speech, I nod my
head and say nothing. It was a blowjob.


Then there’s
the presidential election. Two scumbags running against each other. One of the
scumbags, the now fat and occasionally bearded one, has a wife who really screwed
with freedom of speech back in the 80s, and helped land me in the slammer a
few times. The other guy, if put in a leather jacket and sunglasses, could pass
for the Furious George monkey on the cover of any of my albums.


So they
run against each other, and the counting of votes takes weeks. It all comes
down to the Satan State itself, Floriduh. A place that long ago should have
been severed from this country and given to Cuba in exchange for the legal import
of better cigars.


"Geeee-hod!"


Again, Nick
tells me this is a very important time in history, and something I’ll likely
never see again. My brother says the same thing, as do the media and everyone
I meet on the street.


"Can
you believe an election has come down to this?" they’d ask.


I was still
thinking about the blowjob.


Then comes
Sept. 11. Awakened by a screeching whine, Wendy screaming, the dog barking and
a tremendous blast, I see my worst fears come to life. When I moved to Tribeca
more than five years ago and noticed that the Twin Towers stood like two monoliths
from 2001 right outside my window, I thought to myself, "It would
really suck if those things fell. Because, if they did, they’d land on
our heads."


Later I
told Wendy and Nick my fears. They both thought I was being paranoid as usual.
That I should increase my Prozac. I did. But the dreams continued. Dreams of
mass destruction. Of trying to find my way out of my father’s house to
my building. Which was near these two giants that could one day crush me.


Then, that
morning, they almost did.


"Geeee-hod!"


Again, Nick
tells me that we’ve just witnessed a major event in history right as we
arrive at his home in the West Village covered in white dust and who-knows-what.


Hours later
I cry.


Uncontrollably.




"Geeee-hod!"
yells the voice again at Mars Bar as I keep my head plastered to the comforting
wood."George," says a faraway voice, "Chet’s on top
of the bar yelling. He’s just whipped out his dick."


I nod my
head ever so slightly.


"Geeee-hod!"
yells Chet, as I begin to think how it all started with a blowjob and came down
to this. How it had now been more than three months since I started drinking
daily and taking whatever drugs I could get my hands on.


I wanted
to forget. About the blowjob. About Florida. But mostly, about the dead people
I breathe in daily. The dead people who I can still hear crying every night.
The dead people I see covering the cars, the sidewalks and windows of New York
City. The dead people I see covering the faces of those I love.


"Geeee-hod!"
Chet yells again, as I peer through half-open eyes and see the guy standing
on the bar amongst spilled drinks, with what looks like his penis in his hand.


"Geeee-hod!"
he yells once more before my stomach finally gives way and I run into the blood-colored
bathroom and puke my guts out.


I return
to the bar and start drinking again.


And in my
head, I hear Nick’s voice telling me about how I’m lucky to be living
through this important time in history.


And then
tears begin to well up.


History
my ass.




Speaking
of the Mars Bar, my pal Zach Lipez, who bar-backs there, just put out a mini-book
of his poetry on Evil Twin Publications. It’s called No Seats on the
Party Car
, and aside from being clever, sensitive and, well, so damn good,
it’s punk rock! What does Zach write about? What he knows. Sex, self and
the subway. If you can find this, pick it up.


Again speaking
of the Mars Bar, Matt, Dick Army just gave me his first feature-length CD, called
Unsafe at Any Volume, on Vital Music Records. When I asked him what he
though of it, he told me it was "punk rock." After listening to it,
I have to agree. Sort of. It’s actually more like early hardcore. Like
Black Flag. Or Agent Orange. The guitars are very heavy, the drums sound
like cardboard and the vocals are full of rage. Just the way I like it. While
some of the songs I feel are kinda boring, there are tunes like "Company
Man," "The Man on Your TV" and "The Throttle, the Bottle,
and Me" that just about guarantee that Dick Army will go down in the history
of punk/hardcore as being one of the greats of the 21st century. History. I
hate that word.


Remember
F.Y.P.? That rad band from San Pedro? That singer guy, Todd, who also owns Recess
Records? Well, anyway, his new band is called Toys that Kill, and his new album
is called The Citizen Abortion, and it’s out on, you guessed it,
Recess. Of course it’s amazing, well-produced and punk as fuck. But it’s
also got more soul than past F.Y.P. albums, and, damn, am I allowed to say it
actually sounds musically better? Maybe I shouldn’t. I’m not
sure how that will go over.


The Kick
is an up-and-coming band here in New York City, and they fuckin’ rock.
I recently caught them at Continental, where I found myself so impressed I begged
them to let me and Evan do the Dead Boys’ "Sonic Reducer" with
them. Later, they gave me their new self-titled, self-released three-song CD
produced by the infamous Nitebob. What can I say about these guys? Besides being
the nicest fuckers around, the have a firm grasp on what rock ’n’
roll should be, and play it that way. Think early L.E.S. Stitches meets the
Clash meets Elvis Costello. With none of the attitude.


In the world
of video games, I just got Super Monkey Ball for the Nintendo Gamecube, made
by Sega. Now I know you’re saying, "What the fuck…?" That’s
right, Sega now makes games for all the console systems, and while they used
to compete directly with Nintendo, they are now making software for them, and
it rules. Super Monkey Ball is a kiddie game that adults will enjoy as well.
You can choose to be one of four monkeys (where’s Furious George?) and
play all these mini-games, plus this big one where you roll over 3-D squares.
Sound weird? It is. But it’s way fun. Plus it’s better to control
your monkey with a joystick rather than spank it.


For you
sports fans out there, 989/Sony just released NCAA Final Four 2002 for the PlayStation2.
It’s got new player graphics–well, compared to the 2001 version–plus
it’s got this Dynasty Mode thing where you can recruit freshman and fire
the surly seniors. But best of all? It’s got guys named Eddie Doucette
and Billy Packer doing the voiceovers. Man, just change one letter in each last
name and you get Douchette and Pecker. Sorry. Gotta get my kicks somehow these
days.


For the
GameBoy Advance, I got Disney’s Atlantis: The Lost Empire, made by THQ.
While I never saw the movie, I sure am enjoying this game. I’m getting
to explore deep dark wet caves, and check out hot underwater babes in sexy clothes.
Plus I can take control of my large submarine and enter into battle. Wait! This
game is for kids? Eeeek!


For Microsoft’s
cough Xbox, I just got Shrek, made by TDK of all people. That’s
funny. Back in the day, when I had my first punk band, Roach Motel, we used
to call ourselves "TDK Recording Artists," because their cassettes
fit into our one microphone boombox. Anyway, the game looks as good as the movie.
Impossible, you say? Nope. Yes sir, the technology is here and this is really
the first example of the wave of the future. I guaranfuckintee that from now
on, children’s movies and games will be almost the same. Anyway, as the
farting Ogre (which I pronounce as "Or-guh," which makes Wendy crack
up like when I say "drawer") you run around collecting and doing typical
game stuff. What’s amazing here is not so much the game-play but the graphics,
voice and feeling that you can control a movie character that looks just as
good as he or she did in the original film. Cripes, I can’t wait until
Martha Stewart makes a movie, then a game. Where should I stick that square
of butter, Martha? I know. I’m sick.


One other
game I got from Sony for the PlayStation2 is Kinetica. In it you play as a hot
chick in a thong that kinda morphs into a motorcycle thing. I swear you can
see the stubble when she bends over. Yes!


Oh fuck,
I forgot, the Dictators have a new album out on their own label, called D.F.F.D.
When I first opened it in John Strausbaugh’s office, I was ecstatic. The
fucking Dictators. They haven’t put out an album in more than 20 years,
although they seem to play a lot. Handsome Dick is one of my favorite singers
ever, and Andy Shernoff, the songwriter and bassist, well, just fucking rules.
So anyway, I show Strausbaugh, and he kinda implies it will probably suck ’cause
they’re old and he’s into that whole Colostomy Rock Sucks sort of
thing ’cause he just wrote a book about it. I tell him I’ll take it
home and give it a listen. Well, Strausbaugh, you, sir, are wrong. Not only
do the Dictators not suck, their new album, pretty much every song, rules!
Dood! There’re loud guitars and lyrics that are bitter, funny and make
sense. Plus, these guys know rock ’n’ roll. Songs like "Avenue
A," "Who Will Save Rock and Roll" and "In the Presence of
a New God" are amazing, not to mention "I Am Right," which I’ve
heard them play many times live. Anyway, how can you say anything bad about
a band that plays a song about how great we are because we eat meat and are
at the top of the food chain? Dictators Forever and Forever Dictators!


Finally,
in my drunken and drug-induced haze these days, I found myself wandering around
some club somewhere looking for free drinks and drugs when some guy walks up
to me and gives me a CD. I say, "What’s this?" He says, "It’s
Scum." I look at the CD and it’s spelled SKUM, with that little omelet
thing over the U. I thank him and ask him what it sounds like. "It
sounds like Scum," he says, and then just walks away. Whatever. A few days
later, while looking for this football-shaped pill in my leather jacket this
chick gave me, I find the CD. I pop it in and am blown away. They have a chick
singer who actually has a good voice, the thing is self-released on JPM Productions
and the guitars and drums are as hard as hell. Oh, and the song titles. How
about "Inner Piece" and "I Wish I Had a Cock"? Or "Your
Mother Sucks Cocks in Hell" or "Fags, in Wigs, on Ice"? What?
That’s not enough? Well, what about my favorite titles, "Pussy Power"
and "Big Black Cock"? Oh yeah, then there’s "I Lost My Asshole
Cherry." With lyrics like, "I lost my asshole cherry to a schnauzer
named Jerry/I couldn’t help myself, oh his balls were so hairy," and
"It always makes me blissful whenever my slit’s full/There’s
nothing I like better then a slit full of pit bull." Or "Ass loving
is so fine/Especially when it’s from a canine."


Viva Skum.
Oh, and don’t forget the omelet over the U.


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